Come In

No need for keys

or alarm codes

or fancy combinations

I’ve left it open for you

No need for promises

or trepidation

Just come in; and

Let me kiss you

until every nerve ending

gasps at the burn of my lips

Let me poison you

with my lust


Let me be your antidote


© Rilzy Adams, 2013


Photo Credit: User Credit: marin
Photo Credit:
User Credit: marin

I Want You

don’t give up

give in to my kisses

don’t hold on to sorrows

‘cuz I fit better in your arms

don’t get into trouble

get into me instead


I want you

in ways that require

safe words and hideaways


there’s nothing tame

about the way

I want you


© Rilzy Adams, 2013


Photo Credit: User Credit: marin
Photo Credit:
User Credit: marin

You – My Déjà vu; Presque vu; Jamais vu.


Looking into your eyes

is déjà vu.

I had to have loved you

in lives before,

and this need

must have poured

through the cracks

of centuries long ago.


When you smile at me

I get presque vu.

And the words ‘I love you’

stall at the tip of my tongue

so that I can’t

put into words

this passion that threatens

to end my very existence.


But when you walk away,

into her arms,

it is jamais vu.

Because each time the pain that flashes

through me like lightning strikes,

is crippling –  but as new

as the shock of remembering,

that you’ve never been mine to love.


Photo Credit: User Credit: Tina Phillips
Photo Credit:
User Credit: Tina Phillips

© Rilzy Adams, 2013

Denied Justice

I wrote this a couple years back in response to the killing of Neda Agha-Soltan by Iranian police during protests. I thought I’d share it. You can read more about her shooting here.


Denied Justice


Denied justice

rises like the thick, dark smoke

from cars burning in desolate roads

as the silent scream for democracy.


Denied justice

is Neda’s blood

pooling at her feet

as her spirit took flight

from a gaping hole

in the chest of Freedom.


Denied justice

is the vapour of tear gas

as deniers protest peace

and strike chaos into peaceful protest.


Denied justice

is a river of bullets

and motorcycles in the dead of night

it is the bible of the “moral police”


Denied justice

is chanting from rooftops

until the morning light

when it becomes

the thick, dark smoke rising

from cars burning in desolate roads

as the silent scream for democracy


Neda Agha-Soltan
Photo Credit: Wikipedia



Those Eyes

 Those Eyes

I am surrrre that I could find a million cliiiichés to say about those eyesss of yours

I could start by saying that I could drown in their depths,

Or lose myself in the way they mesmeriiiize

But instead

I’ll get to the heart of things and leave the Shakespearean sonnets behind

Let me tell you of those eyessssss

Those eyesss arrrrre a whirlpool of melted caramel: alluring me – drawing me

Tempting me with their forbidden sweetness

Those eyesss arrrrrre:

Chocolate ice-cream with vanilla whip-cream

Strawberries and sparkling wine

Lavender steam-baths

Moonlight silhouettes

Those eyesss arrrrre sexx-yyyyyy

And with that stare

You illicit the most suppressed longing – hidden fantasies

But even in my foggy, passion induced state of miiiiind

I always return to those eyessssssssssss

Photo Credit: Public Domain Pictures
Photographer: Petr Kratochvil

Copyright Rilzy Adams, 2007

An Antiguan Fiesta


An Antiguan Fiesta is no ordinary fiesta.

It is no ordinary explosion of talent or of passion.


It is the eclectic rhythm of Soca

fusing with exotic melodies

that keep us dancing.


It is the music the Pied Piper played

encouraging young and old to start jamming

in the streets.

With feet quickened by the fire

found in soca beats.


It is the music of pans

Dropped from God’s lips

To the sticks of our pannists

Playing Soca Music and Classical Tunes

Folk, Country, Calypso Blueess


It is our passion for fetes

Whether the sun is blazing or

Its cold or wet

It is misbehaving

Grooving and gyrating

Its jamming until there is nothing left

But vague memories from last night’s fete


It is the crowds taking it to the streets

Spurred on by the riddim of dancehall and soca beats

Ready to Wuk or Whine

Like there is no tomorrow

When its time

for the rhythm of mas

The motion

Of mas

The kadliedoscope of colours that swirl with mas

The passion of mass

The art of mas


It is the spice of our cuisine

That runs through blood like

Susie’s Hot Sauce

And sets us on fire

To step into the Pepperpot

That is an Antiguan Fiesta


An Antiguan Fiesta

Is no ordinary fiesta…


Photo Courtesy: Gemma Hazelwood



A Writer’s Creed: Laid Bare

Between these pages I strip myself

And lay me bare

I tip my hat of insecurity

And leave it on the floor

I remove my cloak of pride

And what’s more,

I remove my gloves of tact

At the nearest table found

I unknot my scarf of hate

For it has weighed me down

I untie the laces of allegiance

Before removing my bias-filled shoes

I discard of anger with my socks

For it has been misused

And with my pants I’ll forget kindness

Truth shall be my creed

The clatter of my belt on the floor

Will announce the departure of greed

With each button of my shirt

Dies expectations, hope, envy, fears

And as they drop so too lessons

That I have learnt throughout the years

With my undergarments flees love

And closely behind trust

Heaped together they induce assertiveness

I will say what I must

With much care I will remove my chain of prejudice

And my ring of deceit,

To the jewellery box I condemn scorn

With the anklet from my feet

I will remove glittering arrogance from my face

From my lips colourful but meaningless prose,

Then I will wash away my hurt and shame

So that it flows down the drain with my woes

Between these pages I will be exposed

With each word and rhyme, verse, phrase

I will be exempt from everything which prevents

All of me to be purged unto each page

I shall laugh at familiarity

And venture into the unknown

I will not write with a pen

But with my very soul

Between these pages I stripped myself

And have laid me bare

Photo Courtesy: Antigua and Barbuda Tourism