Do Not Disturb

 

What Happens in the Church Office, Stays in the Church Office

 

I

Behind the doors where holy business gets discussed,
Where sacred words are spoken and reputations are trusted,
There sits a little kingdom, with papers in a stack,
Where everybody's smiling—until somebody talks back.

The preacher wears his Sunday smile, respectable and bright,
But Monday morning brings another kind of light;
For sermons may be heavenly, with angels in the air,
But church-office conversations can become a different affair.

The secretary knows the schedule, the passwords and the files,
She knows who missed the meeting and who stayed away awhile;
She knows who gave five dollars and who gave fifty grand,
And who shakes the preacher's hand while hiding something in his hand.

And everybody whispers, though nobody will confess:
"What happens in the church office stays in the church office, I guess."

No Means No

 

 "No!"

 

 

No Means No

In every space, in every night,
Beneath the soft or glaring light,
A simple word stands clear and strong,
To mark the line of right and wrong.
When passion breathes or tempers rise,
Look deeply in a woman’s eyes,
And if she speaks the word of clear intent,
Remember love demands consent.

When she says no, it isn’t play;
It isn’t "maybe" in a way.
It isn't a challenge to persuade,
Nor part of some game to be played.
"No" is a wall, a boundary line,
A declaration firm, divine.
It means to stop, to step away,
And let her carry on her day.

A real man acts with honor, grace,
And dignity within his space.
He knows his strength is not meant for control,
Coercion, or a selfish goal.
Immature scum will push and plead,
Driven by reckless, blind, and selfish greed,
Ignoring tears and quiet doubt,
And casting decency right out.

Vanishing Millions: The $700 Million NIF Mystery

 

Abracadabra! Now You See It, Now You Don't!

 

Vanishing Millions: The $700 Million NIF Mystery

 A political controversy has emerged regarding the National Investment Fund (NIF) and $700 million in excess government borrowing.

At the center of the dispute, Free National Movement (FNM) Opposition Leader Michael Pintard accused the Davis administration of misrepresenting public finances. Pintard cited correspondence from Central Bank Governor John Rolle confirming that the NIF's Board of Governors had never formally convened. Because no operating board was active, the opposition argues that an official NIF account could not legally exist or authorize transfers, leaving questions regarding where the $700 million went. Fiscal reports showed an NIF balance dropping from $265.3 million in December 2025 to $200,000 by March 2026.

Lunatics Are Loose in the Wild

 

 Tropic Island Town and Wharf

 

 

Lunatics Are Loose in the Wild

I
The moon hangs low above the town,
While shadows creep and darkness falls down;
The streets grow strange beneath the light,
And reason disappears into the night.
The sane look on and wonder why,
As reckless fools go racing by;
No fence can hold them, none can hide—
The lunatics are loose in the wild.

II
They speak of power, gold, and fame,
And set the world itself aflame;
They chase their hunger without shame,
Then point at others, shifting blame.
They promise peace with sharpened tongue,
While wicked deeds remain undone;
They laugh while innocence is defiled—
The lunatics are loose in the wild.

III
Some wear a suit and some wear rags,
Some wave their flags and carry bags;
Some sit in halls where laws are made,
While others lurk beneath the shade.
Some shout their madness from the street,
Some hide their madness in deceit;
The mask may change, but not the style—
The lunatics are loose in the wild.

Puppet for Satan

Puppet for Satan

I’d like to address the ladies now,
Just please explain and tell me how—
How could you dress like that to go out?
A girl with milk still round your mouth.

Yet age don’t matter, for I’ve seen things
From full-grown female human beings.
You pull the glass up to your lips,
And sip by sip the shadow slips.

When you drink rum, you drink him in,
And fill your blood with burning sin.
For Satan slides into your soul
To take complete and total control.

A Dose of The Holy Ghost

 

 A Dose of the Holy Ghost

 

 

 A Dose of The Holy Ghost

Gimme a dose of da Holy Ghost
'Cause I is da one who need it da mos'
I don't wan' go to hell an' roas'
So gimme a dose a da Holy Ghost

I like to run wild and have my fun
But I can't have fun without my gun
Drivin' like a maniac in da hot Bahamas sun
'Cause I jus' kill a man, and now I on da run

When I speak da trut' I is be sly
'Cause all my trut' is a big big lie
When da police axe me, who involve an' why
I een gon' snitch, even if I die

Not Everyone Can Beat a Drum

 

Bad Drummer

 

 

Not Everyone Can Beat a Drum

The stage is set, the spot is bright,
The crowd awaits the show tonight.
A snare sits silent, silver-rimmed,
Beneath a hall where lights are dimmed.
An eager hand steps up to play,
To drive the rhythm, clear the way,
Yet when the wooden sticks descend,
The seamless timing comes to end.

The cadence stumbles, off the beat,
A heavy, awkward, chaotic sound to greet.
For though it seems a simple grace
To strike a head and set the pace,
The truth remains when all is done:
Not everyone can beat a drum.

It takes a pulse inside the soul,
A steady hand to keep control,
An inner sense of time and space
That keeps the music in its place.
To hear the silence in between,
To hold the groove, precise, unseen.
Without that spark, the effort fails,
And noise, not melody, prevails.

The Blame Game

 

"It was you, not me."

 

The Blame Game

Along the shores where turquoise waters gleam,
Across the islands of a sunlit dream,
From West End’s quiet to the Nassau sound,
A subtle, shadow-habit has been found.
When plans unravel or when systems fail,
When hard luck strikes or tempest winds prevail,
We turn our eyes away from what we’ve done
And cast the guilt beneath the golden sun.

We play the game—the endless, foolish game—
Where every shoulder seeks to dodge the blame.
"The council lagged," "The weather was unkind,"
"The traffic held me," "System went behind."
"It was my upbringing," "The boss was strict,"
"The circumstances were what I picked."
A thousand reasons offered to explain
Why we refuse to bear our share of pain.

In market stalls and quiet neighborhood streets,
Where harbor breezes temper summer heats,
We point our fingers across the ocean floor,
And lay our shortcomings at another's door.
If youth are drifting or if standards drop,
We wait for someone else to make it stop.
We blame the government, the law, the tide,
And keep our own transgressions tucked inside.
Yet every time we whisper, "It's not me,"
We forfeit strength and cede our liberty.

Never Too Late to Win

Late Achievers

  

Never Too Late to Win

The shadows stretch across the fading afternoon,
And quiet doubts suggest the night is arriving soon.
A whisper rustles through the dry and fallen leaves:
“You missed your moment, and the heart in secret grieves.”
The world may tell you that your season has gone by,
That youth alone possesses wings to reach the sky,
That dreams belong to those whose morning just began,
And time has closed the book upon your grandest plan.

Failure left its scars upon your weary feet,
And bitter storms have swept across your lonely street.
You’ve watched the years slip by like sand through trembling hands,
And lost your path across untamed, uncertain lands.
The obstacles appeared like mountains made of stone,
And facing every slope, you felt so small, alone.
Yet beneath the heavy dust of all those spent delays,
A spark remains alive through dark and clouded days.

For age is but a count of suns that rose and set,
Not a boundary drawn in sorrow or regret.
The oak tree takes a century to reach its height;
The brightest stars emerge from deep and velvet night.
It matters not if decades drifted softly past,
The only hour that matters now is this—the last,
The current breath you take, the choice you make today,
To rise above the fear and clear a brand-new way.

BPL Excuses

 

What's the excuse this time?

"It was Godzilla!"

 

 

BPL Excuses

 

 The air is thick, the sun is fierce, the summer heat sets in,
And once again, upon our isle, the dark routines begin.
The hum of power dies away, the ceiling fans grow still,
While frustration rises hotter than the air upon the hill.
From Grand Bahama down to Inagua, the chorus starts to rise,
As another dark night falls beneath the humid Bahama skies.

The government stands behind the microphone,
To offer practiced speeches in a calm, practiced tone.
"It’s an aging generator," or "The fuel was bad this week,"
"It’s an unexpected surge," or "There's a sudden cable leak."
"The load was far too heavy," "The infrastructure’s old,"
"It’s legacy neglect from past administrations," we are told.
"Just give us time, a little patience, modern grids are on the way,"
While the people sit in darkness and watch another day decay.

We are sick and tired of speeches, of the suits and the spin,
Of the polished press conferences where the tall tales begin.
We don’t care about the contracts, or who signed what back when,
We care about the blackouts happening time and time again.
What will the next excuse be when the island goes pitch black?
Will it be a passing bird, or that the rain came off its track?
Will you blame the salt sea air, or claim the wind blew far too strong?
How many more excuses until you admit that this is wrong?

Prison is Hell

 

"Lock-Down"

 

Prison is Hell 

 Behind the walls where shadows fall,
A dark and heavy, looming wall,
Stands Fox Hill in the burning heat,
Where terror and despair defeat.
The Bahamas Department of Correctional Services lies
Beneath the bright Atlantic skies,
A place of grim and bitter fame,
Where "Fox Hell" is its rightful name.

To walk inside those rusted gates
Is meeting cold and brutal fates,
A nightmare real, a torment deep,
Where broken men are forced to weep.
The concrete floors, the sweltering air,
The stench of sorrow and despair,
No ocean breeze, no island grace,
Just darkness in a claustrophobic space.

The cells are crowded, tight and old,
With stories left forever untold,
The iron bars, the slop-bucket line,
Where human dignity declines.
The days drag on, the nights are long,
Where echoes rise of tragic song,
A world of fear, a world of pain,
Where hope is washed away like rain.

Cheaters Never Prosper

 

Two Roads

 

Cheaters Never Prosper

Upon the grand and winding road where honest travelers tread,
There lies a quiet, shadowy path where foolish souls are led.
They look for shortcuts through the brush to skip the heavy climb,
Believing they can outsmart fate and steal the march of time.
They whisper lies and forge their way with trickery and deceit,
Expecting that a crooked move will grant a win complete.
They wear a mask of confidence, a smooth and clever guise,
And paint a world of false success built entirely on lies.

For in the classroom, on the field, or in the corporate hall,
The one who seeks a lazy route is bound to face a fall.
They copy answers off a page they never cared to learn,
Or take the credit for a prize they didn't work to earn.
They cut the corners off the blueprint, hide the broken beam,
And construct a shaky mansion on a superficial dream.
They think themselves so cunning, oh, so sharper than the rest,
Convincing all their weary hearts that cheating works the best.

But hollow is the victory that never was earned fair,
And fragile is the golden crown made out of thin, cold air.
For every secret cut and seam will slowly start to fray,
And truth, like sunrise in the dark, will always find its way.
The web of lies grows tangled fast, a heavy, suffocating net,
Where every modern promise brings a future of regret.
They live in fear of being seen, of hearing someone call
The simple truth that strips away their armor and their wall.

Too Young to Die

 

"The Mourning" - Bahamas AI Image

 ©A. Derek Catalano

 

 

 Too Young to Die

The morning sun begins to rise and cast its golden gleam,
Awaking all the sleeping earth from midnight’s quiet dream.
The world is wide, the road is long, the canvas freshly spun,
With miles of promises to keep beneath the rising sun.
Yet in the quiet of the dawn, a haunting shadow falls,
A whisper in the shifting wind that echoes through the halls.
It speaks of beauty cut too short, of stars that lose their light,
Before they ever have the chance to blaze across the night.

To look upon a youthful face, a heart untouched by years,
And see the sudden, heavy weight of unpredicted tears,
Is to behold the greatest grief the human heart can hold—
A story left unfinished, and a history untold.
The world is full of vibrant hope, of plans and grand designs,
Of heavy books with empty pages waiting for their lines.
The silver cord is snapped too soon, the fragile glass is dry,
When voices call into the dark: “They were too young to die.”

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

A Dose of The Holy Ghost
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.