The Christmas Candle Tree

(In Ballad form rhyming abab)

















You yellow candle on green stem
Glowing beams in the sun
Captures the eyes from all of them
As they drive, walk or run.

You give  light of love at Christmas
So warm and inviting
Nature's presents for all of us
Candle tree is glowing.

In St. Lucy and way beyond
In gardens and roadsides
Candlestick's beauty is au fond
The love of you resides…

You yellow candle on green stem
Glowing beams in the sun
Captures the eyes from all of them
As they drive, walk or run.

I see in those candle-like blooms
Beauty and metaphors
Hope and Nature talking volumes
Baby Jesus is ours.

Here, Lucy wears her saintly crown
Of candle bush that heals
Gives way to chatter in Speightstown
The prayer plant reveals…

You yellow candle on green stem
Glowing beams in the sun
Captures the eyes from all of them
As they drive, walk or run.

© Paterika Hengreaves

Cou Cou Dish

Cou cou you sing our freedom songs
And okra says it's true;
Singing robyn, merci beaucoup
Surprise! No peek-a-boo.














True Bajans love the real cou cou
Served all year once a week;
Thursday is really cou cou day
Well done with real technique.

Corny mass floats on saucy sea
Molded well on the plate
And flying fish swimming its shores
Wingless yes! But sedate.




























Cou cou you sing our freedom songs
A wholesome dish so true;
Singing robyn, merci beaucoup
Surprise! No peek-a-boo.

A salisbury steak I'm not
Neither a duckanoo
When saucy river round me flows
You've got the real cou cou.















Cou Cou is our national dish
Gold and grey hug the maize;
Carved firmly with a buttered mold,
Served on ironing days;



















Cou cou you sing our freedom songs
A wholesome dish so true;
Singing robyn, merci beaucoup
Surprise! No peek-a-boo.

Our cou cou sings cool pop tunes
Loud and sweet from the chest
Flying high all around the globe
Rihanna tops the nest.

At all cost we make pepper sauce
With spices from the land
Foreign brands too we use in stew
With industry we stand.

Cou cou you sing our freedom songs
A wholesome dish so true;
Singing robyn, merci beaucoup
Surprise! No peek-a-boo.

©Paterika Hengreaves

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Bajan Conkies

When November comes to the door
Zesty conkies we share;
Sweet and mighty strong with essence;
A Bajan dish set square.

Pumpkin alone will never do;
Mix, corn, coconut fair,
With potato, sugar and spice;
Cook on square leaves with care.

Conkies wrapped in banana leaves
Do pass the plate with cheer,
To friends but satellites of none;
Great cheese-on-bread is there.

Stacked independently on plate
Conkies banana wear;
Housed in jacket uniquely ours
We stacked on table-wear;

Skilled fingers cut those leaves to strap
From stalk, with sharp hard-wear;
Laboring these souls toil each day,
In cane-fields near Foursquare;

Conkies wrapped in banana leaves
Do pass the plate with cheer,
To friends but satellites of none;
Great cheese-on-bread is there.

Now fifty years reached this nation
Standing tall with prayer;
A new Barbados to behold
Amid great strife elsewhere;

The Broken Trident hugs our shores
Flying here and elsewhere;
We give thanks to God Almighty
And share the earthenware.

Conkies wrapped in banana leaves
Do pass the plate with cheer,
To friends but satellites of none;
Great cheese-on-bread is there.

©Paterika Hengreaves

Sea-eggs

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Sea Eggs

(Third Person Persona Limited)

Sea-eggs, sea-eggs, folks at the door,

So fresh from broken shell;

Mobile hawkers are shouting out;

From Oistin town they sell.

On turtle-grass and H20,

Moana lays her eggs;

In star-like cases white as snow;

They stand on pointed legs.

Urchins’ tests range the coral reefs;

Zero tests come ashore,

Flattened and brown with plenty lines;

They write their tests no more.

Sea-eggs, sea-eggs, folks at the door,

So fresh from broken shell;

Mobile hawkers are shouting out;

From Oistin town they sell.

The fishing moon when it appears;

White sea-eggs are real ripe;

So divers raid Moana’s bed;

Eight months they ‘R’ on strike;

They crate the eggs in grape leaf cones;

Tied neatly bound with string;

The empty shells they hide in sand;

Their roes no longer cling.

Sea-eggs, sea-eggs, folks at the door,

So fresh from broken shell;

Mobile hawkers are shouting out;

From Oistin town they sell.

Moana’s bed is slow to spring,

So kina dies from stress;

Poha is sweet that dish on plate;

But eggs need nests to rest.

All these eggs now folks must protect

From poachers’ greedy hold;

They fry the eggs in scrambled sand;

Call in the beach patrol.

Sea-eggs, sea-eggs, folks at the door,

So fresh from broken shell;

Mobile hawkers are shouting out;

From Oistin town they sell.

© Paterika Hengreaves