Thank You All

I open my eyes,
awake in a dream,
My little fingers,
Larger than they seem.

Words new and alive,
Life flies past,
My little thoughts,
Seem longer to last,

A world beyond the previous,
A life unknown to me,
My little words,
All grown up, and free.



I would like to thank you all for being with me during the journey, and what a journey it has been. All the way from Scars, my first post here, to Homicidal Silence, my last, not counting this one of course. I want to thank you for helping me grow and urge you all to continue to grow with me. I have now moved these contents and more stuff from my other blogs to my website http://michael.co.ke I  hope you will keep reading and supporting me, to infinity and sufficiently past it. 

To start you off check out New Beginnings on the new site

Keep Smiling,

Your Author,

Michael.

Homicidal Silence

Soon my silence shall be the death of me,

Plunging into a darkness of anonymity,

Fleeing from mirrors,

Vanquish the thought,

Soon my quest shall come to naught.

Soon I shall drown in my melancholy,

Chasing at shadows that are standing still,

Fighting for acceptance,

Vanquish the thought,

Running after dreams that stand in the same spot.

Soon the serene will strangle me,

Dangling from a rope of insecurity,

Breaking my resistance,

Vanquish the thought,

Learning from the very same lessons I taught.

Soon I shall be swallowed by civility,

Hiding behind a cloak of humility,

Dreading my power,

Vanquish the thought,

Giving answers to questions, where none were sought.

Soon there will be no more struggle in me,

Teetering on the edge of insanity,

Cowing from battles,

Vanquish the thought,

Beaten by armies that I could have fought.

Soon my silence shall be the death of me,

Unhinged, uncaged, undeniably free

Swooning in irrelevance,

Vanquish the thought,

Perish completely, my name, forgot.

Schizophrenia

Tiny steps tentatively taken,

Forward moves the human race,

Super scientists made silent,

Mistaken, they need to save face.

Colour follows his eyes down the hallway,

More than meets the eye,

Shadows mask his virtue,

Light blocks his dream,

Slowly he begins to realize,

All this time,

He has never been on his own.

Numbers

I counted;

22 broken hearts,

21 toy soldiers,

20 young boys who would never grown up,

Just because they died before they could get any older.

19 failed brakes,

18 dead bodies,

17 mothers crying,

“Please, help me somebody!”

16 broken windows,

15 teen couples kissing,

14 children aborted,

Because a condom was missing.

13 stories told,

12 legends begotten,

11 myths created,

Stamped in the history of man never to be forgotten.

10 unheeded commandments,

9 unopened bibles,

8 pastors preaching prosperity,

Telling tall tales of what they think is desirable.

7 open bottles,

6 broken needles,

5 birds perched,

On the roof of an old church steeple.

4 lies told,

3 politicians fighting,

2 halves of a tribe,

Split apart by the dog that does no biting.

And 1,

I,

Alone,

Sitting,

Watching,

And counting.

Poetry 101

So many words that seem not to rhyme,

Structure, syllables and strictly metered time,

Error made once, twice, three times, nine,

Then this, a solitary repeated line.

Forward, backward, forward once again,

Relentless work, a constant strain,

It has to be perfect; it won’t work as just fine,

Then back to the solitary repeated line.

Organized clutter, coherent rumble,

Over the words don’t stagger or stumble,

Letters age like milk, but words like wine,

So write the solitary repeated line.

Pause between stanzas nothing to write,

Piece incomplete, seems a bit light,

Talk about insecurity and try not to whine,

Then write the solitary repeated line

Getting closer towards the end, try a variation,

Push your piece past perfect alliteration,

Read over again, are the words really mine?

One word,

Smile,

Then,

The solitary repeated line

A Lonely War

The voices in my head deserted me,

They had nothing left to say,

They noticed I wasn’t listening,

So they packed and went away.

They stopped their noisy bickering,

They took their opinions galore,

They left me alone tittering,

On the edge of a lonely war.

They took away my opinions,

Assertion became strange to me,

The words went as their minions,

A writer I ceased to be.

“You know?” punctuated my sentences,

Although I scarce used it before,

Then slowly I dulled my senses,

Ready to fight my lonely war.

My enemy is not inside me,

Nor is my enemy without,

I can’t win when it’s me against me,

I’ll probably run me rout,

Yet still I’ll stand firm in this battlefield,

Armed to the teeth with spear and sword,

Hoping that one day I, myself, will yield,

And be the conqueror in this lonely war.

Cascading Letters

Cascading letters,

Aligned to the left,

Maybe if I write the same word,

Over,

         and over,

                         and over,

                                        and over,

                                                       and over,

                                                                       again then nothing will matter.

So I take my letters,

My words, 

My sentences ,

But to no avail.

Because the truth is; 

the formatting doesn't make the poem,

The poet does.

Pacified Pawns

Fire fire fire,

Smoke Smoke smoke,

Feed the young men oatmeal,

Make them think it’s a joke,

Let the night spur their zeal,

The winds will carry the words I spoke,

Don’t stop until,

Every flame has been choked.

Smoke smoke smoke,

Fire fire fire,

Let the men grab their guns,

It is all that they’ll require,

The sun will light their path,

They will suppress their every desire,

Their bed shall be pure earth,

The grass their thoughts inspire.

Fire fire fire,

Smoke smoke smoke,

Take the men away from battle,

Make sure they go broke,

Promise them a thousand cattle,

Then deliver a single cloak,

Put them in a remote chattel,

Surround them with kinsfolk.

Smoke Smoke Smoke,

Fire fire fire,

Watch the old men one by one,

As from life they retire,

Support the family of a dead man.

Give their families less than they require,

Name a backstreet if you can,

The pawns have played their part,

In your grand masterplan.

I AM

For the girls of Kibera Girls Soccer Academy on their showcase on 10th September:

I am the past, the present and the future embodied in one,

I am what happened before and what is yet to come,

I am the reason for living and the excuse for death,

I am the thoughts in your mind and the mint in your breath.

I am the hero to the slaves and the master of the free,

I am truth honesty and justice, yes I'm all three,

I am the sword of Damocles, the tablet of cebes,

I am the arm that you can lean on when you have the hebe jebes.

I am the rock Jacob slept on, the fifth telly tubby,

I am the guy that she ran to when she got beat by her hubby,

I am the shadow of the night and reflection of the day,

I am the arm that clung on you and begged you to stay.

I am the eleventh commandment, God's other son,

I am the voice that says "there's nothing wrong with some fun"

I am the rhythm in your bones, the music in your soul,

I am the strength sapped from your flesh then the soup in your bowl.

I am the science of war, the 49th power law,

I am the man that was built on another's flaw,

So if anyone wants to know what they can call me,

Tell them I am the one that answers to "free."

The Plea

Dear Mr Candle, find me a spark,
That will set fire to your wick,
And chase away the dark,
Elusive it may be,
Destructive and vile,
But find it for me and let it eat you alive.

Dear Mr Bull, find me some meat,
 That will roast on the fire,
And give me something to eat,
Elusive it may be,
Your thigh makes great steak,
So give it to me, to burn at the stake.

Dear Mr tree, find me some wood,
That will light up the evening,
Make sure it burns good,
Elusive it may be,
But trunks are the norm,
So give yours to me, that I may stay warm.

Dear Mr Voter, give me your vote,
That I may live in comfort,
Don’t let me gloat,
Elusive it may be,
Your life seems fair game,
So give it to me, and bear all the blame.

Hypocritical Hallucinations

Severally we hear that the ones we hold dear,
Were born on such a day not so long a go,
So we facebook and tweet and say stuff so sweet,
Just so their egos we can blow,
It's hey hey hey,
How you doing hbd and what have you,
And though we texted and we called
We never cared at all,
What happened to that person all year through.

Word On The Street

I left my bag open,

And my poems spilled to my feet,

I tried to gather them up but all in vain,

Now they say there’s word on the street.

There’s word in the alley ways,

There’s word on the windows,

There’s word under the card board box,

Other wise known as home by the man they call homeless,

There’s word on the doorsteps of millionaires,

There’s word on the soles of the brave,

There’s word in the hearts of the weak,

There’s word on the windshield wipers of forgotten classics,

And on the wise bumper stickers of overused rust buckets,

There’s word on the pulpits of empty churches,

And in the aisles of crowded movie theatres,

There’s word in forgotten car manufacturing lots

And in over accommodating slums,

There’s word on the knick knack paddy whack that gives a dog a bone

And swimming around in the yolk of the distraught humpty dumpty,

There’s word on the backs of the whipped,

And in the eye of the oppressors

The word is out there,

Spreading like a virus,

My feeble efforts to bring it back,

Can only but fan the fire,

I left my bag open,

And my poems spilled to my feet,

They called it littering, little did they know,

That’s how word got to the street

Sanctified Dead

Their wisdom was in words,

Their riches from hearts bled,

So they stole from the living,

Then prayed for their dead.

Their joy was in their sorrow,

Their love had turned to dread,

So they burnt the house down,

Then prayed for their dead.

Their comfort was in turmoil,

They drank from tears they shed,

So they shot all the children,

Then prayed for their dead.

Their wealth was of the blood,

That paved the streets bright red,

So they hacked all the youth,

Then prayed for their dead.

Their weakness was their strength,

The strength that anger bread,

So they raped all the women,

Then prayed for their dead.

Alone a child is crying,

Pregnant with words unsaid,

Unable to form the words,

To pray for his dead.

My Five Links

This is completely unorthodox of me and probably the only post I will ever put up here that requires me to do anything more than write a poem. I mainly agreed to this outlandish request by @arungaian because I knew it had been a while since I had managed to put together a proper piece of poetry (read all about that here) and it gave me an opportunity to let those who haven’t had the time to go through my blog’s archives do just that.

Basically this is one of those round games that you normally see on facebook. You know the drill if you are tagged you must do it and I seem to have ignored quite a large amount of those in the blogging circles so allow this to be my first, and probably last, of the kind. One last thing, if I already saw your five links on your blog odds are I won’t tag you at the end. Let’s see what other guys have to say.

So without much further whacking of the stick around the little shrub here we go:

1.     My Most Popular Post

Well, it depends on how you define the word popular but seeing as the way to measure a blog’s success is by its statistics I can only assume that this particular query means that I am to speak of the post that has had the highest number of hits on my blog.

In that case then it must definitely be Tempted by Trust. By a large margin I must add.

2.     Post That Didn’t Get The Attention It Deserved

Again it got the attention it deserved but didn’t get the attention I expected. I think whoever created this game was very careless with how they framed their words. (that would probably by this guy here). Anyway, I might as well stop being trivial and sounding like and old hag.

The post that I think should have been read more? I have just the thing, All That’s Left. Although The Dreamer is a close second.

3.     The Post Whose Success Surprised Me

Refer to my sentiments in number 1 on the question of success. That being said I would be best of here going with I Wrote This Poem, mainly because it was just a reaction to someone who was insistent on the fact that poetry must strictly have some sort of politically aware or social message. So I wrote something just because I could.

4.     My Most Controversial Post

This will probably be it. There’s not much controversy in the comments section of the blog on many an occasion though people have come up to me and raised critical issues that they noticed in my poems (that even I didn’t think of when writing).

That’s why my most controversial post, even if the comments may show otherwise, was, and still is, Language of The Earth.

5.     The Post I’m Most Proud Of

As a writer I am probably sentimentally attached to all my poems. Even the ones that don’t make it here and end up somewhere on my laptop gathering, well not dust but the software equivalent. I have been criticized many times for being a tad bit too rigid in my writing and following of certain traditional poetry rules. So one day I got mad and wrote a free verse poem. Just to prove I could and I was utterly proud of myself.

Ladies and Gentlemen, A Little Bud.

Now I must elect five other people who I think should do the same, and who I read of course. So here goes:

@MarcusOlang

@Ndinda_

@Soul_Fool

@Mawazo_Mengi

@EdwinBaru

I think that will be all.

Innocence

She said she wanted to colour the rainbow,
Cocked back her head, and laughed,
Asked if it was possible for her to make the rain glow,
Adelle set fire, maybe she'd use the charred coal.

She asked why we insist the sun is yellow,
When it is obvious it shines a brilliant white,
Asked why our faces are always mellow,
If work was so hard then why didn’t we just quit.

She was sure she could paint the face of God,
With her brown crayons and tiny bottle of paint,
Asked how come we don’t find it odd,
That the word psycho had an unnecessary ‘p’

She wondered of men who stayed up all night,
Watching over us while we rested our minds,
Asked why we were filled with such fright,
“Don’t thieves as well, need to sleep?”

She said she wanted to buy a unicorn,
Not for herself, but as a gift for santa,
Asked how come a man, full grown,
Has never had a proper family Christmas?”

She said she wanted to change the world,
Put an end to war and disease,
I looked at her,
And smiled,
One day at a time, I told her,
One day at a time.

Shades of His Future

He said he would paint the soles of his feet,
Paint them some absurd colour, maybe purple, or black
So that every time he would walk down the street,
They’d see for themselves, he was leaving a mark.

He said he would scent his each and every word,
Apple cider, eucalyptus, frankincense, blueberry or sunflower,
So that every time that they were heard,
They’d hear for themselves, this was his hour.

He said he would spice the work of his hands,
Exotic spices, cayenne pepper, dhana jeera and a dash of cinnamon,
So that every time he executed his plans,
They’d taste for themselves, he was going to be the man.

He said he would choreograph his dreams,
Swift salsa, beautiful ballroom, complex chacha, cover all his bases
So that when he told the of his schemes,
They would know for themselves, he was going places.

He said he would engrave an effigy on his palms,
An image reflecting the person that he wanted, one day, to be,
So that whenever they looked in his eyes, shook his hand,
They’d feel for themselves, he wanted to be free.

He said he would paint the soles of his feet,
Paint them some absurd colour, maybe purple, or black
So that every time he would walk down the street,
They’d see for themselves, he was making a mark

Goodnight

Music will always be but a gateway to the soul,
It will always fill the void, make you feel whole,
Words will express emotions, but faces will tell the story,
Books will be confusing, a minute ago will be history,
Don’t worry your pretty little head

Everything changes and so everything is the same,
The ozone is burning up and we don’t know who to blame,
The earth is a cycle, as you will come to see,
Things have been, are and will continue to be,
Don’t worry your pretty little head

Poets will lament, musicians will fall in love,
Pastors will call for miracles from high up above,
Hummingbirds will do the backstroke, mockingbirds will sing,
The midday sun will beat and church bells will ring,
Don’t worry your pretty little head

Classes will confuse you, girls will do worse,
You’ll speak your word in prose, then do it in verse,
Cars will excite you money will entreat you,
Men shall allure you with bargains untrue,
Don’t worry your pretty little head

Your beliefs will be questioned your integrity doubted,
Your words discarded and your actions mistrusted,
Your heart will be crushed then tossed aside,
No one will care for what you feel inside,
Don’t worry your pretty little head

But that is a long time from now, so go to sleep,
I don’t want to hear a sound; I don’t want to hear a peep,
And when fear comes to your mind, doubts at you are hurled,
Smile, and remember, it is still a wonderful world,
So tonight as you go to bed,
Don’t worry your little head.

An Ode to A Lost Friend

I played a game when I was yet still quite tame,
With my best friend called Silva,
Of pirates and ships and our numerous trips,
To the places we would stop to pilfer.

With a yo oh ho, our faces would glow,
As the world came alive around us,
Pillows as Islands and tables as Highlands,
We fought with hawkers and hunters.

Now, Silva was older, and a great deal bolder,
Than I would ever aspire to be,
He’d get us in trouble, and then on the double,
We’d run off screaming with glee.

Then we would swear, upon a rugged teddy bear,
That forever we would be best of friends,
No mountains or dungeons, dragons or canyons,
Would dictate how it ends.

They say it was cancer, that provided the answer,
To the question that he called his life,
The rest is history, cancer is no mystery,
His death was slow and filled with strife.

On that last day, just before he passed away,
He gave me one of those sly smiles,
“X marks the spot where you shall find your gold pot,
Aargh tis a journey of a thousand miles”

Five years down the lane and when I feel the pain,
I go to our corner so private,
And remember back when, with a paper and a pen,
I could change into a pirate.

A Different Kind of Beauty

The last thing I remember,
Is the smell of freshly fallen Jacaranda,
That sweet scent surrounding my sinuses,
Each flower delicately touching my skin as it fell,
The wind whispering in my ear “I have a story to tell,”
Smiles from the sun cast down in rays, creating shadows,
Restless rabbits running for shelter in their furrows,
Endless possibilities, joy that knew no bounds,
Nature uninterrupted, pure smells, pure sounds.
Then I blinked,
It is all I did; I closed my eyes and opened them,
Just in time to jump out of the way of a speeding truck,
Paper bags replace the flowers on the ground,
Used condoms, discarded wrappers where they were once found,
Buildings tower, look down upon me, filled with pity,
The wind rushes past my ear giddy with felicity,
The sun smiles harder beating on brows,
Businessmen and briefcases look up with frowns,
Everything is rushing now; everyone has a sense of duty,
Some say it’s ugly, I call it a different kind of beauty.

Liberated Thoughts

Whereby,

The words have been spoken, quoted, written and said,
Love has turned to hate and hope to dread,
Peace is no longer with us, departed we stand,
Joy has turned to a whisper, murmured about all over the land.

Our existence has lost all meaning, our reality a fallacy,
Sorrow has become our only comfort, lost within our vanity,
Dreaming has become impossible, sleep an illusion,
Death is celebrated birth discouraged, utter confusion.

Whereby,

Sons have turned on fathers, husbands on wives,
Families have stopped communicating, expelled from each others lives,
Age has become less than a number, language no longer the queen's,
Clothing has become an option, selling sex to the teens.

Money has become a god, before him we shall bow,
Patience lost her virtuity, the time, here and now,
All have searched but none have found, they have no hope at all,
The utter chaos has left the world wondering who to call.

We,
The poets,
Writers,
Artists,
Musicians,
Designers,
Techies,
Carpenters,
Bankers,
Business people,
Brokers,
Lawyers,
Doctors,
Engineers,
All of human kind, shall stand,
And we shall stomp our feet in the ground and say, enough!
Too long we have had it rough, tough and figured it out,
Then we shall congregate and remember the virtues of our forefathers,
And for fathers we will make sure we go further,
And outline their values one by one,
Peace,
Patience,
Kindness,
Hope,
Self control,
Joy,
Faith,
Mercy,
Grace,
Selflessness,
Forgiveness,
Obedience,
Honesty,
Love,
And love.

Every word uttered shall be one of positivity,
Every action one that will encourage longevity,
Negativity shall be extinguished and evil shall have no power, none shall be subjected,
She and all of her kind shall all be rejected,
To sit back and remember a time and a situation,
A situation whereby.