SUMMER LOVEby Geoffrey Philp

(for Nadia)

"And summer's lease hath all too short a date."
- Sonnet XVIII ~ William Shakespeare

When evening marches down Flagler
to the tumble of closing cash registers,
the mold of faded bills in the back
pocket of his blue, pin-striped suit,
she will go with him only as far
as the river to watch fishing
boats with their tail of terns and pelicans
flashing their bright wings, like silver,
against the glass vaults of Brickell.

But when night ambles along Biscayne
with the rumble of reggae in his stride,
tabaco and mojitos on his breath,
desire wrapped around his waist,
she will lead him down the causeway
into cooling waters of the bay,
the daily cares sliding off their flesh,
and her dark laughter, like waves,
lapping the sides of the Rickenbacker.
© Geoffrey Philp

I have been enjoying Geoffrey's poetry for some time now. And I don't mind sharing. Here are just some of his writings that I've read over and over, and posted on this blog, or found elsewhere on the web.

• poefrika.blogspot.com/2007/07/
• poefrika.blogspot.com/2007/06/
• poefrika.blogspot.com/2007/03/
• poefrika.blogspot.com/2007/01/
• canopicjar.com/Canopic17/gphilp.html
• concelebratory.blogspot.com/2007/04/
• jamaicandawta.wordpress.com/2007/12/10/
• geoffreyphilp.blogspot.com/2008/06/1
• geoffreyphilp.blogspot.com/2008/06/2
• geoffreyphilp.blogspot.com/2008/05/
• geoffreyphilp.blogspot.com/2008/04/
• geoffreyphilp.blogspot.com/2008/02/
  
• canopicjar.com/c21/g_philp.html
  
• geoffreyphilp.blogspot.com/2008/09/
  
• poefrika.blogspot.com/2010/10
  

But don't stop there, because there is also his blog, and books, to discover. Happy reading everyone. Here's a parting jab:

CARIB STEW
(by Geoffrey Philp)

first, you need a pot or basin
large enough to bury
the ingredients under salt
water; throw in the cheapest bones:
africans, indians (three continents),
chinese, lebanese, the odd jew;
add to the stock: english beef, scotch
bonnet peppers, a smack of spanish
parsley, irish potatoes and slivers of french
bread; bring to a boil with colonialism,
capitalism, democratic socialism
and soon islands of froth, small
as grenada, should be scooped
off the top and the bones removed,
for if left on the bottom for too long
they will ferment into a riot of flavor
too strong for american tastes.
(the jaw bones of goats, round
as the stones on the south side
of cuba, should never be used.)
stir well to the consistency of molasses,
and simmer for five hundred years.
for best results, serve while hot!

I Want to Write

I want to write
I want to write the songs of my people.
I want to hear them singing melodies in the dark.
I want to catch the last floating strains from their sob-torn
throats.
I want to frame their dreams into words; their souls into
notes.
I want to catch their sunshine laughter in a bowl;
fling dark hands to a darker sky
and fill them full of stars
then crush and mix such lights till they become
a mirrored pool of brilliance in the dawn.
© Margaret Walker

Margaret Walker

SONNET, (by Alice Dunbar-Nelson)

I had no thought of violets of late,
The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet
In wistful April days, when lovers mate
And wander through the fields in raptures sweet.
The thought of violets meant florists' shops,
And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine;
And garish lights, and mincing little fops
And cabarets and songs, and deadening wine.
So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed,
I had forgot wide fields, and clear brown streams;
The perfect loveliness that God has made,--
Wild violets shy and heaven-mounting dreams.
And now -- unwittingly, you've made me dream
Of violets, and my soul's forgotten gleam.