My Journey

Dedication

To Family Members

Especially

Wife: Lorna May Williams

Son: Dr. Roger Williams D.O.

Nieces: Chloris, Dawn, Carol, Sharon, Castell, Cloe

Nephews: Donnie, Ricardo and Martin

Contents

Greetings

Summer Is Coming

She’s Mine

Where Is She Now?

The Rosaries

On The Beach

Sonnet To Sonia

Breats At Any Age

Tears

Tennis Anyone?

Boots

Who Am I?

Two Thousand Feet Above Sea Level

I Remember

Geometry, Fellowship, Glory

Wench

She Came Back

Brunch By The Brook

It Rained

Saved

Valentine’s Day, 2010

Again? On The Beach?

Saturday Shopping

Then And Now

Thanks Mama

A Child— Christmas A La Jamaica

Mom And Dad, They Dance

Golden Gabby The Great

A Tale Of Three

Twelve Play Days In Paradise

I Saw The Invisible

The Preacher’s Vacation

My Kingdom

Enough

Have A Drink, My Friend

Have A Drink, Mr. Will

Twilight And Beyond

Westminster Abbey

A Fund Raiser

Asleep, On The Bench Again

Miami Beach Community Church

Nation Building

Magic Of The Mind

That Smell Again

Morning In The Mountains

Nature The Ultimate

The Psychology Of Perception

Guns, Gangs, Ganja, Police And Politicians

Musings

Oh Big Brother, Oh Big Brother, Oh Big Brother

Fortunes Of The Filthy Few

Loony, Bloomy, Dummy

Sanity Or Madness

Faulting The Faultless

We The People

Oh You Country Clown

In It, Not Part Of It

Riverton City

Radical Humility

Acknowledgments-1

Acknowledgments Of Borrowed Words

Some Excerpts

Greetings

Family and friends, welcome to my short stories and poems.

My name is Robert Williams. Everyone calls me Bob.

I was born in 1937 in the family of Henry/Muschett/Williams—a family of diverse origins.

Seventy-seven years ago I was born the last of three children to Castella and Theodore Williams who were married in a small agricultural village, Porus, in the Island of Jamaica in 1925.

My father became a member of the Jamaica Constabulary after active service in North Africa in the British Military during World War 1. He met my mother after she returned from Central America as a widow with two sons. Together, they successfully reared two daughters and five sons. I am the last survivor.

Currently we are a family representing at least five races, practicing several professional disciplines and living in at least five countries.

My own career path had its embryo in two elementary schools, a British-type boarding school, Clarendon College and then at the University in Greenwich, London England. Today, I have a BS in Civil/Structural Engineering. Professionally, I am a Registered Professional Engineer in several countries and hold the level of Fellow in both the British Institution of Civil Engineers and the American Society of Civil Engineers.

Of my fifty years of professional life, I spent the first 23 years as an engineering consultant designing and managing a diverse set of projects valued at approximately $1 billion, and the last 27 years as a Project Manager, managing projects valued at approximately $1.8 billion. The last two major projects were part of the $1.5 billion Dade County Public Schools Capital Development Program and part of the $5.4 billion (1994) Miami International Airport Capital Improvement Program.

On a personal athletic level, I was heavily engaged in track and field sports, cross country running, soccer, freestyle wrestling, lawn tennis, table tennis and badminton. I came to the USA too late in life to appreciate the intricacies of football but every two years I get deeply engrossed in World Cup Soccer and World Olympics.

I have also displayed great interest in the ‘dynamics of the proletariat’

Speaking more personally, my first wife with whom I had one son has passed away.

My son graduated as a Civil Engineer from Georgia Tech. and later as a Medical Doctor from Ohio State University. He now practices medicine in Atlanta, Georgia. He is married and has two children.

Regarding community involvement, I have been engaged in the church and its activities throughout my life and served as president of community and school associations. In 1970 I served as the magazine editor of the Lions Club of Montego Bay in Jamaica and in 2010-2013 as producer of the Hollywood, Florida Rotary Club weekly Squeaky Wheel Magazine. I have mentored school children at inner city schools and evaluated them for college scholarships.

At my current church, the Miami Beach Community Church, I met a member, the renowned Pulitzer prize winner, Edna Buchanan. She was instrumental in forming a book/writer’s club of which I am a member. My church activities include membership of the Board of Directors and co-author of the constitution and by-laws.

My personal and professional life has been interesting and unique and most of my short stories (embellished as I see appropriate) relate to this. Some are pure fiction.

Since I am writing mostly about myself, my experiences, and observations, my writing style tends to depict me at the instant of each occurrence or event. By virtue of this, the tenses tend to be in the immediate past and or the present. Some observations are soliloqyized.

The writings include romantic, cultural, sociological and political topics.

Mottos: Ut sit mens sana in corpore sano Luctor et emerge

Summer Is Coming

Amusing myself, I think of beer, barbeque, food, friends and frolic, Intoxicating rhythms and beverages of the Caribbean, hilarious laughter and chatter of by-gone days.

Swirling skirts, stomping boots at that last party and that olive-skinned girl with eyes revealing just a hint of Oriental and telling more than they would like to?

So off I go at 3:00 in the afternoon, down the Interstate 95 to the food-store.

Do I see a rustle of leaves in that giant oak? Or do I see a sudden brightening straight ahead?

My worried eyes scan the horizon. Off to the left the sky appears to be losing its brilliant blue. It is getting darker by the minute. I turn my headlamps to the on position.

Then I hear thunder, like the deafening sound of a thousand wild horses galloping at full speed down some narrow canyon.

My car shakes like it is being rocked by some rioting mob gone amok.

Two miles out, maybe ten; who cares?

Like Mohammed Ali, jabbing, twisting, zig-zaggig along his unpredictable path,

The lightning, in the twinkling of an eye, covers the distance from heaven to earth.

And then it rains. Like the instantaneous opening of some giant faucet, it is water, water everywhere.

Despite my headlamps, visibility is near zero; a wall of water heads my way.

Damn! The street drains are clogged. My headlamps fade in the depth. The voice on my radio falters.

My engine goes dead. I can feel the rain water sloshing in my shoe. Nothing to do but wait and ponder my predicament. My God! my dog, at home, crouching behind the couch with eyes the size of saucers and trembling uncontrollably.

But my cat, also at home curled tightly between bundled pillows with eyes closed, as if shutting out the world, its nuances and the dog who was never his friend.

One more roar of thunder, another stab of lightening, the faucet closes. It is all over.

This scenario will repeat itself for about six weeks or until mother nature calls a halt.

The hoteliers will repair their beaches in time for the arrival of the summer tourists. In the meantime I somehow get home. No barbeque today; just one lonely shot of gin and tonic or maybe two.

It is raining again. Another gin and tonic. Summer can wait. I amuse myself with memories of swirling skirts, stomping boots, happy by-gone days and those eyes, those eyes.

She’s Mine

As I approach, I signal to her,

Her eyes light up in singular adoration.

The very sight of her takes my breath away.

Nearer, I gently touch her.

She responds with a slight chuckle, understanding what’s next,

Now inside of her, she hugs me, half encircling my entire body,

I can feel her sensuous caress from shoulder to ankle,

Another touch, she comes to life.

She purrs like a kitten awaiting a sumptuous repast,

Now together, complete coordination, complete adoration,

She protects me like my ever-loving and faithful pet dog,

I whisper in her ear, she responds with music to fill my soul.

Up that winding road, rugged and rural,

Down that valley, vaulted canopy of violets and dandelion,

Up another winding road, I am pleased with her pulse.

Her heart is a steady rhythm of sheer delight,

We view the lights of the distant city, the boat, bowing to the breaking waves,

Our time together is as good as it was the first time—great.

We return home.

Alas, we must part.

She, my Mercedes Benz, must sleep alone in her garage.

Where Is She Now?

It was 15 years ago when I first saw her at about 9 o’clock in the evening.

She was half turned so that I saw a little bit of her side, a little bit of her back.

Her face was fully turned away from me, looking out at the night.

Instantly, one could see that she was different from the other ladies standing around.

Slightly taller, yes. Slender, yes, though not skinny.

Her dress was also different from those of the other ladies. She was wearing an African headdress.

Not the colossal type which one may see on television, overwhelmingly proclaiming the continent of Africa.

Hers, undoubtedly of African print, but elegantly tailored to reveal some hair, not African, not European.

Her African print skirt hung low on the expanding curve of her hips.

Her African print blouse cut high enough to reveal a waist line evident of the shape that discerning men just love to admire—no folds, just a shape sculptured in a gentle outward sweeping geometry.

I stood there, glass in hand, barely hearing the conversation in my immediate surroundings.

My eyes were transfixed on this elegant woman. I had not yet seen her face.

We were at my friend’s birthday party.

The party location was specially designed for that purpose at the back of the main building.

The ground sloped sharply down and away from the building.

The entertainment platform ten feet above ground was reached by gently ascending steps.

In a half circle around this platform was a very dense canopy of mango trees as dark as indigo, standing in their magnificence another 20 to 30 feet above head level.

There was no moonlight, not yet.

Foot-lights ensured safe walking.

Hanging lamps availed access to tables laden with drinks and hors d’oeuvres.

Other lamps intermittently lit the faces so that for a fleeting moment, they were more than an outline.

Ah, it was just one of these moments that she turned her head, her body still not yet fully turned.

Such a stunning presence one can only perceive, maybe only in one’s dreams.

I had to do it. I walked over to her, mindful of not making a bad first impression.

Good evening ladies—ensuring that I was not ignoring anyone, especially if they were her friends.

Just then the moon rose above the level of the trees.

The setting could not be better. The moon was partially veiled by dancing clouds. The fire flies in that dark mango canopy gave a rendition of the sorcerer’s apprentice with their intermittent lights.

Despite the rising moon, the backdrop of trees was still deep indigo but in their tops, a silver lining appeared, changing shape in symphony with the soft wind.

Now more light, but not enough to see her in all her physical glory, as I later saw.

It was Omar Khayyam. I thought:

Ah, Moon of my delight who know’st no wane

The moon of Heav’n is rising once again

How oft hereafter rising shall she look

Through this same Garden after me—in vain!

Ah, my beloved, come fill this cup that clears

Today the past regrets and future fears

Tomorrow? Why to-morrow, I may be

Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n thousand Years

With all this going on in my head, I hardly heard her response. Good evening, and how are you tonight?

I said, Wonderful, the hors d’oeuvres are terrific, the drinks are even better and that DJ certainly knows his stuff.

All the while immersing my thoughts in the beauty of her face, the elegance of her stature.

As we talked, the moon rose higher, the clouds dissipated, now enough light to see her face fairly well.

Her skin and eyes were now in full revelation. Skin appearing as soft as the morning dew at spring time.

Her smile and eyes dancing softly, replicating the happiness of a child in gay abandon.

Yes, she was born of a German Mother and a Nigerian Father. Her whole being suggested a perfect blend of the best of those two cultures.

Shall we dance? I said.

But of course!

I stepped back three paces. She advanced three paces. Still too far apart, we moved closer.

She moved her head from her right to left. Our noses touched imperceptibly.—but we both noticed.

As she turned, the warmth of her breath on my face in that cool night could not go unnoticed. Was that a faint giggle I heard from her? Was the giggle the result of her knowledge of our touching noses or her warm breath on my cold face? My brain was racing. Don’t be a fool, you damn idiot.

We danced, lost in the rhythm of a knowledgeable DJ.

We danced again, and again. Three times, each