Posted in Poetry

OLD DAYS

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,

Anonymous.

Posted in Poetry

THE DATE

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 Poetry, Uncategorized

A PSALM OF LIFE

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

Posted in Poetry

THE AFRICAN LADY

She was wearing an African blue print couture dress
Fully defined edges that brought out her delicate hedges
That cover her Alice in such a magnificent wonderland
I think she got it from Etsy, just saying (whispering)
Her voice, “Oh! That voice”, I can’t forget it
It was so coarse, so coarse it seemed like…
As if it was ragged by the rugs of her past.

Well, to be frank with you, I love her, I really do
I know she has loved me for her entire life
But you see, I’ve loved her for my entire life
So that’s like how many years now?
I think I can say I know what love is
So original, so… not perverted by the external forces
Just speaking from experience here that’s all
If only I could give her one thing in this life…
I would give her the ability to see herself through my eyes,
Only then! Only then, would she realize
How special she is to me.

Posted in Uncategorized

THE OLD TIMES

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 gannaries 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 rain drops are scarse, 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 fire place has no fire, only ashes remain, because the corn has since dried in the farm land

 

words by,

anonymous writer

Posted in Inspire

SEEKING MENTAL CLARITY

Jesus loved when there was nothing to love, with us so rotten in sin

If He kept on giving to an extent that there seemed nothing was there to give

If He cared for me, a person so lost in this world that has consumed my being

That the wise and prudent deemed profitable that it was best to end this life

The thoughts of men pierced through my conscious

Dug into my heart which was unguarded with effusiveness.

 

Is it mockery that I hear at a distance?

Is it discrimination that I’ve received?

Is it an act that seems to others so just or unjust?

Is it control that words so simple have on me?

That I cry to the One…

Take heart, take courage, take every strength within me!

 

What’s this bitter and heavy feeling that has sunk in me

That chokes the very air that I enjoy in in freedom seems confined away from me

There is no way to please is there?

Every effort made with a clear conscious ends up being discriminated,

the least criticized.

Only to realize later that my sins are as far away from His thoughts…

I don’t know what’s far from yours

 

You are going to keep giving

You are going to keep loving

You are going to keep getting hurt

Because that’s the way life is

Leaning on One whose heart never tires

Whose body is patient to labor on

Whose mind is insatiable of thinking about you.

 

As in a garden, flowers knot their diverse odor to make a more sweet savor

As in music, poets bring diverse strings which cause a more delicate consent

As in art, a painter mixes more colors that bring a magnificent counterfeit

We bring all our imperfections to show the majestic nature of Christ.

Posted in Inspire

HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

It is a Friday, a day that I feel that it should be a better day for all who are employed get the chance to wind up. It is a day that he was just called by his boss, his ultimate boss on the issue of non-performance, a stuff that he did out of defiance rather than out of the norm, he is not a guy to follow rules because he believes that rules are meant to be broken and that he will be able to break them when situation allows. He was in such a good mood and he knew he will solve it with his boss if and when time allows, on that day he decided to pass the rarely traveled path to the city center.

Nearing the end of the street he sees two men, he knows that they may be bad guys but he decides to soldier on, it’s a risk but the romances of life are the risks that you take in life; he argues, they say hi and ask for a fag, he just passes heart in mouth, and says he does not have a fag, even if he had I doubt whether he would actually accept to stand and say “Hi I have a fag can I help?” it doesn’t work that way!! Still he goes on, life goes on, and it’s the rhythm of life.

He reached the destination shaken but safely, thanks God for the safe trek, its been a while since the guy was in the company of his friends. It’s a nice company and he loves the company. They do their thing, it’s a Friday you know and his meeting with the boss went on better than he expected. He is happy to unwind. He is lucky to see the Friday, he chooses to ball.

Its ten pm when he finally checks the watch, he decides its time to hit the road, he has to sleep early because he has stuff to attend tomorrow even though it’s a weekend, I think even his weekends are more cluttered than his weekdays. So he hits the road to a place in another province a place in another county, a place far from his present position. It is always good to arrive early and he is against coming home after 8pm but today he makes an exception but he feels that if he dies today, he saw it coming. He doesn’t have a will as at now but he is in the process of making one. He will be sure to finish it in time for the death meeting.

He arrives safely, well not home but at his nearly final destination. He is delighted and relieved that he arrived alive. And so he walks to his place as is his routine, on the way about 100 meters to the final destination, he meets a car, a Toyota fielder, it speeds past then slows down, a person alights then says “usijaribu hata kukimbia” – don’t dare run. It’s a phrase that he has heard that people hear when they are about to be mugged. But he is not ready to get mugged neither is he ready to die. He decides to take his chances and moves like a mad bull.

It is the fastest he has sped since running in Mt Kenya. In the background he can hear shots fired, he can’t tell whether they are real or fake, it doesn’t matter anyway; it is only safe that he gets away from the gunshots. Maybe his life will be spared and he will leave to tell the tale and see a new day. He manages to dodge the bullets, or rather the bullets somehow don’t get him, so this thing doesn’t only happen in movies, he thinks, it can also occur in real life, he laughs at that thought. That shooter must be the worst ever shooter in the history of shooting. How do you miss a target at a distance of 50 meters? That guy must have been getting washouts in range competitions, he laughs again. The irony! Laughing while death is staring you in the face, does it get any psycho than this? Ha!

Unexpectedly, he slips and falls, he is sure that he was being followed, but he cant see anyone who comes to harass him, or worse still tries to mug him. Funny, he thinks, how can it be? He is still confused and shaking, but he is not terrified, he has his head intact. Never panic in these circumstances. When death comes it should find you sober, not crying like a little girl.  He stands up and continues running, running scared. Its funny how you don’t get tired when you are in danger, he chooses not to go to his normal residence because it’s naturally locked. He bypasses it and moves to the next homestead. Nyumba kumi has not worked really because he does not even know his immediate neighbor, funny and sad at the same time.

He calls the owners to let him in, they don’t bulge, because they don’t know him, its funny that you can die in front and in the midst of your friends, ahh well… it’s life isn’t it?  Finally after what seems like eternity, he musters the courage to move out, the road is clear and so finally he reaches his final destination, bruised, shaken, tired but sober. It is such a good feeling to be home finally, the day was 7th of November, and he decides that one day he will write about the experience… He was supposed to die, somehow, he is not dead, somehow he survived, and somehow he is alive and well. The line between life and death is so thin that it can be crossed without one not noticing it. Careful not cross that line before your time has come.

 

Words from a soldier.