Posted in Poetry


You just had to say it, you know, those words

The words that I escaped with passion as an addict escaping therapy

The words that cripples my heart every time when they come to mind

The words that hit me, “Welcome to reality!” with a smirk crawling up.


You just had to tell me, you know, the truth

The truth that has tied down my soul with shackles

The truth that made me be on a run, be held at the gun

The truth that will surely set us free, set who free? Me?


You just had to do it, you know, that action

The action that deprives me the right to write my own fate

The action that stroke my hand encouraging me to express

The action that now judges me on what I have created


Posted in Poetry


Sipping my drink casually as I drowned in my own thoughts,
I felt a certain pressure and goosebumps on my body
At that moment I heard a low husky voice close to my ear
Turning only to see a glorious sight before me
A six feet tall solid mass of a man
Casually wearing a Brioni piece
With his full boned body that seemed to be a very comfortable place for me to nestle
As he stooped closer in conversation
My words sounded to me as if it cake out in restrained breath
The scent of his after shave intoxicated me
Making it more harder to express my opinions on the issue set on motion

His hazel nut brown eyes looked down on me warming my heart
Couldn’t help my self but trace the contours of his face in awe
His whiskers trimmed so neatly that my hands itched to trace
How interesting his face was, sprinkled with little brown spots
He seemed so relaxed yet giving an air of seriousness
Looked at his full lipped smile that enchanted my spirit
Possessed my body stiff

My lips parted to welcome the warmth he offered
I grabbed the sit edges and ached my heart upwards for him to receive
I could hear an echo of disagreement building at the back of my mind
But I was falling so hard that they were shattered by gravity
I wonder in which aspects of fairness is one permitted to have such control over another
That one could compel my being to total obedience against my rationality.


Posted in Poetry


Words built in the air forming sentences that pushed themselves into my being. My vision started to get blurry, my being contracted and stiffened in response. I felt something in my throat, blocking the flow of the clean God given oxygen into my lungs. My hands in response shot up to try to soothe the lump away but it won’t bug.

The body I once carried so effortlessly, suddenly, felt heavier like an extra 100 kilograms were just dropped on me. Eyes searching, asking, pleading for help, but the words needed did not form in my mouth, I simply sank to the welcoming earth. Holding on to it, clawing, digging in to it. I felt a sharp pain like a needle pierced into my eyes to the back of my head and just like that I entered the darkness.

Echoes, I can hear echoes of phrases in the distance. Mpenzi wangu! Mpenzi wangu! My love! My love! The voice, there is something about that voice. The arms that held me brought comfort, diffusing through my skin, transported by my veins to settle in the center of my being.

My heart, with great effort, took control of my body and eventually I opened my eyes. Drawing the image in front of me into focus I tried to register the situation that am in. As if confusion was written on my face in caps lock, the image spoke. The chain of words that came from it, a body that I felt comfortable cuddled in, brought nothing but grief.

That’s when the trembles began.

Posted in Poetry


Hey! It’s me again. I’ve called a thousand times but you’re not picking up. Is it me? Is it you? I want to know. Memories of the past are strolling in my brain and I simply can’t pick the thing that drifts you away. Each piece holds some pain, some laughter, some joy, all forming up together creating a thread of events that lead us to this moment. There is a bitterness that is growing from my stomach, to my heart, to my throat and it’s straining to come out. Am scared, I fear the next second, the next minute, the next phone call, the next space of silence.

Listen! Can you hear it? It’s raining, the drops are falling with such a rush to reach the earth below, with such passion, such intensity, that the streams open with satisfaction. Rain on me once more, I don’t mind the cold. I know I like bright colors, but grey is a color I have come to love as well. It is who you are. Your touch would make my temperature fall, my hair to stand on edge, paling my skin. Is it me? Is it you? Tell me now. I want to know the truth. I want to let the bitterness out. I want my vision to be blurry for a moment, the droplets forming soaking my eyelashes, slide down my cheek bones to the ground joining their brethren in sweet fellowship. I need to hear it.

Posted in Poetry


Bring up your cause so we can hear

Speak in reason which you hold so strong

Witness unto us the deed that has been done

Show us the acts that distressed your peace

What they may be, considerations will be made


Affliction comes not forth of the dust

Neither trouble spring out of the ground

Where is your beauty, we would like to know?

Your heart has become darker than coal

Even your skin cleaves onto your bones.


Bitterness rules your desolate life like a tyrant

Is thy grief is heavier than the sand of the sea

That you drive your throat hoarse

As if the terrors of death have fallen upon you

Why not give up the ghost then?


No I will not give up my ghost

It is my essence of existence, my identity, my pedigree

I am not bitter, am just exasperated

Because people lie and make it sound normal.


Why does humankind pretend to be good yet we are all savages?

Ready to pound on others and celebrate their misfortunes

My heart was once white, but humankind has made it dark

Like soot in a kettle, it blackens everyday


I am bitter of the injustices meted daily by humankind

Of slavery, racism, colonialism, terrorism, ethnic cleaning and religious profiling

If all religions speak of peace, why do we have so much wars

We flock in churches, mosques and synagogues, yet inside we are vile

We are evil, conniving and cunning, yet in religion we veil


We hurt, cheat, kill and later turn our bloody hands to shake our victims

We applaud the evil doers, and condemn the morally right

The chaste ones are ridiculed, shunned like a deadly disease

We pretend to be saints in front of camera,

Yet we have daggers underneath the table

Posted in Inspire, Poetry


Tried to summon my courage,
There was a touch of insanity,
If you ask me,
There was a sense of lugubrious drollery,
In the whole scene;
Which could not be dissipated
With the musical chants.

My pace was slow and heavy,
I knew i was taking a merry dance with death;
The drought had affected him too,
His joints were like knots in a rope;
Meagre breasts panted together,
Eyes stared stonily,
Oh dear!!! I wasn’t ready.

The wound had just healed,
He won’t be able to fit,
That I knew for sure;
But his devilish look cut through
The mournful stillness of my spirit,
He won’t wait for me,
Do I get a say really?

Posted in Poetry


The wind blows, the sound is nostalgic,

Of the old days when rains, used to be plenty

And children played outside, and herded cattle in the fields

The trees whistle in the forest

In a reminiscence of the whistling of the herder in the green fields

When the herd was plenty and the rain dropped from the sky

The land was fertile and the plains were never dry


The rain drops, on the metal sheet

Very intense but for a short time

Unlike the old times when, we had more than plenty

When we had bumper harvests and our granaries were ever full


Now on the wind blows, and brushes past the dry trees

The trees whistle a mournful sound, like a funeral procession

the raindrops are scarce, and very feeble, like a candle fire in the wind

The children never play outside, they are never amused by the sun and the desolate land

And the fireplace has no fire, only ashes remain, because the corn has since dried in the farm land


Adopted words,


Posted in Poetry


After three hours of sitting down looking at each other

Feasting on the sacred moment of pure honesty and truth

Paralyzed to have a sense of time

Him staring at her curved bowed lips

Her… well, what about her?

She was definitely mesmerized by the cool eyes

So curious, searching, looking…

He asked her then, to pour him a drink


Heard by the eavesdropping birds, the words were weightless

To her, they were whispered words wrapped in petals

That floated gently into her rib cage and settled at her centre

It was a simple request, but her heart took it as a plea

Something changed, in a second the environment changed

The trance was broken, and the locks snapped


A harsh fell and the silence shouted at the top of her lungs

Confusion was written on her face

Wondered if he knew that she was just a picture

With a broken frame

A voice commanded her out of the state

Be everything your ego is afraid to become

Your existence is tied together like shoelaces.


Her eyes held so many tears, unshed for so many years

He said, “Rain on me”

Chosen not to be wiped, chosen not to be held back

She tasted her very emotions, a mixture

Of anguish, pain, bitterness, frustration and happiness

And it was the best wine he had ever had.

Posted in Inspire, Poetry


The lover’s footprint in the sand

the ten-year-old kid’s bare feet

in the mud picking chili for rich growers,

not those seeking cultural or ethnic roots,

but those whose roots

have been exposed, hacked, dug up and burned

and in those roots

do animals burrow for warmth;

what is broken is blessed,

not the knowledge and empty-shelled wisdom

paraphrased from textbooks,

not the mimicking nor plaques of distinction

nor the ribbons and medals

but after the privileged carriage has passed

the breeze blows traces of wheel ruts away

and on the dust will again be the people’s broken


What is broken God blesses,

not the perfectly brick-on-brick prison

but the shattered wall

that announces freedom to the world,

proclaims the irascible spirit of the human

rebelling against lies, against betrayal,

against taking what is not deserved;

the human complaint is what God blesses,

our impoverished dirt roads filled with cripples,

what is broken is baptized,

the irreverent disbeliever,

the addict’s arm seamed with needle marks

is a thread line of a blanket

frayed and bare from keeping the man warm.

We are all broken ornaments,

glinting in our worn-out work gloves,

foreclosed homes, ruined marriages,

from which shimmer our lives in their deepest truths,

blood from the wound,

broken ornaments

when we lost our perfection and honored our imperfect

sentiments, we were blessed.

Broken are the ghettos, barrios, trailer parks where gangs duel to death,

yet through the wretchedness a woman of sixty comes riding her rusty bicycle,

we embrace

we bury in our hearts,

broken ornaments, accused, hunted, finding solace and refuge

we work, we worry, we love

but always with compassion

reflecting our blessings

in our brokenness

thrives life, thrives light,

thrives the essence of our strength,

each of us a warm fragment,

broken off from the greater

ornament of the unseen,

then rejoined as dust,

to all this is.

by Jimmy Santiago, 1952.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized


Tell me not, in mournful number,

Life is but an empty dream!”

For the soul is dead that slumber;

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not it’s goal;

“Dust thou art, to dust returnest,”

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each to- morrow

Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long and time is fleeting,

And thou our hearts, thou stout and brave;

Still, like muffled drums are beating

Funereal marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of life,

Be not dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act, act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God overhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time.

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing

Learn to labor and to wait.

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow