Literary Yard

Search for meaning

By: Dennis Williams          

Love Trail

As the sun peeps beyond the haze, two lovers set foot for the deep cool woodland, just us, just two lovers, wet from the early morn dew, steadfast in a journey to wherever the trail leads. An afore-planned hike to nowhere, encountering no border to keep us in check as we go, no rails to keep us in line, just us two lovers exploring the deep woods in the cool morn. Penetrating the forest never yet explored. No footstep to mark our trail, no disturbance to judge our moves, no judgment to temper the risk. No Boundary, serene, only our smile to severe the stillness and admire the wonders. Our breath is the only sound echoing in the woods. No spoken words, no comment, the only words are the words whirling in our minds and imprinting on our hearts. Two free souls at liberty to roam free, any time, any place, just us two lovers and the vast world intertwine to make our love escape real. And when the sunlight subsided there was more to discover, more places to go, more love to make.


I’ll cry out

Beneath the suffocating debris, I’ll cry out, not staying still while the loud echoes around me bellow spark hopes for any sign of life.

I’ll cry out while the perpetrators tiptoe from the scene of the vicious crime, leaving behind blood, loss of life, and the destruction of property.

I’ll cry out while the darkness around me swells, encamping, the street, the town, and the city, hiding, deviation, ill health, and violence.

I’ll cry out when the child sucks the family dry and then leave behind a wrecked family, depressed, neglected, poorer, and almost destitute.

I’ll cry out when all around everything flourishes but that single parent continues to go to bed hungry, thirsty, and struggles to find a dry spot on his bed, while the party noise echoes through the darkness from afar, ushering chatter and laughter yes I’ll cry.

I’ll cry out when the farmer sleeps after a hard day’s work while the scoundrel leads away his only assets while his children’s school fee awaits at the break of dawn.

I’ll cry out even when crying out is not fashionable, even if my voice is the only echo in the forbidden stillness in a tough world.


Never lose my way back home

Hovering above the many trees like a bee in search of nectar, when he finds his fill he must reach home to unload his treat he never loses his way home.

Like an ant scattered all over the floor seeking out food, and never fails, and finding its marcel among the rough, competition, and fight, he must return with what he’s got, so it never loses his way home.

The rain falls down, pouring down amidst the shadow and the cloud, streets resemble seaway, roads resemble snow way, people hustle out of the way, the reluctant get covered in a reluctant gush, and I must journey on and never lose my way home.

Deep woods on a hike, my tracks get covered as quickly as they appeared, haunting sound and sound of applause as the wild celebrate before they devour, I must tread on, clearing the way that stubbornly stands before me, soaring as I approach but I must chop on, never to lose my way home.

My home is my palace, my comfort zone where loving arms await me, smiling faces greet me, and, nurturing food prepares for me, so irrespective of the challenges, I must reach home. I cannot I will not lose my way home.

Urban life beckons me, and heavy traffic snarls me, but I’ll never lose my way home.

Home sweet home is calling.



Splendid, splendid are the hills, a source of strength to, those who bathe in its freshness and breathe the splendor of its air. Let me climb to your pinnacle oh mighty mountain and deny me not of your splendor.  Let me glow like the transfiguration that only materializes in your mist and in the end find peace.

 Be my refuge when they hunt my soul, protect me from my blood-thirsty enemy, and drain from me all my impurities when I sleep. Challenge all those who dare to expose the weak and the exhausted. Scar the steps of those who seek to trample the path of solitude and those who seek rest in thy midst.  Be my friend, nurture me with the fruits of your soil. Soar over the plains and protect the weak from the wind which threatens to steal my peace and sanity. This is my cry oh, mountain.


Dennis is a poet/writer from Sandy Hill, St. Catherine, Jamaica. He is blessed and humbled to have his writings published in the Agape Review, the American Diversity Report (ADR), Alchemy Spoon issue #7, the Health Line Zine #1, the independent literary magazine Adelaide #54, EgoPHobia # 74, livina Press issue # 3, Blue Pepper Magazine, entropy2, five fleas itchy poetry magazine, Blue unicorn, Dry River issue 2, and Roots and resettlement Vol.3.

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