Friday, February 27, 2009


North of here
is a place where
they talk about us
as if we are

Then you look
around you one day
and see the sun
has forgotten to smile
and when you send
it an email

after delays
it will send
only one sentence:
"Who ever told you
that I smile?"

Intense, I say.
So let them talk now;
and, unsmiling,
we will thrash on
with our existence
while from a distance
they look and sob.

Friday, February 13, 2009



The reality of my being today,
Sorrow, solitude circling a hapless heart.
Penniless, as broke as my spirit is
Broken outside and inside .
Reality is there is no food in my house,
No water to quench my thirst.
Nothing to quench the pain I feel deep
Within the marrow of my being.
No lighting, I cannot see.
Groping in the dark for answers so elusive.
What do I tell my children?
Orphans birthed and schooled,
In the sorry art of poverty.
Ravaged by corruption,famine and more.
Reality is I have failed my kids.
A progeny conceived in a lie called hope.
I mourn for a lost generation,
Whose destiny is ash and dust.
Born of strife and disease in this land.
Dafur? Zimbabwe? Africa,its all the same...

Monday, February 9, 2009


Safe in blue,
even what we think
cracks the whip
of memory, in those moments
when mothers call our names,
only to be mocked
by the echoes of Chisiya.

Because a look so distant
that even Runde will question
why they have to keep looking
will be pocked by stray flies
which too do not know
what to report, where even they
can now declare starvation.

The safety is now in
the hell we have created
which sings in fear
of what we might do
had we stayed a few more months.

Saturday, February 7, 2009


All about is a wound,
and she murders
the air in her way,
not sparing the flash
of what will glue us forever;

but this is not love;
there was no love in Rusitu,
just rain, rain, rain
and teachers' involuntary bankruptcy;

but she had a bank in her heart,
vaults locked by inexperience,
her mind the diamond
you dared not touch
unless you knew
insurance that protected the sun.

The wound on the ground
I have not walked in decades,
Her endless walking
what in time should slow you down,
because unless I give this canvas back
to the trees, that smile
will continue to torture me
and ask why I never
opened an account....

Thursday, February 5, 2009



Where are the lyrics?
Where is the rhyme
And where is the reason
For this sorrowful song?
The heart sings pain
And the heart hums strife.

They kill the children,
And rape the women.
The men have died
In senseless wars!!

Who needs words
For this sad song.
Which the heart sings?
The lyrics are in their eyes
A monotonous melody in their stride.
Its not a song,
Its a dirge.

7TH Nov. 2008

Wednesday, February 4, 2009



Nostalgic heart,
A painful whimper
For a life that was.
A parsimonious existence
Living life
One day at a time.
With tomorrow,
A dream
Out of reach today,
Becoming today
Lived like yesterday...
Life in the village.

Constant music,
Nature's band.
Singing birds
Clacking chickens,
Barking dogs
Cows, donkeys and more.

Feet plodding earth
Foraging the forest,
Nature's basket,
Insects too,
Men hunting for meat.

The river- a life line,
Drinking with the animals.
Boys fishing upstream'
Women, girls
Washing clothes.
A kaleidoscope of rags
Dotting bushes.
Old women bathing,
Shrivelled buttocks
Dessicated breasts,
Dead to the world.
Children playing
Sheer ecstacy,
A joy no money can buy!!

Girls balancing clay pots
On braided heads,
Gourds in hand,
Taking water home.

Boys heading cattle in the hills
Carving wooden weapons,
Weaving with grass
Whips to drive the beasts.

The day glides slowly by
Warmed by a lazy sun,
Taking no hostages.
A nonchalant crowd
They have conquered time.
That's another life.

1st Dec. 2008


Yesterday someone said
this is not necessary anymore;
and I walked silent, for long,
like I had not heard a thing
then remembered to always hear
words when they seek attention;

thus today I wore
pants made of words
as if poems are fabric
when you run out words;

it was a statement
that until words retire
this position will always
be filled, and the smoke of industry
will stop only to fool breaks
which for centuries
have always wondered when
they will be taken....


When I don't sleep like this
I am not here, and if you
were to walk into this room now
you would hear music I am not hearing
because it long transported me far...

Why do we think only
when we can't act fully;

So now they are going to talk again;
and those who should talk
cannot talk anymore
when mobile companies charge in Forex.
So now we can't afford
To make our mothers back home
Afford to talk to us,
that's even before we know
what they are not going to get
in the stores, which will laugh--
the shelves will--at them
when they shovel out
the local currency....

But perhaps I should sleep
and dream that dream again
of my walking in the village
pockets full of US Dollars
wondering into village shops
where open-mouthed store-keepers
had no use for my green bills
and so I would wake up
to learn to exchange my currency
before I left the city....

But when I don't sleep like this
I don't want to be here
because here all you hear are words
at the root of which
is hope for those who learned
long before we knew to suspect
that when worse comes to worst
the best of the worst will
kill simple desire
before even hope
learns to fly....

You can try now;
try to haul me to bed
with the promise of dreams
where fish fly, and birds crawl
with beaks, while snakes stand tall
Not to remember at all
anyone ever telling them to rule....


Some say words
can't run riot...

A few laugh
when leaves whisper
and feet can't graze
when we are transfixed
in a moment where change's
threat is pure

They should have done this
centuries ago, before the children
learned to ditest
this apprenticeship
and now the burden
rolls in the ash
of its dispair....

Now others fear words,
and we will watch
when like the Gonera bees
the words will chase them
into their caves of no return.


Let me for once
not understand this language;
I will let the air talk
in its salted and peppered words,
and I will watch them
twist in pain when more
ears rebel against what yesterday
was their very root:

because why let things
that can't talk claim eloquence,
when our mouths rust
from lack of use?
Why let ears trained
to ping away sense
stand tall and become
the sense they defy?

I don't want to understand
this. Stop wasting your time
watching a brow that may
twitch its invitation
because where ears rebelled
hearts already deserted....