At some point,
life seemed to be overwhelmed by everything
drab and lifeless,
every single juice had been squeezed out of it
no drug would cure it
the days lasted a lifetime
the songs that were a lifeline
took off for the hills
there was nothing
earth became empty and desolate
as though waiting for god to breathe life into it
it wasn't so.
It is still drab, desolate and barren
but the songs are nice again.
once everything seems to be still,
and the world as calm as a sleeping baby,
you will be assailed by long dreamless
nights, and days
there are no storms
may be because you learned to swim
but then the storms are always never far off
but for once, you tell yourself
once, everything seems still
it may not last
but you take solace in the fact that
you lived every second of it.
Phew!
That was close,
sigh!
why would you want to get high
even?
because, even Stephen
the martyr
sighed and bowed out earth
and lived to tell the tale
thousands of generations later
the sun has risen today,
its warmth and light penetrates
the curtails,
its welcome on this part of the world,
it could be a good day,
there is hope, though a glimmer of it
when there is a glimmer,
it is as good as any other day
today sorrow takes a break
today's dawn heralds new beginnings
short-lived they may be,
but it will be worthwhile
atop, the vistas are no longer
breathtaking,
there is no allure in trying to perch
on the highest points
instead, I'll clip my wings
and forage on the ground
for worms,
then, I hope I might be the early bird
for when the rest swoop down from
their intricate nests
I shall have had my fill
And, being wingless, I shall have my thrill
a chill,
an ice cold serpent slithers
on my back
and I lie still,
playing dead
these are the nights
running up and down chasing sleep
and when its within my grasp
a night crawls underneath my blankets
and devours it all
sleep becomes intermittent
coming in between long spells
of bitter wakefulness
thinking the same old thoughts
and when sleep is finallly roused in its slumber
the dreaded nightmares crawl for their feast
we were the kind the sought
refuge in the cold embrace of the night
we were the kind whom we thought
our souls were reinforced with concrete
but then we mellowed
and slipped into the graceful
cracks of life,
hiding in dark crevices
craving the sweet touch of solitude
in the wee hours of the morning
but alas!
nothing worked
nothing ever seemed to be
we are alone, aging horribly
waiting for trains that derailed
a long time ago
There are stories that don’t make sense
And because of that, they are great stories
Regaled over time, over centuries
And yet without the words
Because the story involves a woman and a man
All good stories – including even those that make sense
Always involve a woman and a man
Especially at the vulnerable moment – naked
Man and woman meet one time
The two do not have anything similar
Except because they are bipedal
And breath in oxygen
But then nature somehow makes them
Fall in love
‘We do not make sense,’ the woman swats him away.
The man does not go away
‘So does the universe,’ he responds
If he was a poet, he will rhyme
“That’s some up us,
We do not have make sense
Because the universe is made of so much nonsense,”
One time, even without any prompting
They realize that they have made a baby
They do not understand how it happened
Because nothing makes sense
It was an accident, they tell their parents
Well, they do not tell their parents
She tells her parents – all alone
Because that makes sense to her
But it does not make sense to her parents
And her boyfriend who has already fled to Chalbi desert
The little drizzle flowed into the well
The water gathered to commune
With thirsty men and women
Everybody knows it wouldn’t last
Even I knew it would not last
But I camped by the well
For days on end quenching thirst
Oblivious of the days I’d go thirsty
But then such kind of thoughts never gather
For in the little drizzle, I confused for abundance
I even became generous, dishing the little to strangers
Way before even my loved ones reached the well
I bragged that the well was my own bounty
For I have stayed longer beside this dry well
Waiting for the little drizzle
Nostalgia,
Jason Derulo hits a note
‘Just the thought of you
Just the thought of you
Gets me so hiiiiiiigh’
I am sitting alone in an empty classroom,
Chairs piled arranged as by someone
who was suffering from acute diarrhea
but had to get the job done
and to distract my loneliness
I whipped my phone and played Jason Derulo
And then the message came through
The lecture had bounced
I cursed
I missed a few hours of precious sleep,
For this?
Betrayal.
Betrayal.
A while early, the unwelcome sound of the alarm
Made me think ‘It dawns so early these days,
I just slept a few minutes ago.’
Back then sleep was not elusive
I tossed my belongings inside the locker
My roommate was also awake, sitting on the top bunker
Also wondering why dawn comes early
A quick shower and moments later I am out
The day dragged on as days always do
And when evening came
An ominous foreboding washed over me
The door to our hostel room was unlocked
Unusual
I checked my locker and my laptop was missing
And now, so many years later
Listening to Jason Derulo
I reminisce that dark morning
And I miss my laptop who we got unceremoniously separated
My precious poems went with it
when you mind your own business
slipping like a shadow through the maze
leaves them weary, ever wondering
who is this stranger?
what does he do?
why doesn't he have a girlfriend?
gosh! what's his name?
but then you slip through them
like a ghost, never saying as much as a word
it bothers them
it bothers them that you do not bother about them
it nags their empty brains
and when something goes wrong
it is that quiet guy
who does a good job at minding his business
gazing at the pale in the dark
and wonder what secrets it holds
or sees in the hideous souls of men
and women,
prowling in the dark
the moon sneaks behind the moon
as though going to bed
with a secret lover
but then it emerges again
and shines as though nothing happened
and life goes on
the throb of the night life
sings its tunes and dirges
awaiting another day
and another night
there is no redemption
the bottom is made of dregs
the worst of the worst
the ruins,
what can you salvage from ruins?
from the Chernobyl of life?
there isn't any redemption
even though everything is all made up
She spreads her leso on a raised ground
The field around scorched barren by the
unforgiving sun
slopes towards a river with stinking dark water – polluted
she begins her sermon
she is the sole congregant, perhaps a church will spring
there someday – her own church
the evidence is around
the whole place is surrounded by churches
she can smell god’s presence in that raised ground
she reads her bible like she would to a crowd
she reads it aloud
why wouldn’t she? You may ask
yet she is alone and there is no need for a mask
she has to read it loud
that’s why – loud is how churches run around
she could use a 5000000 watt sound system
if she liked it
or if she could afford
she then sings
she sings in English
then switches to Kikuyu
she prays,
she prays in English
then switches to kikuyu
she is not taking any chances
and a sad poet watched at a distance
wondering if she was praying for her successful children
to come to her
I am riding a wave of confusion,
uncertainty,
despair,
dejection.
I am listening to the paralyzing
sounds in my head
Telling me in incoherent and disjointed
words
that this thing - this very thing
could all be a big joke
But I will keep doing it anyway
everything will fall into place
the fears,
the voices
and the storms they bring with them
and then, with a sincere smile
I will say, 'we are bosom buddies.'
it hits you,
sometimes hard, other times mild,
other times like a never ending torrent of hailstorms
it's even harder to accept because
you been there before,
and each time you promised yourself
it could be better.
or there was a better way,
you are better than this!!! You bang your head against the wall
But you've been here a thousand times,
there seems to be no way out except the murky
waters
of resignation,
Going with the flow,
If the tides are good, then you are good
If the storms get you, then even better
But you are better at not getting better
it pains you not
when you are hurtling down the road
of bad decisions,
because, because
you can afford it.
It could be better,
It could be worse,
It does not matter anymore
Meet me by the bleak line
between existence
and nonexistence
meet me on the blurry line
between sanity
and insanity
On these places,
one is just glad to be alive
even when they have died many times
because dying without the actual act of death
makes one come alive - at least one more time
The guns began blazing
screams rent the air as soldiers
and civilians
took cook
I took cover with soldiers
Behind soldiers - sorry
it felt safer there,
But unbeknownst to me,
Our backs were exposed
like the butts of African children
a fugitive appears and shoots me in the shoulder
there is not too much blood,
yet I am numbed
the soldiers urge me to move on
where? I did not know,
I follow them
it dawns on me that it was not a bullet that hit me
it was something else
my hand develops numerous blisters
one soldier tells to see treatment
or else my hand would be amputated
I go to a nurse
But she was not a nurse
she was a prank artiste.
And I woke up
Two weeks you say? You are full of jokes
Staying sober isn’t a thing you are good at nowadays
With a little jingle in your pockets,
It always a full on drinking spree
It used to be nice then
But now you’ve began abusing people,
And groping women
You were not made of that stuff?
What happened?
You know what happened,
Staying sober is not a thing you are
Too good at anymore
