Thursday, October 25, 2012

THE KITE

We chase a flying kite,
in the fields we are dressed in white,
to the society we must appear right,
but our conscience is roaming dark far from social light,
it fights,
a woman's heart is a cave of secrets,
that only the conscience regrets,
so they fight,
oh they fight, my heart my mind...

We fly a dead kite, our faces must stay clear,
not a shadow of fear,
even when death is near,
a woman's strength is what she wears,
Shh,
they can never see my fears,
my tears,
oh they fight,
my mind my heart.

We bring down a flying kite,
center it from the view of various sites,
observations;
we do not just by sight,
the inner broad eyes, the mind,
oh they fight,
my mind my heart.

We are buried a broken kite,
but they know not of our fights,
they sing praises of our might,
a woman is a rock,
this they say in mock,
or not,
but how could they have known,
oh they fight,
my heart my mind.

My death
.
.....the end.....

.....all rights reserved

Note: this piece is written in pitiful admiration of a woman's strength

Sunday, April 1, 2012

THE TREE

Grandpa' they say I have gone mad,
still make me understand,
allow me to sit at thy feet for these drugs make me too faint to stand,
back '63 when our great nation did stand,
fighting for a people and a land,

what did you read on your future cards,
a nation with million educated idles?
streets with whores instead of college idols?
a child's act of suicidal,
from a drown in a parent's divorce tidal?
Now your mouth is agape,
but lets play back the tape_
no mention of boy's rape,
or a wife stabs at a husband's nape.

Muchai, its time for your bed rest,
Aaargh! Back to the nest,
grandpa it's that nurse you know the one with the big hot chest,
she told me how they cancelled Omondi and Ahmed's examination tests,
you know the...

Muchai? do you always have to talk to this tree only?
But yet again you are crazy...
lets go now, come, lets go...

Friday, March 16, 2012

Feel the wetness of my pillow

Feel the wetness of my pillow,
of nights uncollectable billows,
laying low,
unburying old hatchets deep below,
unforgiving willows.
They could scream constantly in length,
counting downwards starting from the tenth,
enlisting me a case of mental health,
the ghosts of inadequecy my wealth.
I understand everything has its price,
and yea this isn't a surprise,
sins of a father i did reprise,
a new edition to revise.
But hey, on a question of patience,
how does it work on a dead conscience,
in search of vengence,
after slaying humanity with religions forgiveness.
Oh too hard to answer now doctor?
Or maybe I ought to ask the dead pastor,
wasn't he meant to be his mentor,
to guide and make him heavenly better,
but he couldnt control his lustful centre,
doctor, he was my son, my only son,
something had to be done,
but the law,
didnt see what i saw...
feel the wetness of my pillow... guilt, regret, sorry, nay?
I didn't think so too