before
just in that second
before
you feel that
that tension
that to a subtle gag
could turn
in thought
that instant
comes with age
I should have chewed
more slowly
more
so not on life
to choke
not on the food
nor on words spoke.
Mourn the burial of your nuggets of gold
While the bereaved in the chaos of communalism
Dig up sanguinous soil to bury their beloveds
Erect a mausoleum for every edifice razed
A toast to the master class languid and lush
Past the palisades of their palace courts
Fortified by the hubris of the frenzied herd
… as your carefree skipping step
held hands with my swagger.
The early afternoon horizon
tilted giddyingly,
sonic-booming a Scold Of Jays
skyward from the trees
into a pinkish brown/electric blue
heart-shaped riot before us.
I once more believed
in something thought lost…
a soaring natural intoxication
unequal in both its
dangerousness and euphoria.
The Grey Gentleman
who street preaches
‘Woe, Woe and Thrice Woe’
upon Bleak Corner…
frowned deeper, shook his head softly,
in little ways
the clouds say
the grapes
alone may not stay
the wind
worries
for it does not know
bears it cooling breath
or fire below
Nature’s heart
(like woman’s too)
man’s laws
obedience will eschew
may men that learn
some hope, some pray
that rains
our sorrows
may wash away
Not alone
for sorrow done
Not innocence
Not guilt
would be undone
Clouds were made
where angels sleep
where dreaming
those below may keep
On Wednesday afternoon, an imminent life lesson
ends at three o’clock
with a Mozart concerto, live broadcast
from our detention centre.
The outer heavy traffic,
the rain washing the rooftops across Nairobi
penetrate the walls –
a sharp, urgent, high-pitched cry.
Across the border, the ants come to light,
through a crack in the wood.
A perfect day for unattended prayers.
If you can’t change the person, change their shape,
cloister a kitty to reveal its make;
flash the scud: splice the need to touch the breaks.
Was she worth the time to resuscitate?
That clod flashed and gave himself an earache.
If you can’t change the person, change their shape.
Shaking hands sever her head from its nape.
We can’t all eat that lucid, sticky cake;
flash the scud: splice the need to touch the breaks.
Hued words rattle their bars till they reshape.
It’s all just fun and games; her face’s opaque.
communities
where have they gone
they seem to have been replaced by
neighbor-less neighborhoods
catalysts for selfishness
it takes a village
where have they gone
they seem have become pockets of inactivity:
eyes diverted to avoid
connecting with the truth of ourselves
ears plugged to prevent
hearing the cries of those in need
mouths closed
except to gossip, complain, or criticize
individuals
where are they now
they seem to be pawns of meaningless persuasion
If I could crawl
inside your chest
and build a nest
oh my girl
don’t you know I’d rest
with perfect peace
eternally
close to your heart
If I could wake
each new dawn
and sing your song
oh my goddess
don’t you know I’d long
for the lyrics
that brought a smile
across your lips
If I could burn
this blazing torch
on our back porch
oh my love
don’t you know I’d search
for the brightest fire
to offer light
all through your life
The revolutionary magazine is one that contains thoughtful words,
luminous words, words that broaden and elevate:
the engines of Liberty’s birds.
It asks:
Why are Western prisons and hospitals full?
Why are Middle Eastern playgrounds empty?
Who are the current scapegoats?
How can we shield them, and lift them up too?
How can a plumber become a critical intellectual?
And what about the scholar?
How can roses bloom among spreadsheets?
How does a tower crumble and the garden
of cooperation grow?
