Old English

The old Englishman in Jamaica was a traveler from a foreign land,
Who had two big trunks in a room filled with some antique clothes?
Near them, on a wooden stand, the snowy call of cold command,
Joyful presence of England, stands resolutely framed with pictures.

Old English by his pride would never buy new clothes from a local shop,
For he had come miles in old styles with quantity and memories galore,
And gladly wore them in the cold to endure mockery until he fell asleep,
Dreaming many times more about those frivolity on the old English shore.

In time drew the saddest lines; they made a strange contrasts on his face
His rosy smile faded into tales of social nights drinking gallons of beer,
Drowning sorrows in bubbles with trouble to quicken the earthly pace
And made him glare forlorn through rim glasses at similes becoming rarer,

Old English remains alone and made his splendid villa an iron fortress,
He smiled with fond memories piercing through danger to make life soft,
Until time consume his strength with the cruel instrument of weakness,
Took away the pleasure and pride he wore brilliantly under his old Felt hat.

From cold into hot he rode his pick up bike steadily along the beaten track,
Peddling slowly, waiting and halting and deeply breathing up the slope hill,
Old English remains calm with not a rave enraged by the wind at his back,
Pausing under shady trees drifting into sleep beside the lakes at his own will.

Before the dying light riding slowly to post office, he almost fall off his bike,
At the pedestal hill, his frail body bestirred the will to stop and gingerly walk,
When a passer-by shout out “English” he tells them in fright to take a hike
With the remainder of light brush wrinkled brows and continued with his walk.

Imagination running continuous as the stars that shines along the Milky Way,
Men and women from the past reach up into images with a twinkle of mystery,
Friends from creation sprang in recognition stretched into a formidable display,
Encounter his spirit fluttering and dancing together with old English fantasy.

Some people come to borrow money, but others only wanted him for pepper
When flattery fails and frowned desire not cease only the truth half succeeds,
The Old Englishman with ancient skills; would cook a big pot of breadfruit dinner,
And give everyone sitting on the veranda ten times as much as all their needs.

Then retreated back to the world he knew unhurried by the time getting darker,
With a halo swatting mosquitoes over his shoulder, he slips into language” you brute”
My name is old English I wear the wounds I bear with passion and not despair,
It grieves me not to be richer here though boundless and bare my soul is complete.

Heaven will find me in a citadel of Jamaica waiting when those golden bells ring,
You will not hear my voice in mastery choice coming from behind the iron grill,
Nor In busy Negril, that floats with blue waves over vales and Silver Spring,
But in the shadow of white sands you will see an image swimming in the oil.

I saw old English again in my dream content with men in purgatorial stance,
Wandering in a carnage of clouds back to England; his favorite antique land,
Making others happy, tossing the dominoes in the sunlight sprightly dance,
Which was the bliss and solitude of the challenging things he understand.