The wind was whipping hard,
The roars hummed loud and crossed.
The water dirty, waves thunderous and rising,
Pounding on a seashore that is slowly disappearing.

I held myself firmly, standing on the ground,
But sooner or later it’s going to throw me down
Hurricane Allen was serious and intended on taking the hit,
So I pulled myself with all I got and bravely did my bit.

The News must to go on,
Whatever the mood, the place or situation.
This area was confirmed perilous and must immediately be vacated,
But the handful of a die-hearted news crew held on so devoted.

To a belief, a life, an oath of merit,
The news must go on, to hell with the spirit.
So that’s some of what it takes,
To have the news on the airways.


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 Often nowadays, I talk to me,

About the darkest, saddest things there be.

I told myself, I told you so.

Years of troubles, a heavy heart of woe,

I barely remembered the good few,

The almost could call it, happy times I knew.



Immersed in money of a terrible heart,

Thinking that was all it takes to be  apart.

But the burden it brought will forever be,

The scars, the dents behind a broken me.

Not one grand moment? Yet ignore the frustrations,

Soothed by the gallivanting of high life commotions.



Not one pleasant, special rhapsody of sentiments,

To ease my regrets at the passing of moments.

Hell is a terrible monster, an incomparable one,

He stops you dead in your tracks,

And rush you to levels of pulsating attacks.

When he shouts even the deaf hears,

Leaving you trembling and wet with fear.



Hell is nearer than a heartbeat away,

For he owns a spot in you to stay.

If you dare let him, by the weakness you show.

Now looking back, but what for though?

As all now’s left is just blankness and a heart of woe.



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This poetry is meant to be only a reflection of slavery in an artistic and poetic fashion, and  carries no ill-feelings. 


We were divided by their will and might,

Break up our humble little families with great fight,

In a struggle, with tears and prayers of our anguish,

We are separated and stock traded off in big ships.

From Motherland Africa to parts of the world by Babylon’s wicked scheme,

They say because my black, our black, is less than human being.


To them we are strong, ugly and animalistic,

Little did they know, Jah with his divine invention made us mystic?

They say we have no right; no place; no feelings, no heart,

Because we’re black, so we have no lot, no part.

Please tell us, tell me, is my black less than?

Last time that I checked, I was human.


Tell me if when I hurt and cry, isn’t it pain I feel,

Or when I smile, it comes from a heart -a-heal.

Back-ra says it’s like magic, we belong to the land,

And favor the soil, like no one else can.

From birth, we tilled it, bound by their regiment’s call.

Who then rob our very existence; our esteem, our all.




Working us, flogging us into submission, raping and murdering our race,

Doing all in their might;  to get us out of this place.

But tell us, tell me right now! Is my black less than?

In this place, on mother earth, am I not human?


Written by: Ann Marie McKenzie

August 2012

















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Already three hundred and sixty-five days,

Is it really the end, I’m in  amaze.

And you wonder why I’m running away,

Desperately from twenty fourteen today,

I’m experiencing New Year phobia;

Scared of another year terrible fever.

Since 2013 brought on so much chaos in my life,

I lost my job, my house and a bill of divorcement from my wife.

So for dear life, I’m running scared,

And not letting go of 2013 I won’t even dared.

2013 is truly fast flying,

 And so am I, right behind him.

I’m done with the misery and done with the tears,

As old folks say, worst is behind the coming years!


Friends! Get you early edition of “The Four-Eyed Boy” children’s book by yours truly Ann Marie McKenzie, now at Tate Publishing website below.

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ann marie mckenzie

(A poem of the reflection on a time in my childhood life.)

I wish, oh I wish for impossible things,

A certain simple happiness that childhood often brings.

first off  I wished we had a kitchen,

like some friends, I usually went visiting.

And used to torment myself with hoping we’d get a sofa,

to replace the creaking patio chair we had in that area.

Oh our tiny chapel looking house was just fragments,

of this and that; of people’s once upon a time convenience.

A comfort they’d out grown,

out-of-dated pieces, almost now unknown.


I wished my dad had loved us,

And wished we hadn’t caused him such disgust.

To him we were a burden of grief,

So he stayed away to find relief,

of the idea he had no children or wife,

and that he led a splendid single life.


I wished my mother didn’t have to starve to death,

At meal times when there’s not much left.

She’d make one scrambled egg go eight times around,

with golf ball Johnny cakes, she sometimes wear a frown.


Well, we had a small Formica dining table,

One of the few pieces we were able,

to own and a box spring single bed for the boys,

us girls, coir mattress twin bed was a joy.


But I mostly, terribly wished we had a TV,

to watched ‘The Little House on The Prairie’,

and ‘The Six Million Dollar Man’ on Friday nights some.

Oh it was exultingly hard; kind of bitter-sweet fun,


to watch the show from outside the neighbor’s window sill,

on those between moon nights, at times in the after rain chill.

And on the cliff hanger, we’d rushed on home,

filled with excitement, but glad it was done.


Because as soon we fled the night street,

We’d sneaked under hole riddled beds sheet,

and better be quiet or less we’d be caught,

but in good spirit, we can’t wait for  next week’s part.


I wished we didn’t have to walk,

one long mile and a half.

To fetch water, carrying on our heads,

In five gallon white paint buckets on makeshift Kata beds,


And wished we didn’t have to wake in the wee hours of the morning,

to gather fire woods and prepare it for makeshift stove burning,

then mother would do all the rest,

and make, to us, the finest breakfast.


I wished we didn’t stay so long in church on a typical Sunday,

as we’d have to walk two miles to school early  start Monday.

I wished we had time to play more last lick and hide and seek,

and dolly houses and not seen as the neighborhood freaks.

and wished we’d wear more better looking clothes,

instead of those off sizes foreign outdated church relief hand me downs.


I wished my dad had supported me,

rather than spend his money on my mother’s matey.

And wished he’d paid my brilliant brain big sister’s exam fee,

So she could advance to college in the city.


I really wished he hadn’t move to Kingston,

leaving us and mother, abandoned.

And wished my mother was a nurse,

as she told us she was studying the course.

But after she’d married my dad,

She could no more afford to, life was bad.


I used to wish I was rich like some kids at my school.

They had nice things, trendy bag pack and shoes that rule,

And lots of lunch money to show off with and spend.

Oh our poverty life knows no end.


I wished my mother hadn’t drag me along,

when she couldn’t manage the days’ work on some,

of the times when the washing job got too hard,

and her arthritis hands and whitlow fingers swelled and hurt bad.


And I just wished I could dismissed the feelings I had,

of shame, inferiority, eternal poorness, degradation, that made me so sad.

I wished I didn’t have to tell my childhood story to you so raw,

But I think after so long ago, I feel somewhat thaw.




My soul sought thee whom I loveth,

whom doth loveth me not.

In my bed at night, I cried… I hoped… I waited,

but in vain I found thee not.


My soul wept for a love that was supposed to be mine,

I prayed… I pleaded…I dreamed,

but in vain I found love not.

Then my soul doth drowned in pain and despair,

because my misery was too much to bear.


Consumed with grief and hopelessness,

lost and alone I sought to end my stress.

Then I finally had my kill,

and succumbed to my fate and will.


And died bereft of love and in vain,

before the love of my life finally came.

By my grave, wept for me,

and a love that’s suppose to be.


But if only I knew all this time,

he felt the same but couldn’t be mine.

His hands were tied to another’s woe,

and loveth not the life he show.

Oh in life I found love not,

but in death I was free of my lot.






So this’s the doom age they say?  Everything seem to creep on,

the one thing promising is the retirement sum.

Today the grays are dominant and the make-do is becoming useless,

Oh, these mixed feelings— all at once, makes me excited, nervous, stressed.



Time has certainly quieted, no make-do, gave up, slowed,

the lines are frightening, skin soggy, bowed.

Nothing a do, yet takes forever,

to the simplest whatever.


Finally seeing the dawning,

of every unfolding new morning,

never before… nothing else…an odd chapter  begins,

that play with the lazy day,  and I, succumbed to its gin.

And it puts me to sleep and wakes up me again,

from some frightening sounds of an old-time reign.


And yesterday, the mirror, like everything else, gave out a scare,

I stop admiring it times ago…for fear,

of seeing this dreary,  pitiful existence.

Eyes wet, puffy… then the bags take residence,



in this shaky, fragile, old sad.

Oh what the ages can do… enough bad,

still with some pride and will,

a struggle to control the ill.

The drooling speech, drooling,  continuous aches to move about,

and the interminable disease of age I fought,

desperate, to hold to a drifting sanity,

but lately there’s nothing to add to the society,

of life or to the people around me.


Who the heck they? I ponder in delirium,

Are they my kin?  I’m journeying closely home,

to a time, a state, a place where only losers can go.

Twice a kid, the good book I think said so,

oh, this is how it feels— to be totally vulnerable… helpless,

Christ…I wailed…what a mess.


Huh where’s all the fun now?!

Oh darn… retirement finally come.