Image courtesy of Iván Chaar-López. Shared via a Creative Commons license.

—-

Plentiful

Ice on tongue
cools me down
Sideways
I sit
on the red clay step
My afternoon spot
Back propped
on the white laundry door
I rest, reflect
Legs lazy sprawled,
nearly touching the stones

Ice on tongue
Old man says
Today is perfect
Plant vegetables if you may
A feast
The body and blood
His teachings say
A good harvest will come
Sow on Corpus Christi

Ice on tongue
It may be true
I want to please
Something to do
Lady next door
Her okra garden
Three inches already
excites me

Ice on tongue
Early, long
I work
My one old shovel
It holds me
Good enough
A small bed in the corner
I tend, till
Remove the fertile grass
Open it up
Make canals
Neighbor coaches
over the fence

Ice on tongue
The thick mud tough dirt must thin
Rain fell late last night
A voice – she commands from the far banister
Mix in sand to soften the ground
That will help

Ice on tongue
I plant
Rows 1 2 3 seeds 2 3 4
Eggplant, tomato, beans and more
Old man leans from the high porch
Beans in back, he shouts
They run the fence
Ice on tongue
Dirty brown nails
Achy joints
The sun dims
Happy at ease
I watch
Sticks in the ground
mark the rows

Ice on tongue
Banana tree sway breeze
Clouds ahead
means more rain
Seeds will sing
I think I almost hear them now
Growing in the mud sand dirt
before my eyes
I am anxious

Ice on tongue
I am a village
Hopeful, anticipating
A basket: colorful, crowded, full
Delicious provision
From our land, from my hands
We wait

Ice on tongue
swirls
in my mouth
Body worn
Afternoon slouch
I should get up
Can’t move
I am tired, done

 

—-

Rum Punch Writer

I’ll have another

The rickety three-legged stool creaks
Nervously, he nourishes Mona
His habit has a name
Bitter tart sweet, no chase
Libation muddles his throat

Almost collapsing
He’s a marionette at rest

A deep inhale, he’s alive,
writing words

Words on a cocktail napkin

Mendacious maniacal
Moped mischief

A clever affair with M

He squints from the bar’s corner
He needs a muse,
but cares not to be one
His collared shirt, he pulls
like closing blinds for privacy

The crème yellow wall
wears his shadow
A menacing bow & arrow

Thanks love.

He welcomes his fourth
He’s light, he can do more
A tilted head sip makes Mona better
Intoxicating maroon
swirls in his mouth

A moment of light
brands his face
It’s worn, beaten
from day sun
Midnight worry

He craves a bestseller

Heat cloud hovers
under his Montecristi sitting,
raised on his crown
Miniature beads; he perspires
He pulls dyed hairs
clumped on his chin

Rum punch writer
mumbles,
takes a fresh paper
Begins again

Backwards
The letter L

 

—-

Nigel Barto is a novelist, playwright, director, producer, filmmaker, designer, and poet. His works include three books, two plays, a short film, and a small line of word art t-shirts. Barto began by writing poems for his mum in the second grade. He has formed BartoSpeak, which produces and promotes spoken word events in Trinidad and Tobago. His poetry has appeared in The Rusty Nail and The Literary Bohemian. He enjoys traveling and meeting new people, and his motto is “Enjoy the Journey.”