My Pompous Writing

I pose therefore
That if the rich are allowed a show of opulence
A display of power and might
Why can't I,
A writer but of modest means
Be allowed to be pompous in my writing,
From which I derive so much joy
So much hope, so much - life?
Living life on a big spoon, they say of the wealthy
Writing with a big pen,
Or as the big, brilliant mind conceives
I say therefore
Of my free-spirited self
A pompous writer but of modest means.

Life Teachings

And so will come a time
When they will think of days of before
Days when there was less and nothing more
Days when poverty was pertinent on their miserable door
Days when they were prone in ennui on the cold floor
And days when food thrice left them in awe

It was those days
When friends and foes
Like day and night would come go

Like the waters of the oceans would ebb and flow
And now on the honoured floor they stand and pore
The cruel fetters of poverty, they vow, to return nevermore
Bad memories of depressed days and long nights
And a family affair capped with a furious fight
Those weary days when thoughts hammered away
A future bleak and dreary
Shaded in avenues of morbid darkness and pensive hopelessness
Showered with tears of agony and walls of poignancy
Dripping with a slime of hopeless optimism
Bold apathy and mindless consumerism
Each shilling spent before it is earned
Now lessons, as they gaze at the sun have,
Not without flaws, been truly learned.

This Beautiful World

This beautiful world 

Oh, my bones it rattle 

My heart, alas! 

It rends with precision 

Scything through the riotous throb 

A tumult of orgasmic elation 

A surge of cheerful contentment 

As the sun drenches the verdant hills, 

Domes looming in the vicinity and the curved horizon, 

With the mellow bars of its unerring rays 

The thin leaves of the pine trees glittering in the day

As the conspicuous red flowers of the Nandi Flame singe the eyes 

But with grace, pleasantly mild

The light filtering between the leaves and branches 

To the maculated and dewy undergrowth  

Crawling with earthworms and red ants 

To the flowers on the briers and bougavillea shrub 

Mottled with the elegant glide of the butterfly 

As the weaver and the swallow sing 

A harmonised melody from the heavy crown of the fig 

And on my skin the warmth dances 

Like a tender caress - soft and loving 

Kind and courteous to my happily trembling bones 

 My cankered bases restored.

My eyes glow and grow 

 At the pulchritude of nature 

 Balmy and rustic existence 

Oh, this beautiful world, 

My heart of stone, it thawed.

Beauty, and The Wonder of loving it

The glistening down
Dusk
Thinly clouded westside
Fall
Sun setting to rise
In worlds away and beyond
Orange flatters grey clouds
Strokes of the rosy rays
On my cold skin play
In me
Invokes
Sound wonder and Raw marvel
At the golden shine
Horizon
Of a glorious Sun down.

So, you may not be all that I wished for
But you have provided all that I needed
And so much more
You may not be up to the pristine wishes
Of my faulty fancies
But you have been more than 
A fulfilling reality
And for you my love I give, Oh glorious sundown.

LET MY HAND DO THE TALKING

Poetry

Remember me,

For my passions,

And for what I could best describe as compassion,

I do not know the nerve I tickle in you,

But in any way remember me.

I may not be ideal,

But I am a man of means,

I am my writing and my writing is me,

Yes by definition I am a writer,

But by occupation, a waiter,

Waiting upon the fates to finally smile down at my efforts.

I may make it, I may never make it

For its hard , smiling when crying is the default,

Fighting when giving up is the only way to rest my faint frame.

And to that I say I may or may not see the light at the end of the tunnels.

I would love to see the sun shine again, upon my life, my family,

Posterity, anyone that I touch with the crafts and smiths of my words,

But in the wake of the shrewd dealings of reality, I know that my life might be cut short before I see the end.

Why did it have to happen, I always ask anyone with ears enough to listen,

That I would find myself footslogging in the bog of uncertainity, heading into a 'promising future' that is as dark as a room without windows or a night without a moon.

Why should I have to hold my head high when I can just hang it in defeat and shame? Sigh and let tears wash down my eye.

The vision is great, but what if the rift between my present and fulfillment of this vision is so great as to warrant despair? Am I to still remain hopeful that I will fly?

What am I to do? Maybe build myself a plane to see me through? Maybe train and ride hornbill too?

It is a cruel hand upon my living, an unfortunate misgiving, and a dark cloud hangs above my head.

Yet all in all, each day, I pray for a tiny ounce of strength to fulfill this goal of day. To write and just write and keep writing.

If I don't live up to this then failure doesn't come on bigger serving. Each day I look forward to this - word on paper.

Through the winds of laziness and demotivation, it's all I live for,

I hope to leave a lasting mark in society, a mark that posterity will look back at on a chilly Throw-back Thursday evening and say in earnest," Indeed in our lineage, walked a great man".

TO MY DEAREST

In this reeking lair
Seated on this cold creeking chair
I write
Write to you
With hope that you stop your wander
Write about you
With dear candor
Write for you
To celebrate your honour

In abject squalor
I have been
On empty stomach
I have slept, on clammy concretes I have l lain
My back washed in pain,
I have bent and kissed the lowest ebb
Of living and being alive
Take this scribe, my dearest
As a frank contract
A bold commitment to my utterances
That when you indeed rest in my arm
You will be peaceful through the night
And see the day just how you find right
At no one moment
Will you walk over the shards of glass
That malaised my entire existence
No longer
Will the soles of your feet be mapped with blisters and swells
Forget being famished and malnourished
With me dear, you are and will be forever cherished
Upon your head
I commit myself
All this struggle is for you
That you may know trouble
But not in its crudest element, misery
That you may cry
But not offend your face with a deluge
That you may fear
But no be paralysed with terror
And that you may smile
And break your ribs when laughing
Because I know that with you
My dearest
I have a reason to do more

'The Writing Of The Collosus: A Poem Anthology' by Kiraka D Mugatsia

A VOYAGE OF DESTINY

In a castaway land,
A land of thriving murk of poverty
A land where everyone was no one
Someone was born.
Through every wrong and right,
Through the thick and lean
Through the shrewd dealings of reality
A legend grew.
To blaze a trail, they sought
And the sky's enigmatic allure,
So fetching, blissful and pure
Beckoned
And who is the legend
Not to respond to the call to duty.
Never,
In the land where everyone was no one
Shall it remain the same
The stalemate has been broken
And cast atide on the dhow
Is Destiny
On the uncertain waters
Over peaceful depths
And unsettling shallows
It will float
Through the waves and the tides
Through the gentle waters that lap on its sides
The vessel will heed no divergent calls
As the wind fills the sail
No more shall it all be in vain
The voyage of destiny
From view in the periphery
Is set to dock
I advice you make merry
For from the castaway land
A land where everyone was no one
Someone has risen.

Photo from www.travelphotosforyou.com
Courtesy of Anna Andersson

MY COUNTRY

My country
My love
Sweet and mellow
Like a dove
In you I was raised
In you I grew
And in you I will die
I will forever hold you in exhalted esteem
Higher than the tallest of landmarks
Your making, my being
Your being, my existance
Do those that make you look bad
Not see the thunder you steal
By the athletes you raise?
Do they ignore the performers you raise
All for a cheap sensationalism to get ahead?
By nature you have weaknesses
But by nature too you have strengths
And it is in your thriving goodness
That we revel
We are here
Because we conquered,
Laid to rest our fear
So as they pelt us
Stone us for their amusement
We desensitise
And trudge on in defiance
Because blessed is you
Kenya, my land.
With eyes ahead
Over obtacles, we keep moving
Backwards never, lest we keep losing
And in our grinding
We keep you growing
Eyes firmly on the road
To  see how far we head
With our faces brimming with hope
As we lay the ghosts of the past to bed.

I love you Kenya, my land
My mum and dad
Through good and bad
I will stick by you.

From 'The Writing Of The Collosus' A poem Anthology , a collection of poetry works by Kiraka D Mugatsia.

LABOURER OF LIFE

I am the attendant,
Standing ignored at the shelves,
Unthanked at the counter.
The carrier,
Barely looked at at the car park,
Always heavy- laden with load.
Sometimes I get as tip a pat on back
And pocket change if I'm in luck.
The maker,
Always underpaid for things well done,
Forgotten when things done go well,
Only turned to when things fall apart.

I am the sales person,
That sells without reward,
Only kept afloat by meagre wages,
Left hanging at the end of it all,
And yet forced to smile,
At the next annoying asshole.

I am the house help,
Tasked with looking after children,
Whose language,
Is fluent tantrums and juicy tears.
I am patient with them,
Yet still, always overlooked
When they turn out well.
I raise them,
Not mummy, not daddy
As both are usually busy,
Busy being with other people.
On occassions that other person
Turns out to be me,
As I can't say no
To the incentives thereafter.
Left in the shadows,
Only called upon to calm the heat
In their expensive loins.

I am the askari,
Invisible to most at the gate,
Yet visible to all,
When their lives are at stake.

I am the labourer,
I live this life,
Not from want,
But from need.
I don't enjoy it
It sucks!
But to make it suck less,
Please boss

As I seek my pittance

A little respect please.

The Writing Of The Collosus
A poem Anthology.

photo courtesy:
Street Photography

THE CHILD, THE DREAM

The child,
The child of the grass,
Born and raised up to class,
Through waves and tides,
Has it ever been simple?
Run...
Away from the murks of penury,
From the grasps of misery,
How be it, that the child came to be so?
A story told and retold,
A legend forever in the precincts,
In the fringes of current memory,
Spoken of behind closed lips,
Held in the periphery of recollection,
Remembrance,
Wake,
Forever known in death,
As was in life,
Maybe known themore in afterlife,
The child that lived at the edge of the knife,
Does the child have enough to pay you, oh dear dream?
Do you take cheques?
Shillings?
Maybe dollars?
Dreams,
Sleep,
Nightmares,
Through them the child came,
Sweet nightmares,
Terrible dreams,
Dark mornings and bright nights,
Such is the irony of life.
Why nightmares in wake?
Should the child forever remain in comatose
As to be able to live the dream?

Life seen through starry glasses,
Blurry eyes and running noses,
Behind diamond gates,
Marble floors and pearly doors.
Whispers from the further,
As the dream beckons,
'Just let me keep the sleep,
That I may live the dream,'

Sleep child, dream.

Photo: courtesy

THE MONSTER OF MY DREAM

See, this is what happened-
When we met,
At the site, me doing my daily drudgery,
You making meals at the eatery,
Yes, I thought you were the girl of my dreams,
Infact I did tell you that,
And the blush of your cheeks is quite vivid still.
Now, its not that I lied,
I just spoke the truth at that instant
But today, girl, I have a confession:
Last night, I had a dream-
I rarely dream you see, so yes,
When I told you you were the girl of my dreams,
I wasn't being honest.
I didn't lie,
But it wasn't true much.
It was strange that dreams can be so contradictory.
Let me let you go, my beautiful,
Let me spare you my troubles, my pretty.
I thought you were the girl of my dreams,
But in my dream, was me and a monster,
And you, my dear are not a monster.

A DAY'S BREAK

I saw,
The dew of the morning kiss the cold feet,
I felt,
The cold of the night wear down to the sun's streams,
And in the dip of the horizon in the far east,
The half dome of the unfurling rods of sunrise became.

I saw,
Dancing in the day, the yellow of the sunflower,
and the spread of the red poppy.
I heard,
The croaking of the warted grey frog of the ponds,
And the whirling of the elfin dragon fly over still waters.

I saw,
The spines of the cypress and the pines,
Bend to their full stretch to the winds,
All heralding a promising day,
I heard their ominous creaks and rustle and their sinister whisper,
I felt the winds touch upon my dry cheeks.
I saw,
The fall of the fat orange leaves of the 
Msunzu,
And the drop of the cold crystalline dew from the jagged blade of a grass,
Better days have been than this.

I saw,
The scattering of the heavy grey clouds,
Revelation of a vacant blue skies,
Birds exuberance,vibrance after a downpour,
In the bars of a sun peeking from the dents in the swollen clouds,
A new dawn beckons,
I better respond before its noon.

Glints of iron sheets anew,
The old layered in red rustiness,
All punctuate and interrupt,
The sprawl and flow and tumble,
And fall of the verdant and luxuriant,
The green of the orchid and idyllic countryside,
Smooth sail of the butterfly,
To the revealed petals of the morning glory,
Unveiling the jubilance of a fresh start.

I feel,
Serenity of the shades ambiance,
Beauty of the rolling green of tree and grass,
Sun scorching and livid,
Fly buzzing and bothering,
Soothing hum of the quiet river's flow,
As day continues to grow.

I see,
In the distant panorama, beautiful shaded blue hills,
The crashing of the furious waterfall on the boulders  in the faraway west,
As the rays of the sinking sun burst the sky to rosy red.

I feel,
The calming warmth of the weak sun,
Of the approaching dreams of the dark's domain,
As night makes light of and grows over day.
I awoke, I saw,
I felt, I heard,
I did, I didn't
All in a day's break.

From 
The
Writing
Of
The
Collosus:
A
Poem
Anthology

Kiraka  D Mugatsia
2015

THE COLLOSUS HAS FALLEN

The sun is scarred,
The moon injured,
And in the dead of night,
The collosus has fallen.

Grief knows no bounds,
Sorrow and melancholy abound,
As dreams morph to nightmares,
The collosus has fallen.

Woods a shade of death,
Black promises thus evil uncouth,
And when life shifts to grey from mirth,
The collosus has fallen.

Broken glass,dull brass,
Soiled trophies,ugly hats,
White skin,pale shadows,
The collosus has fallen.

Eyes that see in darkness,
Darkness guides the eyes,
Light submits to the blank stare,
The collosus has fallen.

Illness and health,
Penury and wealth,
The shade and the light,
Like days of night,
Of shadows and their masters,
The dry lands and deep blue seas,
The earth and the sky,
Frowned upon by the moon and the sun,
The collosus has fallen.

Fat wallets,empty pockets,
Misery and its contrasting equivalent,
Of the mysteries of life,
And the joy of belief,
A lack of faith,
And fulfillment of achievement,
The making of a legacy,
The collosus has fallen.

By the words of the mute,
And the sight of the blind,
By the ears of the deaf,
And the life of the dead,
By the embrace of the knife,
The collosus has fallen.

Tongues of fire,
And the heat of hatred,
The pull of love,
And the fulfillment of loving,
By the words of the beloved,
The collosus has fallen.

Through the tears and the laughter,
Smiles and frowns,
Believe,
Be and live,
The collosus has spoken.

From THE WRITINGS OF THE COLLOSUS: A POEM ANTHOLOGY