Woodbrook

Clanks of steel and iron reverberate from block to block.

What a noisy lot,we are.

The late February,early March creative heat pricks the fingers

Of wire benders and panists alike.

Mas camps and yards hummed the noises of what we were.

The fine tuning of rusty melodies and tightening of loose bolts

Contained the passion of creation,contained the people themselves.

The noise never stopped,it was a good noise expressed in
Calypso collages and steel-drum arrangements.
It was a good noise.

The scandalous laughter of school children against the barking

Of strays and gossip between elders who could care less about

Standing in the middle of the road to exchange eveningly news.

It had to be known that Roy's stink-breath wife horn him and that he was

Over drinking again.

This,a scene often complimented by the nosey prying of neighbours

Over walls as the sun gently brushed her lashes downward in salutation

To the day's departure.

That is when the jamettes danced in the whore houses,abundant, located

Conveniently on every other street,in every other corner house.

Hoe watching was a neighbourhood activity.

From lawyers to police officers to neglected husbands- all ventured

To get a fix of the ridiculously dolled up night nurses.

After six it was always mas time.

Characters a plenty emerged to prance the darkening

Streets in search of fulfillment whether it be in the form of

Tiefin' somebody's gallery chair or snatching the purse of one

Of the youthful patrons of the numerous nearby bars and pubs.

Most nights were alive.

Loud.

Dark.

Silent.

Erotic.

Stagnant.

The ever contradicting nature of a neighbourhood.

Open mics at cafes lent stage to the people reinforcing

Passions that would be reminded in voice,this time.

Spoken in verse and in prose.

Sung and strummed, this time.

Everywhere one commuted more faces would be found.

Faces familiar to the fervor of the labyrinth of side streets and 

Corners and blocks upon blocks,were hard to forget.

One would rather be outside.

This was home.


 Copyright © 2011 The Anomaly of Thought