Poetry was my introduction into theatre which further allowed me to discover who I wanted to write for and what I wanted to write. Surprisingly, the last time I wrote poetry was possibly back in 2019. I now write in other forms but here are a few pieces for you to take in.
MOONCHILD by Sashoya Simpson
When sun did hot, she was a rascal
Played rambunctiously yet careful
When moon did bright, she was a night child
Blinky loved the way she danced
Ratbat was entranced
Pattoo had company
And croaker sang new rhymes
The child felt welcomed in the darkness
She no longer had blood running from her foot bottom
Not down her thighs
Nor from her knees
She felt free, lighter
Removed from her mortal body
She became one with night
A priestess now seen only by chosen eyes.
VEINS by Sashoya Simpson
Yard sat restless
As the goings, comings and evacuations become more frantic
Yard grew weary
As her bushes go untrimmed
Overgrowth run rampant
Pickney stop play
Yard hoped for hope
As house get smashed down
Another stop building halfway
Paint job fade away
Yard back fold over
From too often public secrets
Cutlass bloodshed
Pit-deep potholes
Fortnight cussings
And too often graveside departures
Yard shed tears
On the few moonless nights when blackout swallowed her whole
Yard laughed from the gut
As there’s nothing else to do but be.
THE AUNT I’VE NEVER MET by Sashoya Simpson
I met an aunt I’ve never met yesterday
She took my hand into hers and said we have
Her hands felt the same as the Manuel Road rocks we used to play with as kids
Coarsed but lotioned
Her memory of us meeting was foreign to me
I wasn’t sure which land it happened in
Childhood-land?
Dream-land?
The memory was missing
She is an aunt I grew up hearing about
But never got to know
She is a
… replica of my dad
Calm like sky currents
Turbulent as clouds
Still as love
She’s one of the many alive I’ve forgotten
I remember the dead more.
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