Little letters

I am writing little letters

Of love lost or won

Of moments gone but dear

Of such memories vivid and true

Every cubic inch of paper

Every atomic drop of ink

Laden with vastness of heart

And boundless goodwill

And just like the benevolent rain

Falls on all yards alike

So shall I deliver my little letters

On every door mat

Under every bed pillow

To easen all dawns

Of a healing world

 

 

DUSK AT DAWN

Here is a two verse folk sonnet I wrote sometime back;

Illustration,  Maasai warrior, pencil on paper by yours truly;

Dusk at dawn.

Endure O mighty warrior of ancient valor

The wounds are worth the course achieved

Endure before the starry skies loses its splendor

For then shall your wounds and soul be relieved

For then shall the cock crow your hopes awake

For then shall the earliest farmer catch your sight

And those looks of despair brightened before daybreak

They shall commend you for the good fight.

Endure O mighty warrior the dark quiet path

The crickets have gone to sleep hasten your weak strides

The moon shall go to rest far from the sun’s wrath

The hyena might trace the blood trails on lust it rides

Endure for your girls is at home waiting for you

For then she shall wipe your tears, your blood too

 

 

The gods are on your side but O fate

Swift destroyer of all living beings

Hasten your strides, hold your breath before its late

Before your soul responds as the underground bell rings

Remove the arrow O it’s barbed, the wound bleeds

Wipe the blood O it flows, the wound is fresh

Every bleeding drops of red on the earth are seeds

That later indemnifies new life from soil to flesh

I can hear the shrill sounding of the morning crow

The sky will soon be clear, the gods done their part

Watching over us at night the stars twinkling low

O mighty warrior your weary body and soul apart

Lies low in your noble blood, the victory sought is won

Rise, enjoy the victory, serene sleep your dusk at dawn.

 

 

 

AFRICA IS ALIVE AGAIN!

Africa is alive again!

The hill winds shall blow this afternoon

from whence we shall not see the moon

The stars shall hide beyond the sky dark sheep

that comes to awaken the earth from its dry sleep

Every life above the ground spring

women with hoes happily sing

Africa is alive again

The farms shall sprout vegetables and grain

The moist soil prickles my sole

to join me with my forefathers heart and soul

the morning dew wets my feet

I tighten machete grip for the day’s feat

Clear the land, sort the seeds

as the morning rituals proceeds

the sparrows from tree to tree play their lute

that makes the village soloist mute

The ever desolate grassland blooms

new grass for thatches and brooms

no longer shall we watch the stars from the hearth

no longer shall dust and thirst dwell the face of earth

the farms shall sprout vegetables and grain

Africa is alive again!

The poor poet.

THE POOR POET

please be patient with me, listen

I love you unutterably

unutterably beyond all words I love you.

Oh if language held a word that combined

the cringing admiration of the slave

the ecstatic smile of the martyr

and the gnawing homesickness of the exile

with that word I would tell you my love.

Do not think am insulting you with an insane hope

I am poor, so miserably poor yes

and yet there is a world am a ruler, powerful

proud, rich, with the crown of victory

noble by virtue of the passion that drove prometheus

to steal fire from the heaven of gods

there I am the brother of all the great in spirit

whom the earth has bore and who bore the earth

I understand them as non but as equals understand one another

no flight they have flown is too high for the strength of my wings

Do you understand me, do you believe me

oh don’t believe me! it isn’t true

I am nothing but the rustic figure you see before you

its all in the past

for this madness of love has paralised my wings

the eyes of my spirit has lost their sight

my heart is dried up

my soul is drained to bloodless poltroonery

oh save  from myself miss adorable

don’t run away in scorn

weep over me

weep it is Rome burning

oh its terrible

there is not a thing in my soul that I wouldn’t murder and degrade

if I could win you thereby

even if anyone offered me madness

and I could posses you in my hallucinations

posses you, then I would say

take my brain, tear down its wonderful structure with rude hands

break all the fine threads that bind my spirit

to the resplendent triumphal chariot of human mind

and let me sink in the mire of the physical

under the wheels of the chariot

and let others follow the shining paths that lead to the light

Do you understand me? Can you comprehend

that even if your love came to me robbed of its glory

debased, befouled, as a caricature of love

as a deceased phantom, I would receive it

kneeling as if I was the host?

But the best in me is useless

the worst in me is useless too

I cry to the sun it does not shine

to the statue but it does not answer

what is there to answer except that I suffer?

No, these unutterable torments

that render my whole being down to its deepest roots

this anguish is nothing to you but an impertinence

you feel nothing but a little cold offence

in your heart you laugh scornfully,

at the poor poet and his impossible passion.

 

 

 

 

 

HIGH PRIEST OF NATURE

Full with sap of life a tender seedling

with great anticipation for eternal living

blown by wind to this vast savanna

will she grow to an acacia, baobab or banana

Within the eyes of mine she adds her stature

as I sing the still sad song of nature

For my endangered dreams like her tendrils grow

an innocent bloom that which among despair  grow

you bring beauty and hope to me my child

I pledge to protect you from this world so wild

Though I a virtuous populace with no might

I’ll stand a wall of fire for natures right

Behold I see some of your kin over there

they have heard and trusted in my care

My desolate soul is softened by your companionship

And I obliged to repay the bounty of our friendship

Should I build for you a room

to prevent you from your imminent doom

with axes they will come to claim your breath

for me; there is no greater evil than pain and death

The sun no longer scorn my back

the once bare savanna has become a park

the once sun burnt face now a bright image

with wrinkles of happiness and old age

You are my source of pride and joy I cant prevent

for whom  my warmest wish to heaven is sent

the clouds shed tears of joy in your command

to console my burning throat at its demand

Behold a big black beautiful ebony ancestor of a tree nation

underneath thee I sit and watch your vast generation

a monument of accomplished dreams and good will

though deprived of strength by time I love thee still

And I say; fortunes exist under the soil

the only key and way is strife and toil

to uncover the underneath chest of treasure

so in future years to enjoy the pleasure

I would but I dont have much to give

as I dont have much time on earth to live

but am going to account to my creator without gloom

and I pray you dont follow me too soon.

as

The Old Timer

The nostalgic look of the old timer

I was there, and am here now

I was there in the tales of old

I manned the oars in Odyssey’s fleet

Exited breaths held in the Trojan hoarse

The delighted faces on the spoils of war

I fought side by side with Alexander the great

When we crossed Indus River into India

He was more than a man he was a god

Or anything close than I have ever known

I was playing a flute in the streets of Rome

On the triumphant entry of Emperor Caesar

And I joined tears with Mark Anthony

When he was viciously slain at the capitol

And I say there has never been

A friendship as sincere as Mark Anthony’s

And when Cleopatra lay on his arms in Alexandria

No love as pure

I laid the last marble brick on the Taj Mahal

A monument many a man holds in their hearts

Sha Jahan’s immortal souvenir

And when we lost our way to that beautiful land

I was Columbus’s bottler, I was there

We braved the waves, the grace of the Santa Maria

I remember every detail of it

When all around the horizon was water and sky

A continuous shade of blue, the scare of the unknown

The fresh sigh of land in sight

And when we robbed Napoleon of his glory in Waterloo

I was a soldier under the command of Wellington

The foul smell of dead bodies

The sour taste of French sweat and blood

Couldn’t surpass the sweet taste of victory

And when I couldn’t show the same valor

At Gettysburg during the American civil war

I deserted at imminent victory of the North

My long journey south to Georgia

Crossing cold forests and mountains of North Carolina

I couldn’t continue fighting for a course I didn’t believe in

But I believed in love

And so in Georgia my sweetheart awaited

And that same faith in saw crushed at Auschwitz

When winter cold stung my skin at roll call

The horror my sunken eyes beheld

I survived to see the day of liberation

Just when victory seemed like a dream

And when we fought for freedom in the forests

Unshaven hair and beards in rebellion

To drive out the white man from Africa

And now I see the fruits of that struggle

I have lived a long life my son

Seen many a great man born and die

No man has his feet more firmly planted on earth

Or sees things clearer as day than I do

Just like the great cedar of Lebanon

Just like the lion of Judah

From where I stand I see Zion.