These Works of Mine!

These works were mined from echoes of songs.
These works drained my pen to nourish my paper.
These works were curtains of thought parted each day
to reveal a world ere unknown to my eye.
These works were exhumed from acres of souls under.
They were mined from dry skies to feed growing weeds
in a bed of sleeping flowers sloping to red evening suns.
These works were mined from echoes of songs,
from acres of souls in cemeteries in the trees…

These poems were written in different seasons
for various reasons:
In moments of monumental momentum.
In times of tumult and turmoil within.
In times of torture in psychological gaols.
In times of mental triumph:
In times of euphoria.
These works of mine, like golden tales, these works were mined!

These works were composed when battles bled and weathers withered.
when moons moaned and skies scurried.
when the persona accused the poet of eavesdropping.
These works were written when the ostrich’s plume plummeted.
They were written when a bloke broke into pieces…
painfully falling in love.
when a wench quenched her thirst with waters wasted.
They were engraved on this wood by some unknown finger.
These verses were etched in pain by the finger of my pen…

These poems were written in different seasons
for various reasons:
In moments of monumental momentum.
In times of tumult and turmoil within.
In times of torture in psychological gaols.
In times of mental triumph:
In times of euphoria.
These works of mine, like golden tales, these works were mined!

These poems were begotten by mere glance of the roses;
for that was the time they were conceived.
Some were written when politicians polluted the polling station.
Some were mere waste of time for no one knows them to date.
Of these verses are those that were sheer imagination.
But some are real for they sprouted from the semen of reality.
Some were written in dreamland; some sired by nightmares
and raised by daydreams, like an old child.
Some of these poems struggled ashore, off the mind
of my psychedelic pen.
Some of them docked mid-stream and still became poems.
And some fluently flowed following the ink of my thoughts thawing…

These poems were written in different seasons
for various reasons:
In moments of monumental momentum.
In times of tumult and turmoil within.
In times of torture in psychological gaols.
In times of mental triumph:
In times of euphoria.
These works of mine, like golden tales, these works were mined!

These works seeped through lulling lips of my late grandfathers,
only discovered after a literary postmortem.
Of these verses are those that were leaked from buried diaries
of the dead in groves.
Some were written when the bard flew to poetry paradise
under security tight.
Some of these poems are of origin unknown,
no one knows who e’er wrote them and why.
Yet these poems were constructed like empirical empires
simply to reincarnate expiring experiences…

These poems were written in different seasons
for various reasons:
In moments of monumental momentum.
In times of tumult and turmoil within.
In times of torture in psychological gaols.
In times of mental triumph:
In times of euphoria.
These works of mine, like golden tales, these works were mined!

Some were written to control tears flooding my beard.
Some to console my bearded soul.
and some to fulfill feelings of fools farting when full.
Some were written when the gods went on strike
and mean men mimicked their sacred protests.
Some were massive missives to women whose names
I ceased to remember.
Some of these poems were written when men went nude
in the mini-outskirts of the prostitutes’ street.
when in midnight clashes whores went wars at the sound of coin.
These works were written in the time of Lobengula.
They were discoveries of Vasco da Gama.
These were the forgotten elements in Elementaita.
They were the leftover of the reign of Samoei.
The mystery lurking in the shadow of Magere.
The untold tales of Simbi Nyaima.
Drum beats of Ramogi warriors!
War cries of Mau Mau!
Pounding heartbeat of Kinjeketile!
Billowing tides of Maji Maji!
These works were created by serenading birds
celebrating the fall of the dictator.
and the rise of another blue-blooded beast…

These works were composed thirty three centuries ago
when I, the poet, took taxi to poetry galaxy to discover verse, reality,
and music!

Our Wedding

Our wedding sprung from barrel of the gun;
an orgasmic coming of a revolution,
a reincarnation of exhausted guns,
a rebirth of bulletin of the bullet.
this wedding was a theatre of war
it was celebrated on the battleground
with bombs decorated like nuptial cakes,
bullets golden like bridal rings
on the palm of an innocent page boy –
a child soldier!