love · Uncategorized

The sounds you make

I listen,

To the music you play,

The words you sing,

The sound your feet makes

When it hits the surface,

Whether you float like fine feathers

Caught in a summer breeze,

Or if the ground cracks and quakes

Beneath you from the boulder-like weight

Pushing you down.


Gravity is not working against you.


I listen,

To the silence that resonates around you,

Shiver as the vibrations touch my skin,

There are too many sounds that fill this world;

Your silence is by far my favourite.


Sometimes I catch the mellow note of your thoughts,

See them shape your features,

Hear the low percussions

That forms the crescent moon on your lips.

Your mind is an orchestra,

And symphonies flow in your voice.

It flows, and flows and kisses my skin,

Till I am no longer solid,

Just the sweetest honey gliding down your fingertips.


I listen and listen

To the shout that never seems to make its way to your lips,

A sound buried within,

Caught between the churning of your stomach,

And your thundering heartbeat.

Only there are days when its echo seeps

Through your pores and makes it to my ears.


Darling I listen,

You should know that I listen.


Tin Man

He was a hulking man

With a voice edged with authority,

Body parts designed for hostility,

And narrowed eyes that awakened

child-like fears.


In the distance  I hear a clang,

It’s the tin man.

The unmoveable man;

Feet sunken so deep into the ground,

That he could feel the worms slithering around

But still chooses to stay.


A white wall that hears but never listens,

Was he too much of a man to show compassion?

Were these hands incapable of loving,

What is love if it’s not given?


I heard that the dead lie in graves,

So I dig and dig,

Only to find,

That the man I wanted him to be

Never really existed.





Sea shells, sandy shores and crystalline waters,

a paradise filled with wonders,

Karang, Makro, Red snapper,

You’re hooked from just one platter.

Sir Selwyn Selwyn Clarke market; a canvas of colours,

a sea of shouts, clustered streets and peculiar odours,

Koko-de-Mer, Delo Koko, and coconut rum,

plump mangoes, bananas, green string beans grown from

the backyard of my childhood home,

grey rocky headlands, salty sea breezes, the golden horizon,

bubblegum sunsets; A wildfire sunrise

spear fishing beneath the baby blue skies.

Sunbathing, skinny dipping, deep blue diving,

pink-faced tourists sipping daiquiri,

smoking and savoring a Mahe King.

and us, chasing  the sunset on

our late afternoon drives,

How could I not be happy in such a paradise.






Can you imagine having sex with your clothes on?

That instead of exchanging breaths,

we could intertwine our lives,

and explore the slippery surfaces of our pasts,

rather than the shape and texture of our tongues?

Would you be capable of nurturing

my mind and heart with the same

tenderness used when caressing my inner thigh?

when you delicately trace your fingers

down my neck and onto

my left breast,

do you feel the thundering of my heartbeat?

when you kiss your way towards my navel

do you sense the storm brewing in the pit of my stomach?

tell me,

could you imagine having sex with your clothes on?