A Poetic Journey into the Mind of Miss Marshall

GRANNY's 90TH BIRTHDAY

2011-11-26T16:19:00.003-05:00

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Poetry is waking up to you

2010-11-27T08:38:00.000-05:00

Poetry is waking up to you,
Every morning
Eyes hungry for the image of your face
Souls engaging in sexual poses as finger tips trace
Silky, Shea-buttered skin.
Love is translated through the voice of birds at our window
They said, “This love will grow”
Let it grow, we will be accepting
As long as poetry wakes us up every morning
Took a walk in the market yesterday,
A blind man hailed me along the way
He said, “Child, I can feel the strength of your hips”
He said, “Child, I can hear the unspoken words of your lips”
We talked, in a language new to me, yet I understood
His message was, “Child, Africa’s sun is your re-birth and life will be good”
My unborn felt my enlivened mood.
I can see the flowers on every tree as water baptized my hands
Fresh greens and meat over the fire of iron pans,
Strong winds on our curtains, blowing fresh air into our lives
Love is felt
Real, true love is felt.
Contentment
If this is living poetry, in desirable strophes
I will never need a pen, again
Poetry is waking up to you, every morning
Under Africa’s sun

OUR WEDDING BOOK

2010-09-16T10:40:00.002-04:00

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TRADITIONAL KIKUYU WEDDING

2010-09-10T17:42:00.001-04:00

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Melda oh, yuh meking wedding plans?!

2010-08-13T23:51:00.008-04:00

Melda

2010 Caribana was a day of celebration for my Caribbean people in Toronto, Canada – actually, for everyone around the world wanting to see and participate in a celebration originated in the West Indies. Steel pan and costumes decorate the streets. By-standers revel in the rhythms of sweet soca music and free -spirited movements of my people’s hips. Once upon a time, I would make it my duty to play mass, after all, I am a child of Mass Games. This year, I opted to spend time with my 90 years old grandmother. She is a true Guyanese woman and will always be. With blurred vision and ears equipped to hear when gossips are whispered, she was happy to see me and listen to my soca music playlist.

Lately, she questions me about visiting Kenya, Africa.
Granny would ask, “How are the people, what does the air in that part of Africa smells like, how is the food and is it like Guyana?” I would repeat the same answers to all the questions, making sure I confirm – “Granny, it is so beautiful, words cannot explain!” I wish I can take her on the plane and have her witness my wedding in Kenya, but she is too old to endure such a trip. Her blood pressure is too weak, but her soul remains youthful.

This particular night, I brought my lap-top to my Mother’s house. Everyone was out to have a fun time and I volunteered to baby-sit my Grandmother. Granny and I sat at the dinner table and I played every song she requested. After each song, she would explain why she picked it and an old-time story followed. In each moment, I would memorize the lines on her face – they are not as deep and long as the Essequibo River, but they told a tale of a woman who have survived many decades of evolution. An immigrant to Canada who earned a visa, yet in her heart, she remained a Guyanese Queen. A piece of gold laid neatly creased between her front teeth and a laugh that would have neighbours thinking we were having a big party.

Granny B.

Granny requested a song by the Trinidadian, The Mighty Sparrow called, “Obeah Wedding”. For those of you who claim to know and love soca, if you do not know this song – you need to re-introduce yourself to some of the Soca Masters.

“Melda oh yuh meking wedding plans

Carrying meh name to obeah man

All yuh do, yuh can’t get true

Ah still ain’t gon marry to you” - click to listen

Granny said this song reminded her of a Melda, who use to live in the same yard back in her young days. Melda use to cook food for an obeah man, to sauce him up. In return, the obeah man would work some black magic in her favour. It is to this evil friend , Melda would reveal all her secrets and beg for the drums to beat her enemies down. One day, Melda set her sights on Rufus. Rufus was a well to do man who loved his evening liquor. As fast as Rufus made a profit in carpentry, the faster he blew it out in Harry Lal's rum shop. Regardless of his inhibition, Rufus managed to keep a strong wooden house over his drunken head and a rusty car running. Melda would cuss out and beat up any woman who dared to look too tough on Rufus. From her louvered windows, she would spy on Rufus as his car clanked down the road. Once in a while, Melda took food over to Rufus after he staggered into his house. Granny said she would pounce on him while he was drunk. It was only time before expected predictions came true – Melda’s obeah man offered her some potent ingredients to cook Rufus’s food - “wuk pon he fuh trap he”.

Two mornings after and the wedding bells at the church were ringing. The whole neighbourhood turned up to catch a view of Melda’s white lace dress. Some whispered, “she shoulda wear black, cause she ain’t no virgin”. Melda would slyly glance at them as if the spirits carried gossip of their words to her ear. She held her head high, pretending to be a Christian, as she cupped Rufus’s hand down the aisle. Rufus looked like the rum did not leave his system from the night before. The queh-queh Melda held the night before the wedding, kept him drunk and under the spell of the obeah man’s potions. The spectators kept a close eye on the couple as they said, “I do”. A big party in the yard followed and Rufus had a rum bottle in his hand all night. While the party was going on, Melda made sure she packed her belongings and moved into Rufus’s house. Claiming her status, she demanded to be called “Mrs Melda”. A couple years after the union, Rufus’s drunken stupor over-powered the obeah man’s spell and caused the alcoholic to regain his senses.

Rufus drank more as a married man and Mrs Melda cussed louder than a Sailor. It was a big pappy show every afternoon. Rufus would stagger into the house and Mrs Melda demanded money to spend in the market. A fight would break out, causing Rufus to get a good beating with the “matah stick” or a frying pan in his head. Granny said Rufus would cry like a lil boy as he called Mrs Melda an “ole sour battle-axe” amongst many other deserving names. For all the women she fought with and the obeah she worked on Rufus – it was not worth the marriage. Rufus gained strength one night after gulping a 5 year old bottle of rum and administered a trashing on Mrs Melda's skin. The neighbours had to come to her rescue when Rufus picked up the cutlass to chop her up. It was a big "pash-way".

The police came and tried to lock up Rufus but he pleaded with them to let him go. He said he had proof that his wife had cast a spell on him. They offered him a chance to provide the proof. Rufus walked into the bedroom of his home and lifted the sponge mattress. He placed his hand between the bed-springs and resurrected a dingy white panty with herbs wrapped in it.

The police asked Rufus, “Man, wuh is dat nastiness in yuh hand banna?”

Rufus said, “Officers, dis crossing woman wuk obeah pon meh. Every time I fall asleep, she used to rub she dutty drawz pon my face. De ting full up ah evil oil an jumbie bush. Tonight a catch she fair and square... an dis is how the fight start – she wan kill meh wit she stink self Officer... but ah deh jus defending mehself from dis demon meh tek fuh a wife”.

The police took one look at Mrs Melda and asked her if this was the truth. Mrs Melda held her head down in shame as the neighbours laughed and defended Rufus's claim.

Granny said, “she was a wicked wretch”. I laughed and like many stories from this Essequibo woman who is my Granny, I told her I have to share this tale with my friends. Granny then looked at me and asked, “So when are you taking me to Kenya?” I smiled and in the midst of silence, I played one of her favorite songs by Lord Kitchener – “Sugar Bum Bum” click to listen. She got up slowly and started to dance... the same moves she had when I was a child. I held her hand as we danced and laughed together, all night.

Written by Y.T. Marshall

My Journey Continues

2010-07-18T08:29:00.004-04:00

I might be away for a bit but it is not in vain. My wedding is approaching. Thanks to all my readers for your support.
TheKnot

Floral Cotton Dress on Memory Lane

2010-06-08T21:44:00.004-04:00

Took a walk on an old path of ours called Memory Lane
In my long floral cotton dress with a broken branch as my cane
Shifting green bushes from my bare feet as you trailed behind
Watching my hips move, as fore-plays through your mind
Under dark starry skies, the moon kisses the river

Revealing your bright smile, like reflections upon dark water
My hand gliding softly across your lips
Just to trace its definition with my soft fingertips
Crickets are singing but it’s hard to hear
Our eyes locked into the deepest stare
Wish you had seen my tears; they were as clear as rain
Hearts beating drums, as animals of the wild sang together
Cold winds tickled our skin
As warm organs played in sin
Blanketed by the moon, making love our best
Wonder whatever happened to that floral cotton dress?!?

Written by Yolanda T. Marshall

"Obayifo, A Journey into the Mind of Miss Marshall"

Ayo Want Chico?

2010-05-24T01:41:00.005-04:00

Approximately 8:30 AM on a sunny Saturday morning, I sat in my regular Starbucks spot, for my favorite coffee. In my comfy Leaside neighborhood, where a house can run you over a million, I was in a sweater and a semi-pajama pant. Did I care about high fashion that day? Hell no!!! The Queen smiled back at me as I took her out of my fur trimmed wallet, to pay for my Caffè Latte Grande. I exchanged her for the 15th century Norse woodcut of a mythical two-tailed mermaid siren – she is the lady on the Starbucks cup. Free Trade I read, as I glanced around the room, slumped in the leather coach by the window. Watching the shoppers rushed by, my caffeine level escalated with every sip. In came a red headed 10 years old with his Botox, accelerated mother. If she screamed any harder at her son, her lips might have flown off her face and into his throat, to silence the tantrum he was kicking off. She yelled at him, “Christian, if you do not stop being rude this minute, I will ground you all summer!!!”
Christian yelled back, “I do not care!”
She bellowed louder as the lines on her face protruded from her medically, tightened skin, “You will care when you shoplift again and end up in jail!”
Christian growled, “I fucking hate you!”

Those last four words erupted the ringing I felt in my ears, at the tender age of 9 years old. Everything went blank as I drifted back on the turning point of our buses in North Ruimveldt. On the left of me, a Rasta man built a Pholourie shop made of old wood. As a black man, I must admit, his perfection of this original East Indian dish, was impeccable. I remember saving my lunch money just to come home and taste his hand before dinner. It was addictive, like my Starbucks coffee. That is another story, so let me continue with the ringing in my ears. Actually, let me take you back to the event that triggered the ringing in my ears.

One evening, my Mom, my Uncles and Grandmother sent my cousins and me out to buy kerosene oil. We had a blackout and the lamp was low. Imagine, we had no street lights, no running water and no generators. It was pitching dark but God blessed us with night vision. We met up with the other kids in the street. The gang rolled fifteen children deep. Some of us had large nails in our hands and some had heavy, wooden sticks as weapons. This was just to ward off any perverts. None of us were teens but we knew how to survive with self defense methods.
That night, we were tempted as we stood in front of the “Sweetie Stand” aka Candy Vendor. She was out of kerosene oil and could not see what was on her stand. I do not know who started stealing first, but all I knew – I was inhaling the scent of “Chico” amongst us. My tongue watered and I wanted a taste. My cousins ruffled with some others and emerged with a gum for me. I unwrapped the gum and gobbled it up immediately. I smelt mint and asked, “gimme a mint nuh?!!”
Realizing that I had to fend for myself, I scuffled towards the front and grabbed a mint.
The Candy Vendor was busy talking politics with the Mini-Bus Drivers. They were blaming the Government for all the corruptions and pitfalls of our society.
Little did they know, innocent children became demons at that candy stand, on a black-out night.

My Mom lit all the lamps after filling them with the kerosene oil we bought. We were hyper and ready to create a concert. On nights like these, we would sing the songs we learnt in Sunday school and perform skits. This night was different. My Mother’s nostrils flared as she grabbed us close to her. There is no such thing as an explanation for the scent of candy in our breath. We did not get enough money to afford candies and cannot claim we took candies from strangers. The silence for thirty seconds felt like thirty hours. It was within that silence, my Mother’s hand created a shadow on the wall – Up – then - Down... RRRRRRIIINNNGGGGG. Backside!!!! Man!!! My heart froze but I was not dead, even though I felt I should have been... at some point. LAWD!!! Heat ... man, have you ever felt heat drop from the sun and burnt your brain? OUCH! It was my first shock treatment and hopefully my last. I could not cry, I could not say a word. I was paralyzed physically and verbally. Instant trembles took over me. I felt like the Holy Ghost was knocking on my skull, saying, “I am home little one, demon be gone!!!”. She summoned us to kneel down with our hands on our heads for three hours, on the cold wood floor. The Angels of heaven sang melodies in my ears as I sat on my knees, praying for forgiveness.

I never took what wasn’t mine to this day.

The caffeine settled in and snapped me back to the demon child in my presence. I took one look at him and acknowledged the fact that he is not Guyanese. I stomached the pain of his Mother. Walking away from the scene, I questioned myself – “how would I handle it if my future child committed this crime?”.
I promised myself to make him or her read these lines and come to grip with the fact that I am becoming my Mother.

Free trade - pay and enjoy without pain!

Written by Yolanda T. Marshall

My “Gamma Cherry” Kite for Easter

2010-04-05T22:08:00.009-04:00

It is a well known tradition for Guyanese people to fly kites on and around Easter. Outsiders may question its origins or be amazed at our kite obsessions to celebrate this religious holiday. The seawall attracts thousands of kite flyers and vendors. Some of the elders in my family claimed that flying the kite signified the arising of Jesus Christ to Heaven. On Good Friday, Granny made sure we looked our best for church. The Easter celebrations commenced with a beautiful concert. My cousin always wanted to play Mary, the mother of Jesus. She would adorn herself with an old cloth neatly wrapped around her head and a ragged bed sheet with a rope for her dress. I was a part of the choir and was allowed to play the Pastor’s guitar. My little fingers fastened to the C, F and G notes repeatedly. The little boy who played Jesus was not suited for this role. He was a devil and often used his height to bully the smaller kids. Revenge was ours as we made sure we trashed his skin on the wooden, homemade cross. At one point, he yelled out, “Yall can’t beat Jesus suh hard, yuh gon kill meh”. I had to remind him – Jesus died on the cross for us, so should he in this concert. I know, I know, but if you knew this knuckle head boy you would “buss he tail on the cross” too. On Saturday, my Granny and Mignon, the Baker, had the unnamed street sweet with cross buns. Oh my, it was like Christmas without the fancy trimmings. A hot cross bun with some swank aka brackish lime juice was the treat of Easter. Happily, we sang the favourite nursery rhyme of the season:-

Hot cross buns!

One a penny, two a penny,

Hot cross buns.

If ye have no daughters,

Give them to your sons.

One a penny, two a penny,

Hot cross buns.

We could not afford chocolate Easter eggs and bunnies. In our neighbourhood, we did not paint perfect eggs into colors in order to play hide and go seek the egg. Easter for us involved cross buns, kites and church.

My Uncle would say, “dem foreigners creating an abomination to God with dem bunny eggs cause bunny nuh lay no blasted eggs – wasting all dem good, good eggs when poor people starving aroun de flapping world. Wat a sin!!!”

The children in the street would line up for their snacks before venturing out into the back dam to pick Gamma Cherries and fresh coconut leaves. Our Kites were made of “pointer sticks”, the pliable spine of the coconut tree leaf. Gamma Cherry was a very sticky fruit which is used as glue when applying the paper to the pointer stick framed kite. Ironically, this fruit was always blooming at this time of the year. We gathered together, sitting on the hot brick road. Everyone competed for the best looking Easter Kite. Granny made sure we had enough small change to buy some paper and poly twine from the corner store for our kites. If she had no money, we used old newspaper or our “exercise books” (school book) pages. The goal was to build a kite that can fly without it dipping into a tree or trench.

Our little brown fingers moulded the kite’s frame, built its nose and bolted it together with the twine. Squeezing the Gamma Cherries slowly onto the face of the kite, we glued shapes with the colour papers. The most creative minds made kites with shimmers, stars and dots using various innovative decors. My cousin’s ragged cloth dress used in the concert became the tail for many kites. Sparingly, we chopped it into long string pieces and placed it at the bottom of the kites with twine. Our kites had ears – shredded paper frills on each side. After all was done, our little brown fingers were sticky and tired, but anxious to get our kites in the clear, blue sunny sky. The kites were placed in the sun for a little bit as the Gamma Cherry glue dried. The grownups loved the view of various kites decorating the road. They would sometimes brag to their neighbourhoods, “see meh chile kite how it nice?! Ah shoulda name he Pablo Picasso when he did born”.

There was always some sort of drama amongst us during this ritual. One Easter in particular, my little cousin decided he was going to eat our Gamma Cherries. He was a real “hungry-belly” boy. While the rest of us rejoiced with our new creations, his mouth was sealed shut. It took a lot of water and fresh lime to clean the gloop of Gamma Cherries from this child’s mouth. Of course, after the ungluing, he got a beating to top it off. Fights would also erupt over who stole whose kite’s parts.

My Gamma Cherry kite sang its way into the sky. It was so powerful, it almost attacked a flying “Blue Sackie” (blue-grey tanager bird). Jerking on the twine to rev-it-up into the air, I ran backwards to unreel my ball of twine. My kite sang a buzzing calypso song and I danced back and forth as it drifted higher and higher. Granny was so proud of me. The boys were extra jealous that year, since a girl made their kites look like tree decorations. My Gamma Cherry kite settled with the wind and flowed peacefully like a star in the clouds. Tying her twine to the front step banister of the house, I watched her get close to heaven. Built with produce of the earth, my Gamma Cherry kite spent one full Easter day closer to Jesus.

Written By Yolanda T. Marshall

My presence

2010-03-30T20:42:00.005-04:00

The sweet blade of grass
from the fresh cut of a cutlass
The moist rain-water mud
brown like my skin
If I can go back to the days
where the cow grazed
to fill my belly with fresh boiled milk
my life will be satisfied
with one Sip
Time to book a trip
out of Babylon gates
Sweet Guyana awaits
my presence.

Written by Yolanda T. Marshall

Mass Games in my small days

2010-03-14T10:23:00.012-04:00

At the age of 8 years old I served my country. No, I was not a child soldier, but a soldier of Masquerade, my rich Caribbean culture of Guyana. I endured over a month of practicing for Mass Games, an event where many Guyanese students and Army members would perform dances and gymnastics of the sort in a large stadium. Not every Guyanese were privileged to participate in Mass Games and this is why I am very blessed to have such an experience. The President and all the political officials came out to witness the vibrant parades of this historical carnival which took place for many days. Being a part of the youngest groups to perform, my reward was the fact that I had fun in the sun. As a child, it was hard to phantom the importance of this Game. I can remember it as if it was only yesterday.

My costume was the trademark of my country. The colors of my short can-can skirt, made of tool material, represented the Nation’s past, present and future. The green imitated the color of our beautiful agriculture, the leaves of the fruit trees I often climbed and the tone of our rich rain forest. The white represented the many waters of Guyana. This color is one I can dispute now that I am old enough to realize – the water was not so white, but more so brown... but I guess it is meant to signify the mineral free water many Guyanese caught in their rain water barrels. The golden arrow or yellow was the color of my shiny one piece bathing suit. I know, it is not really a bathing suit, but as a child, that is all I can think of doing in it – swimming in the back dam under the bright yellow sun. Yellow is our wealth, our gold and shining glory. This color also reminded me of Uncle Brian’s bright yellow gold teeth which sparkled when he smiled. Black portrays the endurance of our people. I use to believe that black represented the many black-outs we endured. Those power outages are a norm but it did call for many Anansi stories under a kerosene oil lamp. The color red showed our zeal for life, our blood-lines and our dynamic nature to build a better future for our future generation. Red, in my childhood eyes, resembled the ‘floutiee’ I use to buy with a ‘bob’ (money, 25 cents Guyanese coin) from the street vendor in front of my St Margaret’s Primary school.

“She look nice, nah?” Granny commented after she placed the yellow bathing suit and color-color can-can on me. My skin was shining of car grease mixed with some coconut oil – this was to ensure I did not get ashy while I danced and practiced all day. My little black Yattin boots were decorated with shocking color yellow laces. My hair at this stage was chemical free, long and neatly braided into soft cornrow lanes with a big red flower. One thing I hated but somehow had to endure was the lather and rinsing of my chest with fresh baby powder – I guess some Guyanese parents wanted to prove their picknie had a good bath... I do not know, but I still hate that powder chest to this day. I had an Aunt who was a “sweetgirl” and she religiously wore white powder all over her ‘bubby ‘(breasts) – but that is another story. I removed the powder my Granny applied and made sure I was always early and ready to dance.

There I was, under beautiful blue skies where the Robin birds flew and the scent of freshly cooked food from the Vendors refreshed the cool breeze. The stadium attracted hundreds of thousands. Many viewers did not have seats, so they sat on the hard brick tarmac. Some sat in the fresh green grass. The performers on stilts looked like tall, tribal Africans amongst the masquerade and the East Indian dancer’s Sari glittered with gold. The army soldiers plonked on their big, black government boots with guns on their backs. They were muscular – a few of them look a little ‘pagalee’ (not too right in the head). They danced with their guns as they marched to the chanting song of the Mighty Gabby:

“Left, right, left, right,

The government boots, the government boots

Left, right, left, right,

The government boots, the government boots

.... Is it necessary to have so much soldiers in this small country?

No, no, no, no

Is it necessary to shine soldier boots with taxpayer's money?

No, no, no, no”

This song was more like an insult to the Dictators of many Caribbean countries – including Guyana... but it served as great dance music for all calypso lovers. It was our Arm Guards time to have fun. The music was turned off as they got serious with their performances. The display of marching skills made them look like camouflaged robots.

The gymnastics of my people where unexplainable... the dancers flexed, whine and flipped all over to sweet Soca music and folk songs of my beautiful country. The rhythm of their movements, the chants and colors all signified the essence of many cultures. We danced and danced one school at a time. Our waist lines moved with the beat and the costumes blended into a portrait no artist can imitate with paper and paint. One side of the stadium, a bunch of students used pictures, putting together a giant jigsaw puzzle of the flag etc. It was well co-ordinated and lacked any mistakes. The flags waved and the crowd was going wild. Screams of joy and laughter echoed the air.

There I was as a child in front of the President, in the first row. I was placed at the front of the group due to my independent attitude. The teachers knew I will not run and cry and I was always up for an adventure. Desmond Hoyte made eye contact with me, pointed and smiled... I smiled back. He was our President at that time. The Mass Games began and I, beautifully dressed in the colors of my Guyana’s flag, ‘wuk up meh self’ to some old folk songs:

“Small days is still on meh mind
Small days is a good good time
De neighbours got some little children
And when de singing and dancing
Ah does really admire dem!
And what de singing?

Children Children?
Yes Mama!
Where you been to?
Grandmama!
And what she give you?
Bread and cheese!
And where is mine?
On the shelf!
How can I get it?
Climb de chair!
And suppose I fall?
Me nah care!
Bad Picknie!
Me nah care!
Wicked Picknie!
Me nah care!

Small days is still on meh mind
Small days is a good good time
De neighbours got some little children
And when de singing and dancing
Ah does really admire dem!
And what de singing?

On your carpet
You must be
Like a roses
Sugar and tea
Bright and shining
You must be
And save those kisses for me!

Small days is still on meh mind
Small days is a good good time
De neighbours got some little children
And when de singing and dancing
Ah does really admire dem!
And what de singing?

There's a coloured girl in de ring tra la la la la.
There's a coloured girl in de ring tra la la la la.
There's a coloured girl in de ring tra la la la la.
For she likes sugar and I like plum.

So! Let me see yuh motion tra la la la la.
Oh let me see you motion, tra la la la la.
So! Let me see yuh motion tra la la la la.
For she likes sugar and I like plum.

There's a coloured girl in de ring tra la la la la.
There's a coloured girl in de ring tra la la la la.
There's a coloured girl in de ring tra la la la la.
For she likes sugar and I like plum.

Oh skip across the ocean, tra la la la la.
Oh skip across the ocean, tra la la la la.
For she likes sugar and I like plum.

Small days is still on meh mind
Small days is a good good time
De neighbours got some little children
And when de singing and dancing
Ah does really admire dem!
And what de singing?

Brown skin girl stay home and mind baby.
Brown skin girl stay home and mind baby.
I am going away in a sailing boat
And if ah don't come back
Trow 'way de dam baby!

Small days is still on meh mind
Small days is a good good time
De neighbours got some little children
And when de singing and dancing
Ah does really admire dem!
And what de singing?

Sly mongoose, dog know yuh name.
Sly mongoose, yuh ain't got no shame.
Mr. Mongoose walk in the white man's kitchen
Tief out one ah he big fat chicken
Put um inside he waistcoat pocket, sly mongoose.

Missy Gal, Missy Gal, Missy Gal, Missy Gal
Ah wha mek yuh brazen so?

Missy Gal, Missy Gal, Missy Gal, Missy Gal
Ah wha mek yuh brazen so?

Meh come from de country
Down to de town and dah mek meh brazen so!

Small days is still on meh mind
Small days is a good good time
De neighbours got some little children
And when de singing and dancing
Ah does really admire dem!
And what de singing?

O lard de bucket got a hole in de centre
And if yuh think a telling lie
Push yuh finger
O lard de bucket got a hole in de centre
And if yuh think a telling lie
Push yuh finger.

Small days is still on meh mind
Small days is a good good time
De neighbours got some little children
And when de singing and dancing
Ah does really admire dem!
And what de singing?

Miss Mary had some dry-head children, dry-head children
Miss Mary had some dry-head children, dry-head children

Children stop playing and come inside now!
Girl! Boy! Go-lang home nuh
Before yuh mudder kill yuh!”

Written by Yolanda T. Marshall

“Small Day” – various Folk singers

Free Cookies, Stolen Sanity

2010-03-13T11:48:00.008-05:00

“Crab Dag, yuh thief meh draaz from meh clothes line fuh parade like yuh bamzi deserve fancy frock!”
It was 6am in the morning when Auntie Patsy woke us up with her vulgar, weekly cuss outs to the unknown. We knew she loved throwing corn to catch fowl. This event was a norm in our nameless street. It outweighed the newspaper’s front page which was known to expose the Government’s trickery. While the Stabroek News article, written by some educated Author, spoke of the lack of funding in schools - Auntie Pasty made it her duty to cuss the President’s lack of control over the local primary school’s biscuit delivery.
“Imagine, dis rasshole nuh give we piknee dem biscuits, but ah drive round Georgetown inna big time car... meh chile belly gripe up with hungah and dem underpaid government teacha killing he with licks cause he too hungry fuh learn dem colonialized upitee, prappa English. Meh poor, meh can’t even afford fuh feed meh self an dem biscuits does hold meh chile belly till I can boil two yam an mek fufu or boil rice an salt!”
The Ministry of Education provided schools with biscuits for its students. The flower shaped cream biscuits were sweet on our tongues and a treat worth looking forward to. I loved the ones which were slightly burnt to a crisp. Sometimes, we received a cup of milk but this depended on if the school got lucky on a delivery. Auntie Patsy’s little odd jobs of braiding hair and cutting grass for those seeking cheap labour were far apart. She was pregnant every year and grew poorer with every new mouth to feed.
For a child living in poorer circumstances, these snacks kept the energy levels up and maintained a functional brain during the class hours. For Auntie Patsy’s child, this was his tea, breakfast and sometimes dinner. She was a single mother who managed to make ends meet under her rotting roof. During the rainy season, Auntie Patsy had more butter containers and pots on the floor to catch the leaking water in her home, compared to any other person on that street. The house appeared gray but this was not due to colour paint, it was the evidence of mole and mildew. All the trees in her yard were on strike – the children she bore ate the fruits before they were ripe. Some would say their “lickerishness blight the trees” and stunted their ability to produce. Her children would often appear in our yard to play as the scent of Granny’s cooking fumigated the neighbourhood. This was their plan to be offered a little plate while we ate. These chorused visits were causing a shortage to my share of food. I was not too happy with this situation but they were my friends and I understood their pain. The other neighbours banned the children from visiting their homes, since they believed Auntie Patsy was sending them to get free food or to thief something. She had her tricks of the trade to substantiate her mode of survival, but she was becoming a nuisance.
Granny and Auntie Patsy had a disagreement one day which left Auntie Patsy in tears. Auntie Patsy decided that she will invite herself in our yard to steal some rain water and eggs. As my Caribbean people know, rain water is like gold – we collect it in iron barrels or plastic buckets, we boil it, clean the mosquito’s lava out and drink it. Granny once proclaimed that this water was sent to us by God because the government’s pipe water was too rusty. The pollution of pipe water has been known to kill via cholera. So, this brazen woman took our rain water when we all knew her rotten house collects more of it inside, than outside. Auntie Patsy also helped herself to some of Granny’s eggs from the fowl pen we kept.
Granny cuss “she” stink, stink, stink until she cried. Granny is a giving woman but do not take your eyes and cross her by stealing her valuable resources. I felt so much pity for Auntie Patsy but as the saying goes, “Moon ah run till daylight ketch am” – (You may think that you are getting away with your misdeeds, but one day you will be caught).
Auntie Patsy’s misdeeds caught up with her one day when the night prowlers stole all her clothes from the line in her back yard. At this period of time, she was the enemy of everyone in the street. Many were immune to her sad situations and turned a blind eye on her cries. The Pastor blamed the devil within her – she has been known to entertain a good for nothing “Sweetman” who fathered her 9 children out of wedlock without giving her a dime. According to Auntie Patsy, he is a Fisher Man and this explained his once a year visitation. The Government cookie shortages did not work in her favour and neither did her dishonest plight to leech off the neighbours.
It was too early and “booboo” (eye mucus) did not leave our eyes before this woman started to cuss beyond the height of her voice. The bitterness from her tongue caused her to blame innocent people for her misfortune. On this particular Saturday morning, Auntie Patsy went officially insane, as per a biopsychosocial stand point. Her existence in a developing society posed a threat to others. The Police continuously arrested her and Granny often provided her bail money. The end was apparent when the mentally challenged woman tried to kill her new born baby and the elders in the street were forced to make things right.
Auntie Patsy‘s children were sent to her family members in Essequibo. She lost her rotten house and the Government made sure they delivered her to Berbice Mad House as a permanent resident.
Vexation of the spirit might remain silent during life’s harshest thunders and lightening. It is in this state of mind some are weakened into numbness. The force of evil grows, as if to maintain strength but like a rotting home... the spirit crumbles... sanity stolen.

Writer: Yolanda T. Marshall

Two Carrion Crows

2009-11-18T22:53:00.010-05:00

Two Carrion Crows
Tapped at my window
I opened
letting them in

‘Why it’s a pleasure a surprise visit from two Black Vultures’
I uttered
as they fluttered
lighting a cigarette
I proceeded to sit
Chat to my new guests
who flew in to take a rest

‘We have traveled many seas
Guided by the breeze
Survived being heated, the freezes
Diseases and fleas
Eaten the best Of life and death
The scraps of other beasts
Have been our best feasts
Made circles around our prey
Awaiting their breath to fade away
Leaving the evidence of good times
Bones, useless flesh and some bloody wine
Roosted in the comfiest swamps
Hunt for the sweetest chomps
Our meals are better cold to devour
Our eyes so dark, they hide a prey’s future’

‘Should I feel underprivileged or praise your carnage?’

‘That depends on if you decide to die or live’

‘You filthy Carrion Crows shush away from my window!!!’

‘We’ll be back real soon to feast from morning to noon’

‘On who?’

‘You’

Rum for the dead during Samhain celebrations

2009-10-31T15:14:00.009-04:00

My friend called me over to indulge in some good ole pumpkin pie. My mouth watered as I envisioned lathering and rinsing a slice with some ice cream. My stomach grumbled with the thought of washing it down with some Demerara rum and soda.
Halloween, Halloween, Halloween!!! Trick or Treat, get you something nice to eat!!!
Last time I checked, I am not a Celtic. I grew up with celebrations such as Carnival, Bacchanal and Mashramani . The outfits worn are for the celebration of freedom. We celebrated independence and freedom from harvesting plantations 365 days a year for decades.
Samhain celebrations on the other hand is a seasonal Jumbie aka Duppy ritual. The end of summer is here; the darker nights are here to stay for a while, let us burn our slaughtered cattle’s’ bones. The dead are mischievous at play, let us dance in hay and be gay.
Halloween, Halloween, Halloween!!! Trick or Treat, get you something nice to eat!!!

Now, if you do not know the meaning of Halloween, you may find my babble above leaving a question mark floating,like a ghost, above your head.
As a child, to be handed a bag of candies in one night was a dream come through.
My cousins and I played “dis is me own”... This is my own. The game required us to open a magazine of any caliber. We would straighten our fingers as if they were 1 million dollar wands and hover over our glossy paper store. The fastest pointer with the most receptive eyes got the best pick. Quickly,as one turns the page, we spotted what we dreamt of and pointed to it shouting, “ dis is me own”.
“Hey banna, you cake look better than mine yuh know?” The winner of the best looking item would get the privilege to lick the magazine's picture art, as they visualized it being real. We always had that lickrish (glutton) cousin who would lick the left-left (left over).
Now, you might be laughing at this point or feeling sad for us – but do not be. We were happy when playing this game of endless candies and cakes from a dessert book. My grandmother could not afford these chocolates, so my concept of Halloween would be turning up at Aunt Marvis house, bare feet, with a crocus bag asking "beg yuh a pound of flour, an egg and 4 ice cubes for some swank nuh?"
As for witches, ghosts and head-less men riding horses with pumpkins in their hands, it mattered not. We were too busy trying to figure out if the ghost of Auntie Grace will pinch our ears, while we did mischief in the yard– just to scare the living day lights out of our souls. The spirit that bothered me most was that Bacoo which kept appearing in South Ruimveldt Primary school's washroom. He was mischievous and others recalled him begging for milk with banana.
The witch to fear was Ms Obayifo, she was an ole higue who had turned into a ball of fire, flew into our neighbor's home to suck their baby's blood.
Ole man Brown died but he didn’t really die. He would leave his grave in Princess Street to come home. While passing us, he tipped his hat and smiled. It was not paranormal to us. It was the daily normal activities.

I asked my grandmother once, “Granny, why do you dance around the church when you catch the Holy Spirit?” She looked at me with her thick lens sitting on her eyes and said, “so dat deh evil spirits remain away from meh”. Understandably, I joined her in a dance for the Holy Ghost.

In Canada, as a child, I did not Trick nor Treat within my neighborhood. My mother purchased candies for the other kids and I sat inside, picking out the best of the batch. I ate all the candies I dreamt of during the “dis is me own” game. I did not want to party with ghosts in supposedly 'scary' outfits.
At an older age, the parties offered more than candies. Alcohol was the treat and a good Halloween party was the trick to get me into a costume for a night of laughter and music with my friends.
It is a funny thing, although I know the meaning of Halloween and was never conditioned to celebrate it, I find myself giving best wishes - “Happy Halloween” in its season. After a few glasses of rum, I did not know if it was Auntie Grace, Ms Obayifo or Mr Brown demanding I throw some on the ground for the dead. My glass tipped and my drink disappeared... it could have been that botheration Bacoo.

WRITTEN BY YOLANDA T. MARSHALL

Shusssshhh Silence

2009-08-28T22:15:00.009-04:00

Shusssshhh
Speechlessness dominates communication
Sound surrenders to Oblivion
Stillness conquers all activities
Secrets muted to the tone of tranquility
Inarticulate fear will force one’s mind to become inscrutable
Inner voices become incomprehensible
Inhibitions, preventing even the sweetest eloquence
Inconspicuous emotions capsule by Silence
Listen to nothing for nothing will be heard
Lonely air, unknown, unseen, unstirred
Lull away into a serene trance
Lost in silence
Enter my dark room of flickering lights,
Entertainment most suited for the eyes
Eyes so voiceless your lips express jealousy
Ending conversations, competing quietly
No noises
No nuisances
No Devils interrupting
No rowdy laughter of villains
Come into my haven
Calm your mind of hidden murmuring
Clamour for serenity, wordlessly
Conserve peace silently
Escape flamboyances
Escape the imaginary world of free speeches
Emphatic vocals keep their distance
Enter my world of Silence
Shusssshhh.

Written by Yolanda T. Marshall
Author of "OBAYIFO - A Poetic Journey into the Mind of Miss Marshall"
WWW.YMARSHALL.COM

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Who don’t hear will feel!

2009-08-02T23:59:00.010-04:00

It has been established by now that I am very outspoken about my Guyanese roots. I was born in a developing country which offered knowledge to a child in its own backwards way – sometimes. My Grandmothers, who were dominant fixtures in our lives, were two different women with the same views on discipline. Let us visit the Bible for a bit – Granny Alma, Lord rest her soul, would read the Bible with us as we memorized verses for Sunday school. It was imperative for the children of God to gain knowledge of his words. Granny B would make sure we join every choir under a bottom house church.
Granny Alma’s church is where my sister and I attended on most occasions. It was masterly built with a full religious staff. My Great Aunt became an antique ornament of this temple. She was the Sunday school teacher since my Dad was a child and became ours as well. The Marshall’s roots were deep in the church, in music and education.

Granny B was from Canada but a real battle-axe Guyanese. It did not matter where you praised the Lord – as long as it was done every Sunday. She would make sure our skin looked smooth with some coconut oil and hair slicked back with car grease. We wore the handmade dresses she created. My sister, my cousin and I would skip across the road to a hard muddy floor, bottom house, semi broken benches church. Our Sunday best dresses were cut from one design of fabric. We were the only members of the choir and we were proud of ourselves. The lifestyle was different in some ways as we shifted between the two. I did not like to listen to Granny B when she told me to stop being lazy and learn a longer memory verse. Why should I? Will a memory verse solve anything? Sunday school should feel like a party of sorts, for meeting and playing with classmates. I would bully my way to the first in the bench on the Preacher’s side. This allowed me to be the first child to utter a verse when called upon. I would proudly stand up with a smile and say, “Jesus Wept” – the shortest memory verse in the Bible.

Granny Alma told us the stories of Eve and how “hard ears” she was. If she had only listened to Adam, none of us would have been in this mess. The mess she referred to was the constant black-outs, the price increases on kerosene oil and food. The sinners had taken over the land and it all started with that greedy wretch called “Eve”.
I have a story of an “Eve” – my little sister. At 11 years of age, it was my duty to wash my 9 year old sister’s clothes. Mind you, washer and dryer sounded like a UFO to us at that time. A bar of salt soap, a scrubbing board, water and lots of energy in your hands were all one needed to gain clean clothes. I was a tiny child and my sister was even smaller. Every day, about three times a day she changed her outfits. It was a trait she inherited from our Father... that is another story. I warned her about it – “Tek kay” I said.
Like Eve, my sister had a weakness for eating what she should not have. She was told repeatedly to stop buying Demico’s ice-cream. Demico prized itself on adding a rainbow of colorant to their ice creams, such as shocking color green, pink and purple etc. My sister’s belly would sing louder than a hungry Calypsonian on stage as she raced to the toilet. It was amazing how she became immune to the over-use of old newspapers to wipe her buttocks but could not stop shitting after a cone. Numerous attempts and knuckles in the head did not detour this child from indulging in class room Birthday parties with ice-cream and cake. I told her multiple times, “Jus eat deh govament cookies an stop act like yuh scraven”.

Thunder roll and rain fall we stepped out of a loud mini bus one day without an umbrella. This child’s belly was louder than the thunder itself. I yelled at her – “Yuh see? It gon tek we 10 minutes fuh walk home an yuh gon shit yuh self fuh everybody see”. Before I can finish cussing her off, a goop of green ice-cream looking feces trailed down her legs, just to be washed away by the pouring rain – into the path of the people behind us. I swiftly turned my head and ran. A voice from a Rasta man behind chanted, “Gyal, yuh sista shit she self hey man, come look afta she. Green konksie floating all ova meh yatin boots – duh is nuh you sista?!!!” I pretended I did not know her, filled with shame as she started to cry, “duh is me sista, Yolanda stop acting like yuh ain’t know me!!”

The shame... ooooohhh ggggaaawwwwdddd the shame I felt. That was not the end of my worries. I was responsible for washing the shitty uniform in the thunder and lighting. We got home, I helped her take off the uniform and demanded she stood outside so the rain can shower the stinking loads away.
A good whipping with a thin mango tree branch had her racing up the stairs bawling. I washed the flit off the uniform with my hands and explained to Granny , why I had to trash my sister’s behind.
Granny B said, “When yuh go to church, must tell deh teacher yuh learnt a new memory verse from yuh Granny “. I was not in the mood to hear her talk of embedding statements into the mind of children. She laughed, as if the situation between my sister and I made her day... she said, “Who don’t hear does feel”.
I searched the Bible for that verse and in the process; I learnt over 10 new pieces for Sunday school. I did not find that specific quote in the bible, but I sure did wish Eve had memorized Granny’s verse - that way I would NOT have been in this shit. As for my little sister – she felt it alright!

Written By Yolanda T. Marshall
© 2009

The Dead made a visit - True Story

2009-06-04T21:43:00.016-04:00

Fowl cock crowed as the sun rise one Saturday morning. It was my turn to scrub the dirty wooden stairs. With a bucket of water on my head, a hard brush, a metal scrapper and salt soap in my hand, I promptly attended my chore of the day. An early start guaranteed me more time to enjoy playing hop- scotch and “ketcha” with my sister and cousins. Granny made sure breakfast was ready – some fry bakes and butter with daisy bush tea. I look back at those days when we could not afford fancy foods but our bodies were lean with muscular definition without a gym membership. Our little hands were callused to perfection, enabling us to handle the cutlass like a grown man would. The slippers on my feet had seen its fair share of flooded streets, broken bottles and muddy lane ways. No complaints and nothing that a good piece of bicycle tire tube with a needle and thin poly twine couldn’t patch. For fun, we would disobey Granny and stand in the muddy trenches to catch “kakabelly” [gutter tiny fishes] with our hands. I was often sporting a patch of ring-worm due to this adventure. At some point, I was immune to all the dirty bacteria that infested the dark muddy water decorated with a splash of colorful garbage. In North America, there are urban myths such as, “Chocolates will cause Acne”. In my South American country, I was told, “snakes do not bite in water” as we swam in the brown back dam rivers. Let me be one to confess – snakes do bite in water but I survived. Chocolate makes you happy without acne but you may gain a few pounds. Either way, experience is the master of an individual’s truths. It was experiences such as these that made me realize that life is complex... the older I grew, the deeper my views became. Granny would tell us stories of Old Higues, Jumbies and Bahcoo [Guyanese forms of Ghosts]. After relishing in the excitement of the stories, we would blow out the kerosene lamp to sleep in the dark. It was not a comfortable atmosphere, especially after her closing line remained, “Is de truth yuh know?!” It was hard to disagree with a woman who placed food out for the dead on "Old years night" aka New years eve. In our eyes, she knew they would come for the food. It took some years before we realized the missing food was not eaten by the lost souls, but by Foxy, the "rice eater" yard Dog we kept as a pet.
Bed-wetting occurred on these nights on the flimsy sponge mattresses because none of us dared to take a piss in the black out. If I had a beharry bullet aka Chico aka chewing gum in my mouth, fear caused it to settle in my stomach. One particular night stood out like Granny’s bottom lip when she is brewing in anger. Ms Grace decided to pop by for some brown sugar because her son forgot to buy a cup full before the store closed. Granny, being the kind woman she always was, offered the little bit she had with Ms Grace. Before leaving our house, she smiled at us and said, “Oh gosh, yuh have some beautiful granddaughters muss tek care ah dem”. Seconds after, my Uncle arrived, riding in on his old beaten-up bicycle. We use to call him the “beat-man” as in, when we behaved badly, he did the beatings. Lining us up one by one as he shared “licks” aka lashes with the leather belt. Besides his drunken temper and strict hands, he knew how to diffuse the scary nights with jokes. Uncle would have us laughing until we cried when he started to tell stories about the misfortunes of others. He was a devil – his skin was always red, he had a left brown eye and a right grey eye. They never taught us of this in biology class at that age so we automatically believed the devil possessed this man.

The day after, as I attended to my chore of scrubbing the stairs, my next door neighbor started screaming at her sister who was catching fish in the dirty trench. She repeatedly yelled, “oh gawd, ah cyan believe it, oh gawd, Aunty dead”. Remember the story of “Uncle Desmond”? I stated - anybody older than we and close to we family is “Auntie” or “Uncle.” I was waiting to hear whom she was referring to since it can be the entire neighborhood of women.
Granny stuck her head out the window to see what the hustle was about. Story broke out and gossip spread like wild fires in the street before the fowl cock can finish crowing that morning.
My little heart started to race. I can see the scared look on my cousin and sister’s faces as our eyes danced across each other. It wasn’t because of the news so much but more so for how the news came about. I knew it wasn’t me but I was hoping one of the other two did not carry out our 007 plan to eliminate Uncle with rat poison in his tea. I was praying internally that the devil did not cause one of them to take God out of their thoughts to place the rat poison in the sugar prior to Uncle’s arrival – the same sugar Granny kindly handed Ms Grace last night... I held the stair scrapper tightly in my right hand to defend myself against the monster amongst us. Just when I was about to question my partners in a planned crime, my Granny said, “deh say she get hit by a minibus yesterday morning while going to buy sugah but duh cyan [cannot] be true man... she did come hey lass night fah sugah – is spirit visit we or wuh?!.”
My little sister, the smart ass replied, “but Granny, how yuh say all dem Jumbie stories ah true and now yuh cyan [cannot] believe it – yuh does lie to we and mek Uncle beat we fuh lying?”

We witnessed it, we lived it...

Life is an amazing journey... even those who stopped short of walking the path will grace your life, just to say or wave good bye as you live on.

Amazing Grace

Grace dressed in black, stood cold and stiff, over a fresh muddy grave
Tears soak her face, pupils enlarged, lost in an inconsolable gaze
She hears voices through the wind of mourns and laughter
Of good and bad times shared between funeral members
Her heart weakens by the minute of every hour
As she slowly counts each flower
They adorn a handmade basket, made to match the casket
The cold wind blows as her black gown flows,
Old trees wave to-and-fro
An innocent child offers her a smile
She tries to reciprocate the same, but that would be an emotional lie
Family and friends shiver in pain to kiss the dead goodbye
Some fell to the floor, others held their heads and hands to the sky
Pastor prays, ‘Amen’ they all say
Rest in peace as ashes turn to dust
She sings along with the choir, echoing the last chorus
Amazing Grace how sweet the sound
Of a name once lost, now found
Was blinded by sorrow, now she sees
Her name engraved on a tombstone.

Written by Yolanda T. Marshall

Guyanese Story: "Uncle Desmond"

2009-05-17T20:18:00.006-04:00

Mammy tell me and meh sista that we had to stay with Auntie Joan. Auntie Joan wasn’t really we auntie, she is juss mammy far off cousin – but yuh know how dat does go, anybody older than we and close to we family is “Auntie” or “Uncle.”

Auntie Joan Mumma- Auntie Patsie use to live wit she and so did deh mumma man – Uncle Desmond.

Now let me tell you bout Uncle Desmond. He was duh most laziest man I eva encounta in meh life, lawd knows he did lazy bad bad bad. He is a short man an he hair de look like it ah run way from he farid. Uncle Desmond use to wear dem ole time sweet boy clothes and always smiling up and ting fuh show aff he gold teeth. Dah chain on he neck de look like one a dem ting chainman does sell under dah big tree by da bridge. Ah never understan what Auntie Patsie de see inna dat man. Auntie Patsie always use to seh to he

“ Meh deh wid yu rass even when tings bad, an all now yu nuh find wuk yet feh buy me sumting pretty, all now, all yuh a do is siddung in de room and crass up meh life – yuh is a burden pon meh yuh know?!”

An she right, dat man was lazy and full o crasses. I rememba he used to tek advantage a me and meh lil sista. He never wan go get he own bucket a water fe bath, so he used to tek way we own – after we slave fuh it.
You know how back home some a we nah have showah or water droping from the pipes in we home, so we had to go in the yard and full bucket fi bath. Half a di bucket fuh dip with a butter containa and rinse, an de other half fuh wash off deh sweet soap [we neighba dem did always use to deh asking we fuh piece a soap – but dat is another story]. Me an meh sista would lif we medium size bucket ah water up to the shower and BAP! – outta no weh Uncle Desmond would pop out wid he towel wrap around he an a big empty bucket.

Uncle Desmond, “ dash de watah from dem two lil buckets in my own an go back and fetch ya’ll watah”

We hated dat man so bad, sometime I did wan to poison he bush tea. So what we started to do was, mek sure we lif he watah fuss and den get we own – cause he would tief it anyway.

Uncle Desmond neva like to go to church with Auntie Patsie, he was a sinna and bucket o wata tief… and always used to seh

"when God mek rum drop fram de sky den I can praise him, fuh now, I got to wait till you give he money fuss in he offering box, den fuh get me own when you come fram church"

Auntie Patsie said to him one day, " carry yuh skunt, bout wait fuh me, like you got sumting to do - yuh ain't got no jab, yuh always pissin drunk an de lass time meh check - is me money, nat yu own - go get a wuk!"

Uncle Desmond use to drink out deh small change Auntie Patsi give he. One time she did get real mad and share he some licks wit de pot spoon. Now, yuh might be tinking, how dat man mek he woman lick he like dat?!. Well, Auntie Patsi is a fat woman, ah mean, she is bout 200 pounds and tuff tuff tuff... Uncle Desmond ex-woman use to seh dat Auntie Patsie need fuh get stuff in a pressure cooka fuh soften she tuff face. Dat ex-woman deh get a beating from Auntie Patsie one day, lef she bitta fuh life. Auntie Patsie don't joke, she does cuss stink and loud. When she lazy man wan act up - she buss he rass an keep money from he.

Back to Uncle Desmond an he drunk self. He use to go pik up Auntie Patsie after wuk - she did always come home around 7pm.
EH EH!!!! One day we in de street playin catcha wit we lil friends dem... an while I on de catcha topic, ah gon tell yuh something - meh lil sista use to change she clothes tree times in one afternoon, she did think dat no one would recognize she jerry curls juice head or sumting.

So yeah, EH EH!! OH LAWDIE OOO... Auntie Patsie come walkin in deh street looking vex vex vex. When I seh vex, maaannn, she look like somebody eat all she pepperpot pon a christmas day... All a we stop playin and stand up hand a kimbo. Auntie Joan was hanging deh wet clothes on de line in deh front yard. She walk up to the gate lookin at Auntie Patsi face, confused.

"Mammy, why yuh din get a ride wit Desmond, wey he deh, he did lef here fram long time yuh know. mammy, wat appen?"

Auntie Patsie explain, " yuh know dat good fah noting skunthole forget me an ride off?"

Auntie Joan, "wat yuh mean he ride off, I in understan yuh man?"

At this point, all we see is Uncle Desmond riding in, wadling pon de bicycle an he de lookin real scared. The neighbors started to move dem blinds by dem windows and some a dem come out pon de varanda fuh watch. Me and meh lil sista look at one anotha an smile, cause we know sumting happen an Uncle Desmond might get de pot spoon acrass he head. He deserves it, he always gat we fetching watah fuh he and meking he daisy bush tea... lazy good fuh noting man
So all a we stan up fuh hear some tekcups...

Auntie Patsie look pon he wit disgust, tek she fingers dem and shove he in he head as she continued, '' dis fucking man come and get me from wuk, fuss of all, he late and buggin me fuh money to go to HarryLall Rumshop. I tell he fuh cool heself and lef meh alone, a tired, wuk all day an a hungry. I jump on pon de bak a de bike as usual and hole on pon he ... yuh know, de everyday routine. Almost a mile away fram hey he wadling wadling, drunk as usual and DRAPS!! I fall aff the fucking bike back an dis muddaskunt gon continue to ride wey like a mad man. I stan up deh in shock, a couldn't even get a word fuh come out meh mouth. He disappear up deh road an I lef standing pon de corna. To mek de mattas wuss..."

Everybody lookin like deh wan laugh, but too scared and shock like Auntie Patsie... Uncle Desmond standin deh, looking like he gettin bored a de explaination and trying to not look so drunk...
My lil sista looked at me and whispa, "bambalickybambam"
I wanted to laugh so bad, but I might get licks to...

Auntie Patsie, " To mek mattas wuss, I had to walk all de way up de road by maself. Something tell me fuh pass by HarryLall Rumshop fuh ask he if dis drunk jackass was in he shap earlier an how much he spend in deh - an guess who I see gulping down a bottle a banks beer - this lazy ass, wutliss man a mine. Yuh wan see how fast he pelt down de bottle, stuttering bout ''baby, I was looking fuh you''. yuh can believe duh?''

Auntie Joan, '' wuh yuh mean he was lookin fuh you, Uncle Desmond, yuh didn't realize she drop off de bike?"

Uncle Desmond took de opportunity to seh he piece, " I din know she naw deh pon de back a de back till I was almost home... den I went looking all ova fuh she and meh naw see she no way. I even ask people if deh see she, worry real bad... and all de worryin mek me had to pass by de rumshop to calm meh nerves. She come in an mussie tink I forget about she, but is de nerves and stress a de stressing an praying fuh she to get home safe''

Auntie Patsie grab he bicycle and pelt it one side, " wait, yuh wan pray now? is now you praying? de only ting you a pray fa is rum, yuh fucking rum boogie. Yuh rass lie, yuh is a blasted fool.. how you neva feel a big fat woman like me fallin aff yuh bike back. De bicycle should a feel light, how you couldn't feel duh, yuh tink you smart bout you was worryin? Yuh skunthole gon sleep pon yuh bike tonite, yuh nah come in meh house... yuh dun wuk noway and always drunk... dis a de last straw... de only time yuh arse gettin in hay is wit a jab."

Auntie Joan try fuh calm she down, " Mammy, juss go inside and relax, de neighbor dem do haffi know we business and Uncle Desmond, yuh ought to be ashame a yuhself, really and truly"

Uncle Desmond, " is naw me fault she fall off, I is de drunk one an me never fall off me bike yet, I tired a she cussing me bout look a wuk... I gon get a jab, watch lil joke, an a wan see who she gon talk down to... I waste me time worry bout ... *kisses teeth*"

Auntie Joan, " go do dat then, find a wuk!"

Me an meh sista buss out one piece a laughing pon Uncle Desmond and so did the neighbors. We couldn't understan how he naw feel dat big hefty woman falling off the bike back and how he got the nerves to go drink bout he worried...

Next Morning, Auntie Patsie preparing fa wuk an all we hear is Uncle Desmond calling she an ringing he bicycle bell. She stick her head out de window fuh see what that mad, lazy man wan.

"Didn't I tell yu fuh move from meh yard? Go look a jab!''

Uncle Desmond, " I got a jab man, I got a jab!"

Auntie Patsie, " how yuh get jab suh fass and it tek yuh skunt 5 years a trying and crassing up meh life?

Uncle Desmond. " look woman, a gat a jab an it full time to"

Auntie Patsie, " which part yuh wuking now?''

Uncle Desmond, " at HarryLall Rumshop as a security guard! "

To mek a long story short, Uncle Desmond still wuking at dat rum shop to dis day an as for Auntie Patsie, she still deh wit he. She neva went back pon that bike an he neva beg she a cent after dat.
As for me and meh lil sista, we took de plane ride back to babylon and never had to fetch water for Uncle Desmond eva again... I wonda if he does still get pot spoon in he head?...

Written by Yolanda T. Marshall
Based on a true story... "The life and times of Miss Marshall" Collection. 2006

Devil in a red dress dances with Jazz

2009-03-18T22:16:00.010-04:00

Spring showers drenched her stilettos. The anger is felt in her dagger like heels as grimy water from the streets splashed on her fish net stockings. The color of her eyes were gradually becoming as red the dress that adorned her modeled frame. The sound of her apartment door slamming sealed the deal – it was over before it began. Ebony hates Jazz. Jazz did not play as fair as she wanted, thus the storm outside her windows echoed a loud cry for a broken heart.
Over 3 hours ago, Jazz invited her to the lounge close to his Loft. It was the place to be seen and a haven of after work drunkards looking for a get-away. Friday night rituals filled the floors and music orchestrated the movements of tipsy muscles. The dim glow hid the ugly faces as yellow smiles glow a white hue. Everybody was somebody through words and money. Heavy tipsters attracted the eyes of gold diggers. Men with hidden self esteem issues wore shoes worth more than their penises. Jazz was different. A well made man, the eligible bachelor of the city. Ebony is beautiful – the type of woman Jazz wanted to be represented with. He felt like somebody with her on his toned, chocolate arms. They ate; they dined with crystal glasses of fine wine. Drunk in lust, Jazz proceeded to offer Ebony his wet tongue on the dance floor – she wanted more.
Brian and I joined them for a night out – Ebony was trying her best to introduce us two into a closer bond. Brian loved what he saw in me, but I wasn’t too fond of him. An odd fellow he was – he spoke of his dog as if he was married to the Bitch. A few weeks back on our first introduction, he went as far as having the pet lick his face. It was a phlegmy episode of unnatural romance. I could not stomach a kiss from him after witnessing Brian and his Bitch play “catch” the spit ridden ball. Ebony insisted that Brain should be given a chance; after all, he is a Doctor, a catch of the best. The affair consisted of meals – no touchy, touchy for Brian. Jazz on the other hand was the greatest catch of all. A female once bragged that his member was as long as size 11.5 shoes and highly functional. Another slut that’s been around the block since Jesus was a boy listed his width as big as his bank account. Ebony didn’t care what it looked like; she just didn’t want to be alone that night but Jazz wanted more.
He watched her as she slithered in with a silky red dress. Legs glowing like a pot of gold and black hair moulded into a carefully sculptured bun. She resembles all he wanted in a woman from head to carefully manicured toes. Thunder rolled as he opened the door. For a moment, he thought it was the sound of his rapidly pounding heart. Fighting to control the escalating lump in his pant crutch, he quickly led her to the table for a seat. Images of positions he toyed with swirled his filthy mind. Ebony enjoyed his company – he made her laugh. He enjoys her sexy presence as jealous men looked on. Who does this guy think he is with a better looking woman? This was a man about to make his move.
Within 2 hours of the lounge atmosphere, we ventured back to Jazz and Brian’s loft. Ebony was a bit reluctant at first – she felt the eager tensions in Jazz’s vibes. He wanted to strip her naked of her red dress. I grabbed her hands and told her to relax, have some fun for a change. An advice I would only follow if drunk with Brian around... I swore I saw that Bitch’s hair on his Armani suit – Yuck!
Back at the loft and Jazz made his move on Ebony – she was lost in the kiss. I was getting lost in the bottle of Grand Marnier and Brian was looking finer by the minute – doggie hairs and all. Ebony and Jazz giggled their way into the bedroom. He unwind her hair as he kissed her softly, tracing the line of her collar bone with his tongue. She gasped for air. His hands lifted her dress to clasp its grip on her thighs. Moaning got louder and aggression in the heat of passion possessed their emotions. A slight rip occurred to the crutch of her fishnet stocking for easy access. He grinds on her wet vaginal area. Before penetration, she pushed him away – “I do not want to have sex tonight” she says. He refused to listen, holding her tight, kissing her neck with whispers of her beauty. She wasn’t having it – a tease she was. Jazz had tricks up his sleeves and swiftly made a move to plan B – having her clit for desert. Jazz arose with a wet, slimy face of joy and she was weakening as her legs continued to shiver. They were meant for each other... chemistry so thick no other man or woman can break it apart – so one may perceive. Ebony stopped saying no and Jazz lifted her to the bed. He happily kissed every part of her body while stripping her naked like a priceless gift. Just as she was about to place her lips to his enlarged, juicy cock – the auto-voicemail machine on the phone set to silent ring played:
“Hey Jazz, it’s Barb - thank you for a good time last night; we had the best sexxx ever! It was unfortunate to see you with that new woman in your life tonight – hope she can swallow your seeds like I do, however, I doubt that prissy miss is able to. Guess I will be seeing you soon for a fix, maybe this time for a discount charge. Also, I left my blue, wet panties under your pillow – give it a sniff Playa! Love ya!”
Ebony wanted confirmation by lifting the pillow. A slap to the eyes, there laid the dirty panties of Jazz’s slut. Somehow, I pictured this moment felt like watching Brian slobbering kisses with his smiley tongue Bitch. Jazz was speechless, sadden and knew he lost a chance at keeping this beauty he worked so hard to get – all due to his weakness for prostitutes. Ebony slipped into her red dress, placed her hair in a ponytail just before punching Jazz in the temple of his head. He was out like a light and so was his softened dick. She quickly left the Loft – to face the storm.
Guess such encounters are the reason why this Devil in a Red Dress belongs to No One.
Devil in a red dress
Impressed his seeds
Brain cells embedded with weeds
He inhaled her scent
Money well spent on fine wines
They dined
Under her red dress
Saluted her breasts
Soft skin, trimmed vagina garden
Lips of wet, tight fleshy lanes
It is here he visualizes being
To be in her rapture, capturing
Gripping on to her fish net stockings
His nature salutes her beauty
Stiffness of a rock, describes his mentality
He is impressed
In the presence of that devil
In a red dress
He is not the only one
Many men have been there before
Trying to use their penises as keys to open her door
Left in a fetal position on the floor
Staring under her red dress
They can see, yet sperms cannot touch
Private parts may brush areas during a dance
No rush
Teasing with a trance
This devil in a red dress
Belongs to no one.

Written by Yolanda T. Marshall
Short Story dedicated to Liza Maria

He is My Chorus

2009-03-17T10:30:00.010-04:00

My cousin sent me an email asking why do I write such sad poetry about love - referring to "Cheers to a Pathetic Valentines".
I will reveal his exact words:

"I am now seeing this, its a good piece,but man this is sad, why be so alone with no significant other my dear.

More importantly is there no one interesting enough to hold your attention?

come on cous. raise up off this dreary phase of loneliness and despair and align yourself to have more love filled experiences to write about my dear."

I humbly agree... BUT I will have to fight back with this note - that poem was written in 2005. Unfortunately, it boded well for the status in 2007, 2008 and now - 2009 Valentines. Although I agree with him {{{yes you cousin as you are on this list}}} - I must profess - a Poet's deary moments offer the world its best lessons. In despair, a man sees the dark side of life and love - what is missed, what needs to be attained and the ego's greed for happiness. After all Shakespeare's villains were not written to produce happiness - but to make the reader see the evil in man, the despair -the fallen heroes and heroines. The Psalms of David, many were cries for help - to be saved from despair as they educated the Christians on how to pray. My sister use to say "seek help" - but slowly she began to love poetry in all forms - so I unbanned her from my poetry mailing-list.

My dreary good pieces are Art :D... ok...I'll stop being a mini wise guy. Here is a happier Note "He is my Chorus" - written yesterday in the park close to my place.

His smile, a sibilant chorus
Brother to a song of David’s praises to God
Thankful for manner my life offers
His lines, his notes make my heart skip beats
In rhymes, rhythms of intelligence echoes
Drums assimilate into the depth of hearts,
Beating an addictive song ingrained in my flesh...
Transparency of my fragile interior is only his to see
Felt through the sensations of masculine finger tips
His notes make my heart skip beats
Whipped by love blind to pain
I have fallen for him time and time again
Centuries past, he comes around to pronounce his ground
Re-introduced to me after every lifetime of trials -
Every burials of past waste
Undying, he remains that entity defining me
My heart skips beats
Singing the sweetest melody when life chants sad sounds
He infiltrates as the dominating voice within
I give in, designedly, monotonous motions
Lines
Notes
Heart skips
Beats
Creating a song for us, with every verse
He becomes my chorus.

"He is my Chorus"
Written by Yolanda T. Marshall

Can I be your whore?

2009-03-09T21:37:00.001-04:00

It was approximately 8 pm and my shift was over at Holt Renfrew. I enjoyed Peaches' company. Her experiences with men imitated a soap opera and my young inexperienced mind was all hers over Starbucks coffee. Sex to Peaches was a necessity, a must have - like a Tiffany bracelet from men who would lick her toe nails if she asks. Every week she flaunted a new hair style with matching nails and Gucci dresses. Her bras had more lace than mine and she wore short shirts. Her legs were well shaved - I was an amazon bush baby. Men would stare at her for hours. They can smell her sexiness from miles away. Long, lean, curvy steps gilded her soft body. Well kept shine eye girl my Granny use to call females of her like. I was intrigued by her open sexuality – I was the opposite. The thought of masturbating myself would have me craving a drink of holy water to wash my sinful thoughts. She on the other hand, knew every part of her body and used it to her advantage. I listened tentatively to all episodes of her bedroom romps. I laughed along with her as she dissected her lover’s abilities to pleasure her demanding bottom lips. Yearning to live through her experiences, by remaining all ears and secretly reading her mind – the taste of being a whore still wasn’t my cup of coffee to drink. I did, however, enjoyed the vibrations I felt with every position she described. Sex sounded like a good home cook meal one must devour to stay alive. It felt like I was missing something... somewhere. I was 24 years old and the missionary position was my two-step dance – I was stuck on it. Pity me! Of course, after our enlightening conversations, I would run home to my boyfriend and try something new – like – lick his nipples. He was growing suspicious of my lightening movements. They were out of the dark, unplanned and so not me. I remembered him asking, “So, have you been watching porn movies?”
I lied and said “Yes” to save face. Peaches was my secret. It was over coffee dates in Yorkville, I listened to the importance of being open to dirty role plays in its most unconventional forms. Images appeared in my mind. Confidence built over time and I began to write erotic notes to myself.
One day, I wrote this piece to my first love of 6 years. This man’s eyes watered after reading this – all 3 eyes if you know what I mean, grown folks. This reaction from him wasn’t foreign to me – it was the same expression which possessed his face when he took my virginity as I bleed a bit on his bed. I can tell he was happy but in shock at the images I created in his mind. I asked him:-

Can I be your whore?
That woman you dream of
Masturbate while thinking of
Can I be that whore?
Let me take this to a higher level
While trying to be civil
Revealing my indecent ritual
I have sexual
Daydreams of you and I
Denting sheets
Being weak
Getting wet
As we dance in sweat
I mean
Your MIND is sexy
Intrigues me
Entices me
Seduces me
To a new prospective
Being your coquette
Your body of intimate desires
I admire
Your ability to keep me moist
Give me a choice
Even if it lasts for a minute
I am it
Your toy of enjoyment
Excitement
Baby can you feel it?
I know you enjoy this
Me, calling your name
Natural, no shame
You are my idol
The pleasure of my fantasies
My eternity
Too irresistible
Pleasure… immensely
Feeding your needs
Accepting your seeds
Mmmmm
That’s me, the one you adore
Your whore…

ps

I do not like porn movies. He kept buying more and laying it around the room. Hahaha.

WRITTEN BY YOLANDA T. MARSHALL

Cheers, to a Pathetic Valentine

2009-02-12T21:39:00.000-05:00

aaaawww Tatiana, Valentine’s day is here
feels real pathetic, that you have no one to share
this day of love, painted with the color red
sad but true, you will be alone in bed
writing sad poetry, like a pathetic poet
while lovers will be drinking rum and moet
when was the last time a man touched your skin
or positioned you gently, as you indulged in sin
aaaawww Tatiana, you pathetic soul
laying there daydreaming of someone to hold
do you remember what it's like to accept a rose
or be passionately kiss, forming curls in your toes
what about being fed chocolates and ice cream by a man
becoming debilitated, melting and trembling with every touch of his hands
causing your river to flow over dry land
while 'my funny Valentine' plays, sung by Chaka Khan
aaaaawww Tatiana, Valentine’s day is here
finding you alone, feeling like love isn't fair
the concept of this day you cannot understand
cause unfortunately Tatiana, you do not have a man
I saw you today, buying a bottle of expensive wine
why waste your money, when you have no one to dine
celebrating a day for lovers when you are all alone
is pathetic, you don't even have a special person to phone
aaaaawwww Tatiana, Valentine’s day will pass you by
leaving you as it found you, blue, mirthless and shy
to even accept a rose from a nice guy
Another week will meet you and abolish this phase
in which Valentine’s day have you in a pathetic daze
I told you to go out sometimes, meet someone new
you buried yourself with books, work, now look at you
Men may find you ugly, but true they don't know what's inside
your kind soul and exciting mind, of which you hide
sad is you and pathetic you will stay
cheers to you, as you remain alone, on Valentine’s day

Jazz's Bed

2009-02-07T11:53:00.001-05:00

The scent of his fragrance flowed through my nostrils before I was able to open my eyes properly. Who...What...Where...Why...?
Am I dreaming?
Can't be, I am here, in Jazz's bed, but why?
My hands came into contact with a solid, smooth butt cheek which made me jump - I was awakened!!
Looking besides me with eyes wide open, my mouth followed suit as my right hand shaded my lips – a shield to save the power of sound from escaping too loudly. Jazz was asleep besides me, as naked as the day he was born. My eyes traced his face to make sure he isn't awake and continued to scope his deliciously defined chest and stomach.
Oh dear God!!!??!!! The images of the unknown started to enter my mind – DID HIM AND I? NO!! But he is naked?!! I then realized I was naked under Jazz's business shirt, the one he wore to work the day before.
My heart raced like a horse on a grimy track, as my memory of last night struggled to escape its hiding place. That little, rusty voice in my head kept asking one question ''what happened after the party?''.
Jazz's naked body next to mine didn't help. It caused my mind to linger on his body and what these sheets covered below his waist.
Just then, I felt a slight tingle, like a little painful pinch as my vagina contracted - that's when I realized I was &@%ed, real good. The dried juices still stuck between my legs and on the bed. My right hand shaded my lips – a shield to save the power of sound from escaping too loudly, ashamed, shocked, and confused but nothing to regret. It must have been good to make me lose my mind. I giggled. Jazz turned over in the bed and lay on his back fully. The sheets remained on his lower half. I had to get to out of there before he woke up. I wouldn't know what to say to him or what to do.
Grabbing my black dress and bag off the end of the bed, I darted for the washroom. My situation got worst as I sneaked out the door - my eyes made four with Jazz's best friend Brian.

''You're up so early?'' Brian asked me, with a smirk on his face as if he knew something I didn't and God knows - I still didn't know what happened that night.

''I'll make you some coffee...I just got up and started a fresh brew'' he said.

“Thanks Brian...I will be in the washroom for a short while, but I have to leave real soon''
I said in a shy manner. I was so embarrassed and clueless. I wanted to ask him what happened last night?!?!

I then decided to go into Jazz's room to use the bathroom there, since he was sleeping. I stepped in, undressed and took one look at my naked body in the mirror - hickies decorated my neck like a beaten necklace and smeared my petite breasts. The sides of my waist and lower back bared red marks of rough and impure sex. That thought still lingered – “what happened”?
I rushed in the shower, proceeded with the warmest shower, soaked from head to toe. I washed the scent of sex off of my body. My hair fell flat as the water softened out my curls. Warm, innocent water covered my entire body as the steam filled the room.
My eyes remained closed and my fingers worked a heavy lather with the soap, all over each layer of flesh.
I hopped out of the tub and grabbed Jazz's towel. As I drew the towel towards my naked, wet body, the door flung opened - it was Jazz – naked, with a shocked glare on his face to match mine.
Every core muscle within my body fainted.
I have had better morning afters.
My eyes started to focus on his hard, thick, long veins, his throbbing swollen member - dear me – speechless - exhaustively speechless. He fixated his attention to my body and I on his member - it stiffened even more – impossible – unreal.
That brother was blessed with a gift of pleasure, the perfect tool. My cat agreed - it jumped and I felt the juices started to leak between my lips – Amen. He must of #4%@ed me sooo good last night
I wished I was awake to accept and appreciate every stroke, pump and grind his trophy administered to me. I regretted the drinks I had at that point. I should have been sober to feel my body ride back and forth - around and around - up and down - slow and fast all night. I should have been alert to feel the walls of my vagina caress the skin of his penis as we both share our inner holy water. I wished I can re-create the gyration Jazz offered me. I would make it better - making him cum over and over again. Sure, I would pull all the tricks out of my pussy bag to keep his cone hard before it melted. Why not - a blessed tool should never be neglected or treated without precised care.
I wished as my eyes remained focused on his thick, long veins, his throbbing swollen member. I was speechless.
''I am sorry ... oh my ... I'll let you get dress,'' he nervously said. My heart was about to exit my body. Anxiety attacked me with a swift wind into the bottom of my stomach - maybe an asthma attack, I do not know nor can I comprehend the emotions and bodily fluids between my thighs. I was breathless but perversely horny at the same time.
Quickly, I got dressed and placed my hair in a bun with a rush towards the living room.

''Here is your coffee,'' Brian said.

''Sorry Brian, but I have to go, I have an appointment this morning,'' I said thankfully.

Jazz was sitting in the living room, with his robe on, trying his hardest to avoid eye contact - so was I but we both sucked at that skill. Finally, all that was pent up exploded as sanity flowed.

''I have to ask this before you leave, I just have to - did we have sex or was I with Ebony last night? Jazz asked

Confused and shy, I almost died as he ended the sentence with a question mark.
I forgot, Ebony came back to the Loft with Brian, Jazz and I – guess she left early but?!? - I was in bed with Jazz.

''I woke up next to you, I am as confused as you are now'' I said nervously, ashamed and anxious to find out what happened.

Jazz and I then looked at Brian who at this moment had an evil grin on his face.

''I can explain what happened,'' mumbles Brian, ''Jazz, you slept with Ebony''
At this point, I knew I was in for a surprise, a sad surprise.

''I made love to you Tati'' Brain said

''Why did I wake up next to Jazz?!?'' I yelled.

''He must of stumbled into his room and laid next to you when I stepped out to walk the dog, because you and I had the bed all night last night'' Brian replied.

My mouth opened and my right hand shaded my lips, as if to save a sound from coming out too loudly - just like I did when I woke up in Jazz's Bed.