Rhythm & Blues
for I.G.S.

outside the screen door
house in which he grew up

chickens scratching
puppies frolicking
older dogs yapping
a cat napping

from boyhood, not a beat missing
of the rhythm of his islands

Art Blakey with sticks, with drums

with penknife, carves poems on trees

as they fall, leaves poems upon leaves
of silk cotton trees

Poinciana petals,
upon New providence
making earth orange
in May, in June, as he aged

he recalls, he records
the syllables of sea gulls

calling above the bay
fishing in the harbor

nets of fishermen in the air
his eyes, his ears, he never closes

in his heart humming hymns
earth going round

on his tricycle, bicycle
or riding his unicycle


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
6:36 p.m. 10.03.08