A Cry of Hope?

Today I feel the loss
That I will feel everyday from now on
A cherished friend lost in the woods of words
Out of no fault of our own but in the complexity
Of fears; the unknown loomed larger than life
Extinguishing the flame of promise

There are not enough tears
The heart could not ache worse
As I sit here still watching those letters
Forming words that burn in my mind
Punching holes in the boat that is drifting
Further and further away

It would be easy to point fingers and say
Had it not been for the intensity
Had it not been for the memories of pain
Tomorrow could have become what yesterday falsely promised

Selfishly I feel my hurt is worse than yours
All the emotion canned inside me
Life is coldly unfair; harshly unreasonable
Showing glimpses of dreams then it says no
Isn’t it insane that what is good is not always best?

I choose to whisper through the rain of tears
Calling out your name sure that you long for my voice
Afraid though that I might open old wounds healed by pain
Yet I cling to the hope that I will hear yours
To rekindle that ember that will always glow

I will keep it aglow foolishly in the belief that
A feeling so good cannot be wasted or wrong
Knowing that you feel as I
Both of us whimpering
Moaning for that day
That our twin sparks will ignite another moment
That I miss ohhh so much

Joyous Solitude

The Silence is
Deep, gentle, caressing your spirit
Rinsing away your worries ushering in
Calm like a soft breeze through trees.
Adrift you move feeling freedom in you wings

The peace you feel
Of being alone; at one
With all things beautiful, magical;
You cry that painless tear of joy
Afloat in the ecstasy of serenity

The stability makes
Firm and immovable your soul
Like the centre of a gyroscope
Surrounded by the tossing turning
The turmoil of everyday

The book you read
At your hearts own pace
Sometimes lost in it; at times your mind
Roams away from it; to other things
Not so simple and back to the book
To the solitude that keeps you sane.

Someone,who at this present time shall remain anonymous, asked me to write and post a poem on solitude. I have deep feelings for quiet moments and I hope we can all relate to this.


Them and My Life

There they go again
Telling me I cannot
Will not make those choices that are mine
Pouring scorn thick and hot on me

Peddlers of lost causes prophets of doom
They are no match for my vision
Coordinates locked I will not waver
I will see through that dream
Coz its mine and I don't need anyone else’s

There they go again
Telling me I cannot
Will not make those choices that are mine
Pouring scorn thick and hot on me

They know not what drives me what lights me up
Clueless to how much more throttle
This vehicle of my life has to offer
They think they know me till
I step on the gas leaving them in my dust

There they go again
Telling me I cannot
Will not make those choices that are mine
Pouring scorn thick and hot on me

Cruising through life in my blood red cabriolet
Carefree wind in my face, Tusker between my legs
Waiting for the next curve sure that I will take it
Loving the thrill closing in on my dream

There they go again
Telling me I cannot
Will not make those choices that are mine
Pouring scorn thick and hot on me

Smiling at me the sun always is
Basking me in its rays of hope
Beckoning me to live that dream
How best I know without a care in my mind

This poem feels like a song. I used to listen to Billy Joel way back and i heard his song 'My life' on the radio driving to work.It brought a rush of memories and gave birth to this.


Kwani03- PART TWO of THREE

The theme for the launch was the 60s and the music was great. James Browns - Sex Machine, The Jackson Fives- ABC etc. etc. Marvelous stuff. There were a few people dressed appropriately- I wasn’t one of them. A couple of fabulous ladies dressed in large afro wigs, oversized sunglasses and colours that could have shocked any Kamba out of his psychedelic self. We were not out of place as most of the people were either unaware of the theme or didn’t make an effort to participate. I am not sure if, had I known earlier, I would have made a conscious effort to dress up.

So there we are at Simba Saloon, my wife, my cousin and I. My cousin is trying to comprehend why people read or write poetry. He tells us that the last time he read a serious book was back in school and he hated every moment of those years. He says he believes in making money not wasting time reading. I tell him that I agree with him on the importance of making money and succeeding, but insist that reading for oneself is good and growth is infinite and more rewarding than those days back in school. As this line of discussion appears to be quickly deteriorating into an argument that I know I cannot possibly win through intelligent reasoning, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom.

The place is getting packed quickly and as I leave my seat some dread locked, spaced out kijana comes for the seat. I decide to let my cousin do his macho thing and make sure that my seat is there when I get back. I can almost lip read the exchange of polite obscenities between them and I smile at my wife’s obvious amusement. On the way to the toilets I bump into none other than Binyavanga signing copies of Kwani03. He looks up and I say hello and he asks from where he knows me. I’d never thought that my brother and I resembled each other but Binya was convinced that he knew me. I finally accept this and as I explain that I was Waduma’s brother his face brightened and he tells me that he expects to be in the states during the wedding (Waduma’s) sometime in March next year. He thanks me for supporting Kwani and I tell him that I will be looking out for him a little later so that I can get picture of him and my wife. At this stage I am thinking of how much I will impress Waduma with that photo! An overenthusiastic fan interrupts us and I hurriedly excuse myself for I feel like my bladder is about to burst.

As I weave my way through the human traffic, KJ comes back on stage and is about to start reading Blood and 100% Human Hair by Martin Kimani Mbugua. Damn! I curse. To me this is the highlight because I am proud to know this author personally. I stand against one of the columns willing away my piss and trying to concentrate on KJs booming voice. The story is, as I expected, quite good and most of Simba Saloon is quiet…. transfixed by KJ and transported to Kenyatta Market. I say most people were quiet expect for a table of some 10 people whose appreciation of Kenyan literary works was equal to my understanding of quantum physics. My guess is that they were here by mistake- probably attracted here by the free drinks at the cocktail. Maybe they’d had a few too many there. They played the Kenyan role of overdrinking and lack of concern for others to Oscar standards. They are loud, laughing at some privately shared jokes. They casually ignore all the threatening, demeaning and pathetic looks all the surrounding tables are giving them. I feel I could personally throw the lot out of the Carnivore.

Back to Charles Kiarie (KJ). He is an okay reader; he could have improved on his intonation and clarity in order to bring out the realism of this piece. (When I read the piece later I was even more convinced about that. I could almost smell the nyama choma the hair pomade, burning braids and the trench. I could hear the women clamoring for customers. The fight between Gikuyu and the Luo woman was classic. I could vividly see the alleys cramped with salons, barbershops and boutiques.) KJ finishes and the whole room applauds. The table of the “terrible 10” briefly look to the stage and clap, feigning delight. ‘Brilliant’, they say, ‘Brilliant!’ I run to the toilet pressing myself to keep the piss in and make it to the urinal. There I am, running in place, trying to unzip my trousers to relieve the struggling organ. Finally its out and I feel the sweet release as I throw my head back in pleasure. (Sorry ladies, only men understand this feeling- it’s indescribable!)

Out of the toilet and back to the show. I stop by the bar to buy a pack of cigarettes and I find Judy Kibinge talking to a gentleman at the counter. I love her eyes. I pull out my camera so as to get a photo to send to Waduma (my excuse) and it doesn’t come out very well but at least I got it. She hurries off to the stage before I have the chance to say hello and remind her of who I am. It is upsetting being the elder brother and having to introduce yourself, ‘Hey how you been? Remember me I am the Kenyankukekamba -brother to Waduma?’ ‘We had drinks with you, Kima and Waduma at Chez L’ami a couple of months ago?’ Anyway I didn’t have the chance. A gentleman is reading us his poem on Pattni in a coy Indian accent. Excellent stuff. Next Judy is on stage and is preparing us for the David Munyakei Clip. We all give a fitting applause to David- Kenyas own unsung hero in the Goldenberg Scandal. She reads as the clip rolls. Its amazing and I cant find words to express it. One needs to see the clip to appreciate what this man has done for our country and is still suffering for it. WE HAVE TO DO SOMETHING FOR DAVID.

End of Part TWO………

Part THREE may follow.