The Island Calls

I grew up in Puerto Rico. The passion, the heat..it's consuming...and I had to pen it. I LOVE this poem, and there's another one in my head dying to come out. ONE more dream about Ricky Martin's hips ought to do it. HOLY HELL!! LOL

The Island is Calling.

Every few years it comes to a boil
And from my life I seemingly recoil.
It starts with a hum; grows into a song.
Then for my island life I start to long.

Dogs running wild, a run down the street, old men playing dominoes
These are memories that from my fingertips flow.
The sites, the smells, they are all inside
And I have had to learn to just push them all aside.

Then the trumpet blasts, the bass falls, I hear “El Africano”
And I start to remember those nights of dancing with gentlemen
On the porch of the Casa Grande; their names I still don’t know
But they touched my soul and left a yearning for people and times long ago.

Touring through forts, driving through mountains, playing in pools
If I told you that’s how I grew up you’d call me a fool
For hating it then; now about it I obsess
Because my life here sometimes seems like so much less.

At the time I hated it; I wasn’t pretty or cute
But I was smart; Not what most want for their youth!
Soon the red, white, and blue flew through my blood
But Dad made us leave; it wasn’t safe in the neighborhood.

I left behind people who didn’t care that I was smart…
We all had our talents – whether academics or art;
I came to a place where I was square and the hole was round
No one really wanted me around.
(I spoke Spanish and cared less about material things
Heaven forbid I said something to make them think.)

I stopped listening to the music; stopped trying to speak the language
Because of me they were taking advantage.
I wanted to fit in; I ditched what I knew
And just wanted to be part of the crew.
(Who really cared if I had a Swatch? Were my jeans Guess?
I used to care less!)

But “Blast” Goes the trumpet, the beat speeds up
And soon I can’t stop; it’s in my blood.
I’m trying to teach my kids about this part of me
That really needs a chance to live and breathe and be.

So, you see, dear friend, I am struggling to show
That pain isn’t the only feeling I can know.
He’s made me realize that I part of me died
And maybe it’d be better if the old Heather tried to revive.

I’ll take my family to see the places that helped make me
Be the person they need me to be.
Will they understand why I crave the air, the sounds, coquis?
I don’t know…we’ll wait and see.

But return I must
It’s a feeling worse than lust.
It’s consuming me like a fire consumes a tree
The island is calling; let me return is my only plea