Dey Gimme Crab

 

 Happy Father's Day

 

 Dey Gimme Crab

Mothers work long and hard
In da house, even out in da yard,
Dey wash 'n' iron, cook 'n' bake
Dey Mother's Day reward is lobster an' steak.

Now Father's Day is here again
And yes the message is clear again,
I too work long and I too work hard
But on Father's Day dey gimme crab.

I een gon get angry and act like a chil'
I still gon eat it wit' a big smile,
'Cause deep inside I know I is a winner
'Cause crab jus' as expensive as a high class dinner.

I break open one back, an dip in the sweet fat
Wit' a piece a dough, man I like it like dat,
Den I crack open one biter, to eat dat good crab meat
An' I een stop eatin', 'til I eat all I could eat.

So Fathers lift your glass, high and proud
Say "I am a Father", an' say it loud,
Be courageous an' be bold
Here's a toast to Father's Day Crab Eaters all over da world.

 

 

 ©A. Derek Catalano

(No AI) 

 

Swallow Your Pride

 

 "Defiant" - Bahamas AI Image

 ©A. Derek Catalano

 

 

 Swallow Your Pride

The walls we build with stubborn hands are thick and reinforced,
Defending positions where our errors first surfaced and sourced.
We wear our rightness like a shield, a heavy, iron vest,
And turn a simple difference into a battlefield test.
The ego is a clever thief that steals our peace of mind,
Convincing us that giving in is leaving strength behind.
It whispers that to compromise is purely to concede,
Blinding our eyes to the true path and the growth that we both need.

But stand within that fortress long, and notice how it feels—
The isolation grows as cold as hardened, heavy steel.
To never bend, to never yield, to never say we’re wrong,
Is just a slow, exhausting march to where we don’t belong.
For truth is rarely found within a loud, unyielding voice,
And staying stuck in errors past is a self-inflicted choice.
The hardest words the tongue can shape, that cut through foolish pride,
Are simply: "I am sorry, I was wrong on this inside."

My No AI Writings

 

"Me at Desk with Laptop" - Bahamas AI Image

 ©A. Derek Catalano

 

 

My No AI Writings

These posts were written by me without AI assistance.

Stories

Grammy, Li'l John and the Cerasee
Bertram and the Square Grouper
The Night the Crabs Attacked
Future Nassau Dream

Poetry

Grits in da Mornin'
Annuder Hurricane Comin'! 
Dis Ting Go Wit Sense
My Own Car
Tings Turn ‘Roun’ 
Bahamian Potholes
Dey Gimme Crab

Songs

I Don't Like Rum

Know How to Read the Board

 

 "Read the Board" - Bahamas AI Image

 ©A. Derek Catalano

 

 

 Know How to Read the Board

The world is set upon a grid of alternating hues,
Where every step we dare to take is one we win or lose.
A grand design of black and white, a vast and complex floor,
And if you wish to conquer life, and settle up the score,
You cannot simply rush ahead or blindly strike a chord—
To win the game and claim your peace, you must read the board.

From the moment we are thrust into this great, unfolding match,
We find ourselves with boundaries, and strategies to hatch.
The pawns are like our daily chores, the small, initial strides,
The quiet steps we take each day where humble worth resides.
They seem so small, disposable, but do not look away;
A pawn that reaches to the end can change the game today.
So value every little choice, each minor, quiet word,
And plan their slow advancement as you learn to read the board.

The knights will leap in sudden turns, across the crowded space,
Reminding us that progress rarely moves a straight-line pace.
They jump the walls of obstacles that keep us hemmed inside,
And show that through creativity, our dreams can still abide.
But if you do not watch their arc, they’ll catch you unaware;
A sudden shift in fortune’s wind can trap you in a snare.
Anticipate the crooked paths where hidden threats are stored,
And map out every angle as you learn to read the board.

Seasons Come and Seasons Go

 

 "Seasons" - Bahamas AI Art

 ©A. Derek Catalano

 

 

 Seasons Come and Seasons Go

The morning wakes with crisp and golden light,
As winter yields its long, unyielding night.
The frozen earth begins to soften deep,
And stirs the silent seeds from heavy sleep.
A sudden green ignites the barren hill,
Where dancing rivers shake the icy chill.
The cherry blossoms dress the wooden bough,
A promise whispered to the field and plow.
The morning mist retreats before the sun,
A declaration that the spring’s begun.

For seasons come and seasons always go,
The constant rhythm that the woodlands know.
And so it is within the human heart,
Where hidden blooms and sudden healings start.
We break the frost of sorrow and of pain,
To find our spirits drinking in the rain.
A youth of wonder, innocent and bright,
Steps forward boldly in the growing light.
We find our footing in the warming soil,
With eyes of hope and hands prepared to toil.

Then comes the summer, fierce and full of fire,
A blazing canopy of high desire.
The fields are heavy with the growing grain,
And thunder clouds bring rich, dramatic rain.
The days stretch out, magnificent and long,
The forest rings with cricket, bird, and song.
The rivers swell, the oceans kiss the sand,
As vibrant abundance floods across the land.
The fruit is ripe, the heavy branches bend,
In wealth that feels as though it cannot end.

Say What You Mean and Mean What You Say

 

 "Truth and Meaning" - Bahamas AI Image

 ©A. Derek Catalano

 

 

 Say What You Mean and Mean What You Say

Don’t twist your words like vines in rain,
Or speak in riddles full of strain.
A truthful tongue lights up the way,
Say what you mean and mean what you say.

A promise made should still stand tall,
Not fade away when troubles call.
Strong honest words will never sway,
Say what you mean and mean what you say.

The gossip crow may flap and cry,
While half-truths drift and multiply.
But trust is gold that thieves can’t sway,
Say what you mean and mean what you say.

Don't Be a Shirker

 

 "Smartphone Worker" - Bahamas AI Art

 ©A. Derek Catalano

 

 

Don't Be a Shirker

When morning breaks with golden light,
Get up and face the day upright.
Don’t hide away or dodge the work,
Stand proud and strong — don’t be a shirker.

The farmer plows beneath the sun,
His labor’s hard, but must be done.
The lazy soul may smirk and lurk,
Yet gains no prize by being a shirker.

The fisherman casts out his line,
Through stormy seas and weather fine.
He rows ahead though waves may jerk,
He’ll never thrive if he’s a shirker.

AI Took My Job

 "AI Took My Job" - AI image
©A. Derek Catalano

 

 

AI Took My Job

I showed up Monday, coffee in my hand,
Ready to work like I always had planned.
But HR looked nervous, the boss looked odd,
Then somebody whispered, “AI took your job.”

The chatbot writes emails in half of the time,
Fixes bad grammar and makes it all rhyme.
It never gets hungry, it never says “nah,”
Just sits there all smug in a server bazaar.

I used to make logos and slogans for pay,
Now prompts do my workload in under a day.
A teenager typed “make it edgy and bright,”
And boom, there’s my paycheck disappearing from sight.

Know When to Bow Out

 

"Sunset Walk" - Bahamas AI Art

 ©A. Derek Catalano

 

Know When to Bow Out

There is a rhythm to the tide, a pulse within the sea,
A lesson in the falling leaf that drifts down from the tree.
It does not cling with desperate hands against the winter’s chill,
It understands the time has come to let the world grow still.
But we, with heavy, human hearts, find grace a bitter draft,
We cling to sinking vessels and we claim they are a raft.
We stay within the burning house until the smoke is thick,
Ignoring how the candle’s flame has vanished from the wick.

The stage is grand, the lights are bright, the music fills the air,
And while the melody is sweet, we’re glad to linger there.
But even finest symphonies must find their final chord,
Before the players grow too tired and audiences bored.
To stay beyond the curtain call, to pace the empty hall,
Is to invite the shadow-weight of pride before the fall.
The finest exit isn't made when all the cheers have died,
But when the spirit feels the turn of some internal tide.

It shows within a love that’s soured, where words have turned to glass,
Where every conversation is a bridge you cannot pass.
We fight for ghosts of who we were, for promises long dead,
And starve ourselves on crumbs of hope when we should seek for bread.
There is no virtue in the ache of holding what is gone,
No courage in the tired eyes that dread the coming dawn.
To bow away from hollow arms is not a sign of fear;
It’s honoring the sacred truth that you no longer hear.

Start Over

 

"Erase and Redo" - Bahamas AI Image

 ©A. Derek Catalano

 

 

Start Over

 

The blueprints lie in fragments on the floor,
The weary heart can’t take it anymore.
A project built on sand begins to lean,
With flaws and cracks where logic should have been.
We see the hours traded for a ghost,
The things we cherished, failing us the most.
But in the wreckage, truth begins to bloom:
There’s power in a swept and empty room.

To start again is not to admit defeat,
Or walk away with spirit incomplete.
It is the wisdom gained from what went wrong,
The silent pause that makes the singer strong.
The first attempt was heavy with the haze
Of old habits and the ghost of better days,
But now the architect has clearer eyes,
To build a tower reaching for the skies.

When projects stall and ideas lose their spark,
And every light feels swallowed by the dark,
Don’t patch the holes with tape and fragile string,
Or cling to every broken, heavy thing.
Clear off the desk and let the canvas wait,
Accept that some beginnings come too late.
Discard the errors, cast the pride aside,
And let the rising wisdom be your guide.

Alpha Males Wanted

 

"Man of the House" - Bahamas AI Art

 ©A. Derek Catalano

This piece serves as a call to action and a tribute to the virtues of leadership, discipline, and family values within the Bahamian context, detailing the specific attributes needed to build a prosperous future for the islands.

Alpha Males Wanted

Across the turquoise waters where the gentle trade winds blow,
Beyond the white-sand beaches where the local rhythms flow,
A call is rising from the soul of every cay and shore,
A summons for a kind of man we need now more and more.
From Grand Bahama’s pine barrens to Inagua’s salt and sun,
The labor for the future has only just begun.
The message rings out clearly through the valley and the hill:
The Bahamas needs her Alphas—men of courage and of will.

Alpha Males Wanted—not for ego or for pride,
But for the strength of character that burns deep down inside.
We seek the men of leadership who do not wait for light,
But strike the match themselves to pierce the shadows of the night.
Men who stand like iron when the hurricane descends,
Whose word is like a contract that never breaks or bends.
Men of deep-set principles, of morals high and true,
Who do the heavy lifting that the many will not do.

We need the bold initiators, the masters of the drive,
Who don’t just settle for the crumbs or "manage to survive."
They set their sights on distant peaks, they map the rugged way,
They turn a vision into brick and mortar every day.
They build the great foundations of the empires yet to be,
With roots as deep as limestone and a spirit like the sea.
They are the goal-achievers, the ones who finish what they start,
Who lead with calculated mind and a lion’s beating heart.

Success is a Journey, Not a Destination

 

 "Success Journey" - Bahamas AI Art

 ©A. Derek Catalano

 

 

 Success is a Journey, Not a Destination

The mountain peak sits silent, draped in robes of glacial white,
A beacon for the dreamer in the middle of the night.
We fix our eyes upon the crest, the summit we desire,
Fueling every step we take with inner, restless fire.
But look beneath the soaring height, where rocky paths begin,
For there the tale of triumph starts—the battle deep within.
We think the prize is standing there, above the clouds so high,
But glory isn't in the peak that touches the sky.

It’s found within the morning mist, when heavy boots are tied,
Before the cheering crowds arrive, before the ego’s pride.
It’s in the rhythm of the breath, the burning in the lung,
The verses of a victory that haven't yet been sung.
The map is but a paper ghost, a sketch of where to go,
But wisdom is the winding trail and everything we know.
For every mile of jagged stone and every valley deep,
Is where the secrets of the soul are ours alone to keep.

We often crave the finish line, the ribbon and the gold,
The moment when the story of our greatness can be told.
But medals gather layers of dust and trophies lose their shine,
The champagne bubbles disappear and bitter grows the wine.
If all we seek is "getting there," the "there" becomes a wall,
And once the flag is firmly planted, where is left to fall?
The joy is in the reaching out, the stretch of mind and limb,
The light that flickers in the dark, however soft or dim.

The Bullsh*t Artist

 

"World's Greatest Salesman" - Bahamas AI Art

  ©A. Derek Catalano

 

The Bullsh*t Artist

He walks in polished confidence, a grin that gleams like gold,
A master of illusion, spinning lies both bright and bold.
With velvet tongue and easy charm, he bends the truth to fit,
A craftsman of the counterfeit—refined in every bit.

 His stories rise like towers high, impressive from afar,
Yet closer in their structure shows the cracks of what they are.
He paints with words so vivid that reality grows thin,
A stage where fact and fiction blur, and he is sure to win.

 No pause, no stammer marks his speech, no tremor tips his hand,
He speaks as if the world itself conforms to his command.
Conviction is his armor, and bravado is his art,
A performance so persuasive it can fool the sharpest heart.

The Marvelous Morning Glory

 

 "Morning Glory Three" - ©A. Derek Catalano 

 

 

 The Marvelous Morning Glory

When Dawn first brushes back the veil of night,
And spills her pail of soft and pearly light,
Before the robin finds his morning song,
Or shadows of the oak grow lean and long,
There stirs a wonder near the garden wall,
A silent climber, elegant and tall,
Who waits to drink the nectar of the sky—
The Morning Glory, capturing the eye.

O, see the vines like emerald rivers flow,
In twisting tides that ever upward grow!
With leafy hearts that pulse in shades of jade,
They seek the sun and scorn the heavy shade.
Like nimble fingers, tendrils reach and coil,
To lift their beauty far above the soil,
They wind around the trellis and the wire,
Driven by a quiet, green desire.

And then, the buds! Like silken umbrellas furled,
The tightest secrets in the floral world.
They spiral tight in striped and waxy cones,
In hushed and meditative, velvet tones.
But as the golden orb begins to rise,
A miracle unfolds before our eyes;
The torsion yields, the pleats begin to spread,
In hues of royal blue and wine-red.

Stand for What is Right

 

"The Knight of Right" - Bahamas AI Art

 ©A. Derek Catalano

 

 Stand for What is Right

When shadows lengthen o’er the plain,
And truth is bartered for a gain,
When whispers turn to deafening roars
And justice knocks on bolted doors—
There comes a moment, stark and still,
A testing of the human will,
To see who bows to passing might
And who will stand for what is right.

The path of least resistance lies
Beneath a mask of clever guise;
It’s easy to be swept away
By what the many think and say.
For when the tide of crowds begins
To wash away the stains of sins,
It takes a heart of granite stone
To face the gale and stand alone.

Conformity is like a shroud,
A comfort found within the cloud,
Where voices merge in one refrain
To dull the sense of others’ pain.
But silent tongues and averted eyes
Are where a piece of spirit dies;
To keep the peace by staying mute
Is but a hollow, bitter fruit.

I Won the Lotto but Now I'm Broke

 

"The Winner Loser" - Bahamas AI Art

 ©A. Derek Catalano

 

I Won the Lotto but Now I'm Broke

The Golden Ticket

The ticket sat upon the dash, a slip of yellow hue,
I didn’t think the numbers picked would actually come through.
But then the draw began at ten, the spheres began to roll,
And every digit matched my own, ignite my very soul!
I screamed so loud the neighbors knocked, I danced upon the floor,
A hundred million dollars—maybe even a little more.
I quit my job with zero grace, I tossed the boss my keys,
I’m headed for the tropics now, to catch a salty breeze.

The Rush of Gold

The bank account was overflowing, zeros in a line,
I bought a watch of solid gold that made the sunlight shine.
A mansion on a grassy hill with twenty-seven rooms,
And gardens filled with exotic plants and rare, expensive blooms.
I bought a fleet of Italian cars that roar like mountain cats,
I filled my closets up with silks and designer shoes and hats.
The "friends" I hadn't seen in years came knocking at my gate,
I bought them dinners, drinks, and trips—I thought the life was great.

The Downward Slide

But money has a funny way of melting in the sun,
When every day is "treat yourself" and everything is fun.
I didn’t check the balance sheets, I didn't track the flow,
I thought the well would never dry, I didn't want to know.
The taxes came, the lawsuits bloomed, the cousins asked for loans,
The mansion started crumbling down, I heard it in its bones.
A million here for "business deals" that turned to dust and air,
A million there for parties held with people who didn't care.

A Bird in the Hand is Worth Two in the Bush

 

 "Young Ground Dove" - ©A. Derek Catalano

Download photo

 

 

A Bird in the Hand is Worth Two in the Bush

I.
Within the palm, a pulse is felt, a warmth of life and gold,
A tiny thing of feather-weight, but certain in the hold.
It does not sing the grandest song, nor boast a plumage rare,
But it is here, beneath the thumb, while others dwell in air.
The morning mist is thick and grey upon the tangled thorn,
Where silhouettes of phantom wings are on the breezes borne.
Two shadows flit behind the leaf, two melodies entwine,
They promise more than what is held, they shimmer and they shine.

II.
The mind is such a restless thing, a merchant of the "more,"
That paces through the present room to peer outside the door.
It weighs the heavy, humble grain against the sacks of spice,
And whispers that the certain thing is never worth the price.
"Why keep the spark?" the ego asks, "When wildfires might ignite?
Why settle for the candle-wick when stars are in your sight?
Release the grip, relax the hand, the bush is close at hand,
Where better prizes wait for those with courage to demand."

III.
So many eyes have turned away from bread upon the plate,
To hunger for a banquet-hall behind a locked-up gate.
The traveler leaves the steady path for marsh-light in the fen,
And trades the coin he earned today for dreams of making ten.
We see it in the lover’s gaze, who seeks a perfect ghost,
And leaves the one who stayed through storms, the heart that loved them most.
We see it in the seeker’s toil, who digs a hundred wells,
But never tastes the water clear where deeper spirit dwells.

The Attention Seeker

"The Attention Seeker" - Bahamas AI Image

 ©A. Derek Catalano

 

The Attention Seeker

The stage is set, the curtain parts, a practiced breath is drawn,
He stands beneath the spotlight’s glare before the break of dawn.
A master of the grand design, the architect of noise,
Who trades his inner quietude for hollow, gilded joys.
He wears a mask of many hues, a kaleidoscope of skin,
To hide the silent hollow where the dialogue begins.
For in the court of public eyes, he plays the frantic clown,
Terrified that silence might eventually pull him down.

He feeds upon the gasps of crowds, the whispers in the hall,
He’d rather be the villain than not be seen at all.
A scandal brewed in morning tea, a tragedy for show,
He waters every drama just to watch the garden grow.
The truth is but a canvas, often stretched and pulled away,
Until it fits the narrative he needs to win the day.
“Look at me!” the spirit cries, a beacon in the night,
Shining with a fevered and a self-consuming light.

On digital horizons, where the pixelated glow
Dictates the ebb of status and the rhythmic social flow,
He counts the heartbeats of the web, the metrics of the soul,
Giving up his privacy to pay the psychic toll.
A filtered face, a curated and artificial life,
A sharpened edge of vanity that cuts like any knife.
He measures worth in "likes" and "shares," in comments thin and brief,
A momentary harvest that provides a false relief.

Don't Be Loud and Obnoxious

 

"Loud and Obnoxious" - Bahamas AI Art

 ©A. Derek Catalano

 

 Don't Be Loud and Obnoxious

The world is a stage where we all have a part,
A symphony played from the beat of the heart,
But some choose to blast like a horn in the night,
Ignoring the peace and the soft, morning light.
There’s a lesson to learn in the heat of the crowd:
The soul is not heard just by being too loud.

When you walk through a room with a thunderous stride,
With a voice like a cannon and nowhere to hide,
You think you are vibrant, you think you have flair,
But you’re sucking the oxygen out of the air.
A joke is a treasure, a laugh is a prize,
Until it is screamed to the top of the skies.

Consider the coffee shop, cozy and dim,
Where a student is reading on hope and a whim,
Or the park where a poet is seeking a line,
And the sun through the branches is starting to shine.
Then comes the shouting, the boom of a phone,
Invading a space that was never your own.

All the Women Want Me

"Magnet" - Bahamas AI Art

©A. Derek Catalano

 

 All the Women Want Me

They smile and toss their glances wide,
They gather close with practiced pride,
They laugh too long, they lean too near,
They drop their hints for me to hear.
They paint their lips, they strike their pose,
They wear perfume like blooming rose,
They play their games, they cast their net,
But I’m not bait they’re gonna get.

Yes, all the women want me, true,
But I belong to only you.
So let the whole world stare and see,
No one but my wife is meant for me.
They cannot have me, not a chance,
Not with a wink, not with a glance,
Not with a touch, not with a plea,
Because my heart is not for free.

I am a man who knows his ground,
Whose feet stay firm, whose soul is sound.
I’m not a leaf in lustful breeze,
Blown by desire with shameful ease.
I’m not a fool who throws away
A lifelong love for one cheap stray.
I’m not so weak, I’m not that blind,
To trade true gold for glittered grime.