Don't Call Me Poet...

He wrote a poem titled it the last poet
he was in the poem era, the last before all went quiet…
And the only sound I could hear was rhyme and flow
so, maybe I sound like this in slow motion,
maybe I found my place in flow motion.
But I don’t think you should call me poet, without caution.

A little about me though no autobiography; I flunked literature class,
needless to add I don’t have my poetic license.
So I read twice as much as I write, when I write,
My scripts are ten times better than when I spit.
Guess my ten fingers can take credit for this.

Don’t call me poet, I don’t think I’ve graduated.
So what if my thoughts sound like they’ve marinated
I’m not there yet but I’m steadily moving toward it,
all I need is this ink for what I feel, to word it
I don’t seek for you to understand this, what I want is
for you to feel me as though you’re blind and I’m Braille.

Don’t call me poet, I know nothing about rhythm,
my pace is uneven, maybe I lack lyrical fitness.
The only beat I know and write to, that of my heart.
And that’s another 72 reasons every minute
why me and pen will never part.

Also, don’t call me a troubadour, metaphysicist or a lyricist,
nor a phrasologist, rhymewriter, wannabe or a floacist.
See what you call me, isn’t really that important.
‘cause what the question really is,
is should I call you poet?

Hiatus...then back!

To two (or more) loyal blogmarkers...I didn't never leave, I just didn't think a lot of what i've been penning down over the past few was good enough to make it here. It ain't for nobody to get philosophical about not believing in myself (narcissistic tendencies notwithstanding), it's pretty simple. If I don't like it myself, well...

Now this got me thinking that maybe I am not poet. So then I wrote...

Picasso

Okay, it ain't been that long! But check this out...




No paint or palette he tried to paint her in words
The picture, perfect. Atleast that’s what I heard.
Pen in his hand, the outcome a lyrical Picasso
Read it and, from the poem, that’s the pic I saw

and this’ the rest of what I saw…

the words were stuck, preserved in my head, canned verse
more like wet oil paint sticks to the painter’s surface, canvas
and I understood to be digging it like this, it had to be deep,
and I know it had to be a feeling for me to write this.

He was painting in rhythm and the result was audio scenery,
I had the perfect view, you should have seen it with me.
I was high on harmony, flow visually bottled ecstasy
It felt like it was my sunshine, like it was my source of energy.

He handed me the painting, a great thing, I didn’t bother waiting,
the way things were predetermined, best spot was by your side-and
that was a sudden thought that reminded me of Sade, sweetest taboo
you an imprint on my mind like a wicked tattoo, what am saying to you
Is you,were the master piece that resulted.
You.
Masterpiece.

Inside Myself

Now I was listening to one of my favorite albums, staring at the album box (yes, on CD, people still do that) then it wrote this for me...



I'm a tad introspective as write this, an examination of my mind
Calling on my thoughts to be with me an invocation of kinds
I seek real quotes from my mental for you to quote me as your mentor
But again I'd rather remain in ink and paper in retrospect for self
So I won't recite this while your're getting down at some amphitheater
Rather I'll leave it written down so you can read it to yourself later.
It's not self centric to seek to know oneself, to gain one's definition,
We all hunger for stolen moments like those, when we get to be us
Because subconsciously we are always who we are made to be
By one two many standards, yet we still claim to have our own
One soul, two disparate people, in the name of making a name for ourselves
Come to think of it, this sounds familiar, it reminds me of self.
I'm no different from everyone; I stay up all night long trying to figure
why I always have to be someone else, maybe one day it'll all make sense.

Of Wishes &Taboos...

And I'm back again...this time courtesy of the plain will to write down a journal and not the characteristic flow and all.

What shocks me is the nature of my inspiration; thinking I have so much to paint on my canvas, then not knowing what strokes my brush should take once the paint kisses the bristles. Sounds like a daunting task but it's really just about the people I've met the past few days. I might be waxing emotional as well, but I now believe delving into the depth of these very emotions is the ultimate measure of the impact people who walk through our lives leave in us.

Like I said, it's true that from this awesome conference I've been on (I believe I 'forgot' to mention this) I carry home with me more than my suitcase and backpack. What I have is that inevitible hangdown, but most importantly, the knowledge that I'm a single piece in a jigsaw puzzle that can only be completed by very different people from different parts of the globe (with a few pointers from a neighbouring galaxy, I can bet you). And that is what i had my 'new' wish built on.

Just for the record, I make afew wishes every now and then using the most 'fairy-friendly' techniques and mythical procedures that suite the situation at any one time. So this time, I still did it, only I also want to break the no. 1 taboo in the book of Wish Making: never disclose what you wished for. And the reason I shall disclose what it was is pretty simple; they never come true if I keep them to myself anyway!

So this new wish in the old town of Heidelberg, after tossing a coin backward into a fountain (go ahead and try it, it might work for you) was that this hug puzzle be completed. I donn't know how or when, but I believe impossible is nothing (pun intended). But because my wish backs me up, what I believe isn't really that important. What the question really is, is do YOU have hope in your wishes?

MY PEN WROTE A WILL

My pen wrote a will and bequeathed me all it would ever write
Left to me, birthright, stared at my left hand thinking it could never write.
But I wasn't right because my bequest was too much for my right.
It glided on the sheet beneath it, drained more life from within, it
Said of my obtrusive nature it throws flak on my back
And though intrusive to my stature, it's got to rebuke me for that.
It reminded me what it had always told me to do; reach for the stars
Thus precipitating thoughts of me being the first poet in Mars
Unconceivable? That's why this art is something out of this earth.
It gave me the ability to circumnavigate the globe with one line
Like latitude and be 'ub-ink-uitous' like a North-South longitude
Omni-paper, its modus operandi, always present on every paper.
It bled black and thus on this will, letters left from its serum
Waltzed on its nib thinking it was doing headspins on its cranium
Then through an incision in my forefinger it poisoned my cerebrum.
Started thinking how I'd die for my pen, then everything went silent
...for a minute thought I was dead and then before dying, my pen
Scribbled down that it felt like a pharaoh
Because these here words, would be immortal.

HOPE YOU GET THIS...

I am afraid of the dark but not if it's you that'll appear,
I never really said goodbye when you left me here,
I think about the man I wouldn't be without you,
then I'm only more grateful than sombre, that I had you.
I'm grown, because you were, thus,
You're gone but I am glad you were, once.

Though I can't help but wonder...
Is your soul in peace, feet on the table, or are you still with me in the world through all my troubles?
I wrote this for you, is it what you'd want to see or will I wake up to find my poem corrected in your calligraphy?
Are you in my room in the dark when my drapes groove, are you gently whispering 'Samoga' waiting for me to look at you?

I didn't cry enough, but it's good that I still have you in me,
in tears so anytime I miss you I lock myself in my room, crying.
You left too soon, so much we didn't do,
I'll never let you part, you are always, always, in my heart.

R.I.P. Edwin

Couldn't stop the clock...

Ok. No, seriously. You know when you've been away for a while, a very long, long while, you wish time hadn't moved so so much wouldn't have changed (I know I do!). Alot's happened, heck I don't even wanna be called poet these days. Now don't get it twisted, not that I have lost my braiding ways with my pen, far from that. I just think I haven't graduated. I'm still thinking hard about this one. That's a poem for another day...
Part of why I've been M.I.A. is because I decided I should write more than I type. Hence I ain't posted a line or two in the past eeeh....few months.
Ok. Now since I couldn't do nothing with the time, lets just call it a post. In the words of Dilated Peeps...Back Again!!!

Kara , Ahamaru , Ahadharu

Kara for my color, so they said

My progenitors, cut, hurt, slain

Now you preach that I turn color-blind?

Even in black and white, the two are always discrete.

Veni vidi vici. Shakespearean, superficial, racial

Cracked the whip, no balance with the shoulder to cry on

Yet they’d have sworn numero uno was the latter.

Ahamaru runs through every inch of my being,

The price paid for the cause,

Flowed in rivulets to spell passion even though

the enemy was the scribe, signed yours truly.

White: peace, love, unity. The little ones swallow, no impugning it.

Never to fathom it’s only pieces of greed and cruelty.

The cure’s subliminal uplift. The onus is on us entirely.

Ahadharu. The cause. So pause, contemplate

Suppose, to your face, I told you of the grace they brought

Only to be trampled on by fools who grass never sought

Would I be wrong to free the mind off this unbound prison?

Emancipate yourself from mental slavery; none can free the mind but yourself.

Robert Nesta’s words, my impetus, what to thineself?

Revive their spirits, then off my flag, I’ll pride myself.

I couldn't think of a title. So I just wrote..

He came, he saw, he conquered

Came to our land to spread the “word”

Saw our minds needed to be altered.

Servitude’s what followed, honorless, immodest borrow

Magnitude was unfathomable, bright days filled with sorrow

Gratitude was unheard of, not with their entire candor”.

Said and done, the struggle begun

Dead and gone, to them, what was to be done

Dedan got, what he least deserved.

When mind and body are apart, not much is left of one

The body was freed, the mind now conceited to borrowed ways

What you call modern, I call mental vassalage.

Use your real eyes to realize where you came from

Or the real lies will cutoff the roots to your genesis.

See if you don’t know where you’re from, would you know where you’re headed?

Her Favorite Color

I was told instinctively

That they like flowers especially

In pink, red, blue, all hues, personally

I got her a few appropriately.

and though she accepted them, rather forcefully,

I walked away smiling joyfully.

Little did I know that thoughtfully,

She’d use the gift I got wholeheartedly,

To wish or wish not unceremoniously,

Whether I did not, or loved her fully.

We spoke later, I asked her instinctively

whether she’d loved the gift, especially

the pink, the red, the blue I’d picked personally.

She answered. Appropriately

didn’t shut up but rather forcefully

gave me my answer. Not joyfully.

She didn’t think I’d picked them thoughtfully.

That broke me wholeheartedly.

Almost crashed, I asked for favorites, and unceremoniously

She answered “Gold and Silver”. My bad, my folly.

The O.S.T.

Baba na mama waliniambia wewe kijana,
Ujihadhari na ya ulimwengu kwani ni mabaya,
Nami sikuyasiskiza, sasa mi ninajuta,
Kweli najionea, dunia ina mambo...

So I thought experience would be my teacher
and life my mentor. Then the preacher
asked me who I believed in, money or God?
I didn’t quote scriptures or speak in tongues
or allude to any one man’s famous words
but made it clear in this world
where people barter their passion for glory,
Their souls for riches and blame life’s glitches,
I refuse to blindly follow any religion
That makes Satan the god and teaches
Self righteous people to embrace a façade.


Yaliponipata wengi walicheka sana,
Kwangu mimi naona ni kawaida (eeeh)
Ndugu yangu mimi, matatizo nimeyazoea,
Kwangu mimi naona ni kawaida…

They say life’s a bitch, depends how you treat her
They never say what to do if you can’t afford to keep her
Some sort of marriage thing, till death do you part
So am constantly struggling, it’s troubling, it’s so hard.
My tragedy isn’t different, but my wound’s deep, listen
and don’t throw at me your condescending candor
See I’ve learnt to daily make the best of bad situations
and like the African poet, I never let you see me
down…damn I smile while am bleeding!




Afro, Afro mama (ooh) mtoto wa Sagana (eeh) mama
Salamu zangu nakutumia popote ulipozipokee
Msalmie ndugu na wazazi wako mama(eeh)
Popote walipo Afro, mimi sijambo lakini…

There had to be a “BUT” right? But I don’t sit
my butt tight and wait for my ‘Afro’ to walk through the door.
She left me a while ago, and now without Afro am bald.
She was my love, but my love
ditched me because I couldn’t take her out to movies,
and you still think love is blind?

Mtoto si nguo...…
So since Afro left all I do is wait
Not for her, but for my
Malaika,
to come and fadhili my crying heart.


Kifo..… Kifo...

This is no elegy, my apology
But we shouldn’t fear death
I hear everything awaits us there
Though we shouldn’t look forward to it either
Don’t take life too seriously, be dying to live
Today, nothing’s for certain tomorrow, we’re living to die
I’ll tell you about me, what my epitaph shall read,
“Sobre vivir”, continue living
and at the bottom my writing, signed yours truly.

All this is ol’ school, maybe because this’ an ol’ soul
And this’ the original soundtrack to the movie, my life.

Warrior Song

Words of a warrior

No sacrifice too great a price

To pay if freedom it shall suffice.

To uplift our scummy conditions,

Daily making the best of bad situations

Intrepid, brave-hearted and strong

Imbue us with the pride to dance to our songs

Songs of redemption,

To the sound of our own beating drums,

Warrior songs.

Ochre on the face, blood stains grace

The mane on my head. I am a man.

Eyes on my nape – unevolved ape

Spear in the air, baying for victory

Shield on my side to make sure am not history.

No brass band in tow, dulcet and all

Our kick\s our heartbeat, snare’s our feet and ground’s kiss

Imbue us with pride to tap to our music,

The sound of our own beating hearts

Warrior songs.

On Stage...(A Musical)

(on stage) was a play, setting usual,
Grammar flew, mouth to air, lips to ears
The cast had rehearsed,
The stage well managed
The script developed without a playwright.
Though none took credit, still acknowledged
Didn't have a director, still arranged
Cast did their choreography at their own pace
Didn't disappoint, gyration with glamor and grace
The playwright's swansong, so a masterpiece.
The musical, called "Chairs", called all,
The beckoned were present, audience whole.
As thoughts and reason trickled,
trickled down like leaves in fall.
Then the standing ovation (was) called upon
That was called the curtain call.



*if anyone of y'all cu'd tell me what this's about...
n thanks to Bridgit. She read it 1st n thot it was fly

Poet's Intervention

Invented as an art, I intervened as the poet,
thou speaketh words in murmurs, sounds in colors
betrayal in blanks, forgiveness in the past, Sin in
the present, a poet's intervention needed.

Needed like a womb tomb dug for days lives lived
for years,epitaph written not in paragraphs,
Graves dug to six feet, height at five feet
Hidden in blanks, stories hard to behold, poets needed,
Future foretold, History repeating, Sinners repenting,
Governments expatriating, Poet's intervention culminating.

Shadows in darkness, daylights with eclipses,
Pages tormented, pens bleeding, thoughts burning,
desire wanting, intervention arising, rebellion
in the youths showing, bodies beheaded,
A higher intervention wanting.

Thoughts contradicting, acts committing
blasphemy in the eyes of the mourner
Hypocritically greeting.
Heart beats racing fury generating
Poet's intervention needing, Thoughts
pure like a reading from The Scriptures
Poet's intervention wanting.

Wanting like Heaven's doors opening,
New seeds growing, bad deeds grow too,
Shamelessness a misfortune, poverty an omen
and dreams an imagination of tomorrow,
The tomorrow I spoke of yesterday
Purity needed like virginity spread to the masses,
A poet's intervention needed.

*n thus tha blog was named...

Two Good, Too Bad

Inspired by Mos'....

Two worlds my worlds,
Both twirl both whirl,
One half hit sack,
Two half got back,
Sure sucks being me,
Hell! - I still be,
Juggle both still she,
Right there with me.

Two guys her world,
One world though twirls,
Got stuff worked out,
Got bliss with one,
That's me nos bliss,
Had to have modes,
Just few two modes.

Split twice that's nice,
Think twice act right,
For her for us,
Mix not stuff up,
Second place my haven,
Quite hard to voice,
Let him be ex,
Then me be next.

Don't push too hard,
My luck might hush,
Give her all me,
Just wish that she,
Will see that me,
And she should be,
What we both see,
But scare to live.

The Rain...

Here's story that must be told. How ur sprung one minute before u notice it's only u in it....she was supposed to hear this but didn't...check it out.



The sun, no more
The clouds close draw,
silver linings and all.
Take over the skies,adjusting hue and glare
As though charging outward, thunder sounds
Don't bother hiding, not even underground.

The rain falls and soaks the earth,
irresistable, the smell of soaked earth.
Then starts flowing, gliding in streams
Without a cut channel so free
is the flow, heade wherever they're led.

It rains on me, I can't hug it,
It's allover my skin, I can't touch it,
It dances on my lips, still can't k
and I'd sure want to own it if drenched my soul.

I know I can't stop the rain, and it sounds insane,
that what yuor father calls you, our name,
is what my forefathers call you, the rain.




(see she 'mbura' in my community stands for rain, and 'nya' she who has it. I thought she was the rain. She wasn't)

My apologies

my laptop is almost out of power n I don't have my charger. ntawawekea vitu nex tym. iza jo

Everything else.

Wassup World! Wassup world, beautiful pple. Ok, I'll cut tha crap, trying to sound like K'naan. anyway, everything else seems rotten these days. Surprised? Tha way we think, tha way tha nex guy thinks, n tha way our kids will be made to think. Nyway, DETOX time. Nothin soothes, heals the mind like clear lines. Ndo hiyo freesample basi....stop doin' everything else.