Streets of Dreams, (to Jamaica west Indies, My first love)
Poems

Streets of Dreams, (to Jamaica west Indies, My first love)

Clear blue skies, reflects this holy day
Breeze is blowing trees begin to sway
Flowers are blooming, things begin to blossom
Children holding hold their mothers on their bosom.
Butterflies are flying bees begin their buzzing
All the animals on the Isle start to do their fussing.
Ripe mango scents linger in the air
Making us wonder if the smell was very clear.
Ackee and breadfruit, frying early morn
Making us wonder if this is on the norm
Coal stove and wood fire are set in place
Ready to put the pot on top of the blaze
Rice and peas, stew peas, all the peas inna pod
Makes us wonder when we will eat some cod
Ital dish of various size and weight
Allows us to think of the food we eat at midbreak
Steam fish, callaloo, okra and gungu stew
This is the Rasta man food with no salt,
respect due

In dreams I walk your busy streets,
Oh, Native Land! oh, Country of my birth.
I yearn to see you, to smell you, and to touch your seductive shores.
So every night I come to you when I am alone
As I close my eyes and walk in silence throughout your Streets of Dreams.

My youth, my innocence, and my childhood obscurity
You cradled in your perfumed, scented bosom.
These were children I will never again play with;
Long deceased off springs of you and I,
Occasionally reincarnated in flashes of memories
When in dream I dance on your Streets of Dreams.

The smell of dust and earth after the fallen rain,
The aroma of sap from a freshly picked Mango fruit,
Your changing portraits of valleys, mountains, rivers, seas and faces of distant people,
All revisited nightly when pages are read from illegible chapters from your book,
Streets of Dreams.

In dreams you always welcome me
Sweet Mother of the womb that bore me.
Accepting me unconditionally
Whether I come to stay all day or plan to leave tomorrow.
Your love remembers no malice nor demands an explanation.
No tolls are ever collected each time
I travel through your newly paved Streets of Dreams.

When at last I shall embrace the cold uncertainty of that final Unknown.
I will one last time visit you.
It will be for peace that I will come to you.
For I see you reaching out your hands to take me home
To fields of purple flowers
In an opened casket carried by angles as they lay me beneath
Your golden Streets of Dreams.

About the author

Gentlebear