Monday, 18 May 2015

Thank God for Sunsets


Today I was able to see such an amazing sunset. I live in the Caribbean so it’s not really that uncommon for me. My friend and I were having the most cavalier discussion and then I realized that I’ve seen about a gazillion beautiful sunsets and yet I AWAYS experience this deep appreciation and an unexplainable awe and gratitude whenever I get to see one. This is important to me. To not let the obvious beauty of something that’s beyond my ability to create, sail away on a tide of familiarity.
So thank God for sunsets 
And thank God for the ability to appreciate them…

Love, Light and Freedom
-Kerry-Ann Davis

Tuesday, 31 March 2015

I believe that as much as God loves the prayerful penitent so too must he love the persistent, up against all odds, death coming endlessly in waves but never go under, God loves the fighter


`Muhammad Muwakil

Tuesday, 24 December 2013

Crossing the Bridge

Society’s culture is  very strange. It seems as if the very fabric of the culture/ belief systems which we embrace as a collective is cryptically stitched in such a way that it seeks to make people feel as small as possible wherever it can, however it can. How unfortunate is that? How unfortunate is it that most of us have to struggle to operate beneath a sheet of not good enough while knee deep in fear and an unrelenting self doubt? And why has this been perpetuated hitherto?

About a week ago I made a very minor mistake in the public. The mistake however, had the potential to be destructive to another person’s liability. All in all my attempt at apologizing proved futile. And while I did understand the person’s frustration with my mistake, the reasons for their less than polite reaction towards me even after my offertory of apologies, eluded me.

The habit of defining a person by one single action must be done away with. I think with the clutter of emotions and harsh realities that surround us it’s easy to forget that yours is one story out of a vast and varied seven billion. It’s important to remember that though your story is both sacred and important, as is the rest of the seven billion. 

When one reflects on society's past it is clear that we have been conditioned to relegate another’s worth from a very young age. Most parents continuously and passionately relate to their children that they are special, that they are important, that they are indeed a genius. And while all these may be true, it is not the whole story. But the whole story is never explained, the weight of the of the seven billion stories is too often left out in the scheme of things with regards to how the family as an institution socializes the child. Hence too many a time generations have been birthed with a self-indulgence, an innocent blindness, to the other worlds that that are revolving before their eyes.


When that type of mentality or outlook has been breathed into you from birth by parents who have had the same thing done to them it is hard to deviate. But it is important to note that that breath exudes negative energy in its self affirmations and unrecognized selfishness and that is not a life. That is not a life well lived. A life that actively does work to belittle others is not a life. And while in a world full of social constructs and boundaries of which very little is often considered too far or too much with regards to proximity, social responsibility, honesty and heartfelt kindness, one must still try to rid oneself of ignorance and proceed accordingly.



Love & Light
~Kerry-Ann

Wednesday, 11 September 2013

Of souls.

      When I die,  when life has relegated me to nothing more than a lifeless host, I want to be cremated. There is a quote, one I cannot seem to remember quite accurately but I'm presently too lazy to search for it. However it expands to something of the effect:
              “You do not have a soul,
                you are a soul.
                You have a body.
”

      In this very moment, I feel as though our bodies are more of a cage than a companion to our souls. We spend our days full of worry and misplaced excitement over the preservation of our bodies. All its wants and selfish desires. In this moment, I feel as though our bodies often offer us unnecessary wars. And the weight of these wars lay heavy on souls that are merely trying to exist in joy. In this moment I feel as though even in on our good days our bodies are often not in the business of being a humble parallel, a home to our souls.
      Most nights of my teenage years have been spent contemplating the actuality of freedom, the reality that it is indeed a fleeting notion and the value it holds when placed in the same sinking boat of our survival. I try to think about freedom in its truest sense. Have I? I am unsure.
     By physical and scientific definition I am 19 years old. The science says that my body is 19 years old. But  I have come to know enough of myself in the past couple of months that my soul feels far older.There is a silent hint of familiarity that I can often taste in my tea on nights when the stars and my heart can't find the right amount of light to offer.
     I have come to believe that freedom is always fleeting. It is not something you stumble upon gracefully, it is not something you fall into like love, unaware of your thirsting. I believe that freedom is all the blood, sweat and tears of our choices. It is the badger of our beliefs. It is the flinting coursing through our veins in the face of resistance. Freedom cannot be stumbled upon. It is not the pretty or the hidden away of lighter things, those that soothe souls on Sundays. It is to be fought for. Everyday. It is the good fight for that good culture, that pure vibes. It is the god fight on the days when the tears can no longer hold secrets.
     It is the choice. The passion to choose and the bearing of the lacerations that come with such a choice. Freedom is not the ability to choose but it is the choice. Everyday, there is a fight waiting to be fought. Your freedom is waiting for you at the finish line, in the company of that authentic Jazz music and the spirit of the poets.
    When I die, I want to be cremated. I want my soul to be free, without the bother of a prison like body that is more enemy than friend. I want my soul to be free. I want my soul to be free, be embraced by the wind and make up for all the battles that I have failed to conquer.But while I am still breathing, I want to be free in such a way that I leave the choice as my legacy.


Love, Light and Freedom
-Kerry-Ann 

Friday, 12 April 2013

Saturday, 23 March 2013

Post Poetry Slam

Tonight was Convent's poetry slam, Surge. What an event it was! And in the haze of this loss of motivation and me struggling to hold onto everything that seems to defy gravity that vibe that polluted the convent air tonight didn't sit well with me. It was mere disrespect stirred well into a cup of immaturity. Maybe Mrs. Reyes was well within her right to call the police officers and to "put ppl out" of school. If you behave without regards for the dignity that rests inside of you and that rests inside of others then who is to respect you and what justification reels this respect in. Tonight the Convent girls and their companions were like animals caged for far too long who often go crazy with the taste of freedom. I imagine that Mrs. Reyes will be up late tonight like many form 6ers, cup of coffee within reach, wondering how to address us on Monday morning. I imagine that the school population is be riled up with uncertainty and confusion, ready to make senseless remarks drunk of their immaturity. It is easier to point a finger, say YOU! YOU! YOU! but it is also imperative to look at yourself and see the errors made by self in its self indulgent nature. It is important to understand cause and effect. It is important to introspect and see the boundaries that you may have crossed that may have triggered the reaction and the "tough love" of Mrs. Reyes. It is important to grow up and start trying to understand content.

#Selah

Monday, 4 March 2013

#March. In like a lion. Out like a king.

Don't forget how lion-hearted you are

I prefer to be on my own. I do not wish to relegate the importance of souls and the joys they have to lend but I have come to know that my growth is accelerated when I'm taken out of the floods of noise and shadiness. The haziness tends to make one forget how lion-hearted they are. The pressures tend to make you feel so small, insignificant. This is not say that I do not possess the strength of a warrior. I am only trying to express that it's easier to face those silent most infernal wars in the absence of people.

Friday, 1 March 2013

Discipline.
Discipline.
Discipline.
Discipline.
Discipline.
Discipline.
Discipline.
Discipline.
Discipline.

Tuesday, 19 February 2013

#thestruggleisreal

I am going to get 6 ones and whatever physics gives me in these CAPE exams. THIS IS GOING TO BE DONE.


MIND OVER MATTER.

MIND OVER MATTER.

MIND OVER MATTER.

MIND OVER MATTER.

MIND OVER MATTER.

MIND OVER MATTER.

MIND OVER MATTER.

MIND OVER MATTER.

Sunday, 17 February 2013

"There will come a day when the fear of death will be the favourite joke passed among corpses, and they're already laughing"


Remembering


For months, something kept reminding me to keep forgetting how lovely it was to waltz with God. Tonight, somehow, I didn't remember to forget that answers and a wealth of Sundays are safely set in God.  Tonight I remembered that God is a poet. Tonight I remembered that I am Catholic and that there is an imperative truth that I’m still yet to find and live and be baptized in. Tonight I remembered that I am not God. I am not God. I am not God. Tonight I remembered how much faith my Grandfather had in me. Tonight i remembered my grandfather.

Sitting alone on a Sunday night listening to all it’s well kept secrets my chiffrobe fell apart.There were bottles of vodka, Hennessy and afflictions falling everywhere. There were tears falling everywhere. Sitting in a river of tears I learnt about baptism. Sunday, there is something so sacred and holy about you. There is something so raw and truthful about the way the strength of your silence doesn't hesitate to say " Kerry-Ann you beg too much! You fuck shit up too much!". As I sat alone, on the cold cream tiles bare and lost with all my broken pieces scattered before me I remembered how to heave afflictions up, stare them in the face and come to terms with reality. This Sunday I sat, broken pieces before me sprinkled with salty tears, I sat there and learnt all about how minimum my growth has been. I realized that something in the soles of  my feet insist on dancing backwards and my clumsy heart keeps forgetting how to love and has become far too familiar with hate. Tonight Sunday told me that the struggle is real and that there is nothing comical about it.

...

Tuesday, 27 November 2012

Rambling...1



I had this headache today for a good 8 hours. I have no legit explanations for the cause of this headache but it helped me to sought ought a lot.

Maybe this headache was as a result of the excess of noise that I have been dancing to for quite some time. It’s amazing how we’re always unaware of the dizziness in the moment; never really know when we’ve taken it a bit too far. It’s unnerving that we’re so often out of our element that we never really know when we’re addicted to malice.

I have been wearing my aversions like a good suit on a bad day for weeks now. Painted it in pretty colours and called it me. It really is unsettling that we could be so ugly internally and not be aware of it or not care to fix it.

Justifying your aversions doesn’t make you righteous, you’re still a hater.

It’s important to nurture whatever it is that grants you peace in your day!

You’re lovely my dear!

You’re lovely!

~Kerry-Ann 

― Hermann Hesse, Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte

“For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.

A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.

A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.”

Sunday, 25 November 2012

Most days I feel lost paralleled with an indescribable emptiness 

Tuesday, 13 November 2012

Reconstruction.



It annoys me that the ones you love the most are so often oblivious to the hurt that they cause you. They can rip your heart out with some of the statements and acts they give life to, without much thought and I’ve never found this quite fair. This is not love. Love is not an interest vested on a one way street where the wind blows north and nowhere else. Love is not a silent heartache or a silent voice. Love is not a “I’ll be here for you, but only sometimes.” kinda thing.
Maybe it’s the way we were raised. The way our heart beats have been synchronized with conformity or maybe it’s the impish whisper of a lie that we can’t change much. And so we relegate our opinions, beliefs and souls never thinking that it would hurt us or those we love. I’m don’t like having people who don’t say what they feel around me. Logging around feelings won’t get you anywhere nor will it have you standing any closer to freedom.
Too many people have disrespected me and I’ve let it slide and I’m learning that doing so is not okay. It is important to say what you feel. Free yourself from the heaviness. Until we do so, until we are free, I think we’ll continue to be prostitutes, always used and discarded without regard for our feelings.

 Love and Freedom to you always
~Kerry-Ann Davis