Confused Grammar

The politics of life,

where authority we oppose.

The snares for a wife,

magical tunes we compose.

The scent of strife,

heaps upon heaps decompose.

What is rife?

A word we suppose.

Pride, lust, laughter in grief

like in the wizard of Oz.

forlon not

How could he resist

when the smile kept insist

he tried to make long

his face, sing a song

of acute depravity

but the music was of longevity.

He wanted to seem destitute

acted like a damned mute

still his mouth curved

upward, still he loved

he grew huge and robust

like a Picasso bust.

What the hell! he decided

to live where joy resided

since he tried and failed

every time he ragedly wailed.

So he turned his days festive

replaced his wild and aggressive

side with the calm

of the lakeside charm

that he recalled of his early days

in place of the zombie like daze.

KOGWEN

En kogwen-

Yiethi biro gi rech,

japur yietho kwer,

nyithindo ochiew gi kech,

odeyo manyoro moro chwero.

wende Luo mon wero,

guok oling’ ti oko gi,

nyiri odhi yao twomo pi,

jakwath ikore ne nyiedho,

dayo yao dho-ot ne gwen,

jamahundhu pando nyatieng’

Rao olal e’ chuny nam.

Okinyi mang’ich gima ber

engima jadho-ot.

(It is dawn-

The boats come in with the fish,

the farmer sharpens his hoe,

the children awaken hungry,

one scraps the pot with yesterdays odeyo.

The women sing traditional songs,

the dog is silent-it barks not,

the girls head for the pond to fetch water,

the herdsman prepares to milk the cows,

the old woman opens the coop door for the chicken,

the mailcious youth hides his nyatieng’,

the hippo has disappeared far into the lake.

early morning is a good thing

in the life of my tribesmen.)

odeyo- dry/burnt ugali found at the bottom and sides

of pots.

Nyatieng‘- a smooth round rock used in combat.

My country, my love.

My country, my love

My home comforter of my soul.

My country, my love

Where opposition and rulers

Are one and the same.

Where to govern or claim

Depends on what fame

The clowns have.

My country, my love.

Where to go to school

Is to be miseducated.

where to have gifts

Is to be the most hated.

Where to be young

Is a crime.

Where to hold or cherish a smile

Is not worth your while.

My country, my love,

So rich but never wealthy.

It’s citizen fat,

Yet not even one is healthy.

A nation toxicated

By the alcoholic puke

Of its children.

My country, my love

Because I’m famous

If I keep on stealing,

Because the law protects

Only my elite siblings,

Because more and more

Everything else is dying.

welcome to my world.

I hear screams, on the outside; Nightmarish dreams plague my sight. Scars from whips, on my backside Ensure my feet, always on flight. Naval ships land, at the dockside And I know I’ll die , without giving a fight. I hear screams, this time inside; From my terror stricken seeds From my dwellings, the cold bat caves. I feel the swellings, on my skin Begin to itch. My eyes twitch. Where’s the witch? I need her brews. I long to fill, with beast like hair. I desire to have, snake like fangs. I wish my fingers turn into talons. Strong, hard and sharp, like the eagle’s. I hear screams, all around me. Screams of joy, from the blood they sniff. Joy’d that at last, their little ones have gone To lands distant, to places better- To the home of the dead, Where everyone’s an equal, where feelings are mutual. And I seek refuge, in the grave. Where I tell not pain from joy, Where I tell not, the clock’s long And short hands, where I see not, Darkness and light. A place I most loathe, A gray land, where our seats Are the fences. And our defenses Are just to sit and watch.

Like A Weed

Like a weed ,

I struggle to survive-

In days of heat,

In days of rain.

In days of joy,

In days of pain.

The farmer hates me,

He won’t let me be.

Says I suffocate his beans

Maize and green peas.

he says with his crop

I compete

For sun rays, air and the raindrop,

I compete

For whatever food of his soil,

I compete

To be greener and jucier.

My leaves compete,

My fruits compete.

So, he pulls me out,

Buys chemicals that wipe

Away only my genes,

Pays men and women

To dig me out.

But like a weed

i turn the poor farmhand’s feed.

If not by employment,

Then by edible enjoyment.

When cabbages and kales

Are priced heavier by the scales

For his shallow pockets.

I turn medicine,

I turn outbreak vaccine,

I turn drug whose toxins

Relives youthful pressures

Without government taxing.

Like a weed

I am hated and ridiculed

But my flowers boys pick

Just to win girls hearts.

Miscommunication

“How are you today?”

The Lord asked me.

“Fine”

Was my reply.

“Are you really

Fine?”

He asked.

“Sure”

was my reply.

He patted a seat

On his right side

And invited me to relax

For he could see

My red eyes,

And could tell

Twas a result

Of sleeplessness and crying.

Again He asked,

Again I replied,

“Fine”

Yet He could see

The lines of worry

On my young face,

The thinning patch

On my head,

Loose hanging skin

All over my body.

“How was your night?”

“Alright”

I said.

“You sure?” He persisted.

It irritated

Not his questions

But the infection

On my skin,

I longed to scratch

Till I bled.

But He was watching

And I could’nt allow

Him to know

That I wasn’t fine.

My answers throughout were,

Fine. Fine. Fine.

He even offered a meal

“Fine thank you”

Yet my stomach grumbled.

Twelve hours in

The presence of He that

Could and would

Change all this

Still I insisted I was

Fine.

We said our byes.

I said I’d be

Fine

On my way back.

He said he planned

to make me a tad unfine

For FINE was doing me

No good.

MISTAKES

one thing i did well

was make mistakes

like the mistake  of

my fathers before me

who loved many women

that sired seeds of conflict

that sired deciet

the mistake of bringing

into the world my seed

only for it to rot

in the ground

instead of sprouting

to be a tree

why? cause of a mistake

of planting and forgetting

never even bothering

to water the plants

another mistake is in wars

fighting for foreign leigons

making them strong

hoping that my tribe

they will leave alone

how wrong

of me to assume

another mistake i live with

Why did you stop?

What happened,  Dear friend?

Why did you stop writing?

I no longer see, so I pretend

That you must be channeling

Your creative juice

Down another river.

This from a letter

From one poet to another.

He continued…..

The grass is growing

And crowding,

Turning the peaceful meadow,

Remember? The one we walked

Trough collecting thought?

Into a harem for snakes.

Please come back

At least for Art’s sake.

She is sad though she pretends

Nothing is wrong.

She no longer sheds tears

But still shows pain

In her shivers.

She is a prisoner in the meadow,

Too afraid to walk it

Without your encouraging

Words.

At least you made

Her smile, even if it was

For just a fleeing second.

Now she’s grey and wrinkled,

She’s lost all her gaiety.

She is a mess

Without your language.

I also worry about you,

Knowing what its like

For a poet not to write,

For a poet not to recite.

Remember when we were in chains?

When we used our blood

For ink?

Turned prison walls into

Paper?

How do you live

Without you words?

How do you cope?

Maybe you see no more

The rising of the sun,

Hear no more

The singing of the birds,

Maybe your fingers are stiff.

In truth, I write you

Only as a poet can.

For deep down I feel

No more your prescence.

Your soul has parted

From your body.

You’re in a state

Where you need not

Poetry.

You are dead.

Question and Answer

Questions were asked

Threats were posed.

Whats going on?

I’ll dishonour you

Why?

I will kill you

When?

Inside your head

Where?

Today or tommorow

when the weather is right.

Who should die?

Me or you?

Him or she?

Her or he?

You all are dead,

I’ll just make sure.