Words Much Like Poetry

Face of a Revolution

2009-12-16T15:50:00.000-05:00

she looked at him
though young,
scarcely aware of sorrow
she understood

he looked, alone
at the white stones
as they covered the departed
and his face hardened against pain

little hands tugged at his garments
holding a little violet flower
and in that moment
the soft young face melted his heart

even in his final hour
the face, though older
comforted him, reassured him
for freedom was nigh

Freedom of Expression

2009-12-12T15:30:00.000-05:00

the jailers stood firm
they had spoken; none would come out
their host's will almost broken
in the prison of the mind they tarried

the longing pulls the host asunder
pain of expression denied
sucked down the whirlpool of silence
to the bottom of hushed oblivion

the host with a trembling hand
seeks the quill of freedom
a doorway to the world of speech
but the haunting silences dim the words out

in the desert of the quashed
she came to me in the light
her gift the golden sand of metaphoric sophistication
and philosophic imagination

freedom was thus granted to the stifled
and they poured down the quill of freedom
smothering dry parchment with the expression
of words much like poetry

Dark Titan

2009-12-07T04:23:00.000-05:00

macabre intrusions,
the variety baneful,
stench of dungeon rust,
an incessant sound of trickles.

its avarice though rabid,
trapped by twin walls
tames it to definition,
traps it by constriction.

it would be lex talionis, it swears—
seething in anger
towards pompous bearers of the resplendent
whose iron encumbers it.

but for a chance it had ignored of Prometheus,
the ruse seamless, flawless,
light under the cover of shadow,
and they struck at the opportune moment...

thundering roars ended in whimpers,
'the Dark Titan is fallen!' they sang,
ire mutated into rage
the lucent robbing it of its majestic cloak.

it had to return,
balance had been upset,
with light they oppress—
their days unoccupied by duels with darker forces.

they taunted it,
and its strength and will grew,
its umbrage tore the earth open,
and hades welcomed it home.

Among the Bodies

2009-12-06T00:00:00.000-05:00

By Jerome Hambrick

Among the bodies of the humid night
Are brave souls left to fight
These are the ones they couldn’t save
The steaming jungle shall be their only grave
Snuffed out by lords of war
There’s one left to even the score
Pushing her way up through the walls of flesh
She goes on to face the final test
Taking what weapons they left behind
She salutes to her friends one last time
Finding their village that very night
She prepares herself for the final fight
While inside they’re having a feast
She rushes in attacking the beast
Shot by one, the only that survived her raid
Pulls the pin of her last…grenade.

ORDER (Revisited)

2009-12-04T14:38:00.003-05:00

This particular poem started out as nothing more than a conversation between my cousin and I. We were discussing the belief, which most people hold to be true, that there exists a correlation between the manner in which one keeps their home and the order that inevitably seems to follow in one's life.

I must respectfully disagree with the proverb, however. For no matter that I've managed to keep order within my home, the outside world refuses to be swayed by my influence.

ORDER

need flows—
swift staccato beats, a jazzy trumpet piece—
through the vault like chambers
of my mournful heart.
which in turn sings of its despair—
a quivering contralto, notes sustained longer
than their normal duration (a fermata placed over each)
a song which tells of the lack of symmetry,
the lack of a mode of proper arrangement
for the poor state of affairs my life is in—
telling of my desire for order.

fear, of never accomplishing this task,
grips me in relentless measures—
a composition to be played forte
(which leaves one gasping and overwhelmed
at the crest, at the crescendo—
driving unmercifully home
the fact that I am steward
to two of the next generation,
son and daughter of vivacious spirit,
and that they require a solid foundation
to build upon.

but while fear
is a masterfully written piece
that resonates throughout,
determination flounders
and is rarely heard or felt
beyond the threshold of my inner sanctum—
place I frequently visit and stand
before my reflection, manner critical,
bleating sharp reviews, often scathing remarks.
I cannot seem to find the method
necessary for acquiring order.

all that is left is to accept the path
trodden well by others.
sacrifice must come again in great number
for rewards that are as grains of sand,
insignificant when they are but a few.
the time will come, however,
when determination is a powerful sound—
a concerto of unwavering movements,
a definitive fork that marks the place
where I can finally veer off course
and plot a route that is all my own.

~ Wamuhu Mwaura, posted on Words Much Like Poetry April 27, 2008

Note: This is a revision; the originally posted version of this poem has been unavailable to readers for approximately three months now. Apologies to those who've come across the "Page not found" message. It is now available.

Image: Sheet, Piano Public Domain.com

3 A.M. Lament (Revisited)

2009-12-03T14:15:00.012-05:00

I cannot take any true credit for the following poem, despite that I authored it, it seemingly crafted itself. I began writing it with the intent of telling the story of a widow who nightly mourns the presence of her lost loved one upon the lonely extent of her empty bed. Instead, what poured forth onto the page became part of a series of poems that I termed "a little exorcise".

It is a favorite of mine simply because it set a standard for my poetry; every piece that has come after it has been measured against it. For the most part, I feel that I've managed to keep in line with the amount of self-reflection and imagery contained in this piece. I've revised it somewhat (betrayal though that might be to whatever muse gifted me with the inspiration for it); I feel that it flows better in this new form.

3 A.M. Lament

thoughts, virulent in nature,
flit with the delicacy of butterfly wings
through that which is the seat of my thoughts
this exasperation is aimed at none other than myself—
once again, I’ve come in for a share of a rapacious interlude,
which has left me somewhat sated, and disrupted for a spell
the perpetual season of my anger.
and, with the conclusion of our rarely practiced distraction,
there is now, within you, a sense of righteous dominance,
an assumption that I have yielded to your brand of careless love
and that guilt has no residence in the streets of your conscience.

but guilt ought have a comfortable shelter,
an extravagant domicile even,
in the vicinity of your soul.
for the era of my pique,
a frigid winter of seemingly incalculable years,
was begun by the first strike you laid in smarting fashion
upon the softly rounded curve of my cheek.
o, curse the inanity of my sense of judgment,
curse my misguided faith in the bonding of the human form,
I knew, I knew!

at the commencement of the affair,
I knew that there was to you a savageness—
your temper flashes made of your eyes
a moisture bereft plain,
whereupon a wildfire spreads and blazes intensely.
but I thought, too, that you were civil enough
to reign in your violent tendencies
(thought that within you there was to be found
a measure of esteem for those who are fairer,
often weaker in the sense of the physical.
I reasoned that since woman, as I, gave birth to you
endured for you the terrible onslaught of labor,
reasoned that since woman, as I, tended you to her breast,
wasted herself to sustain you—).

a tear coasts a salty path down my originally insulted,
and continually offended, cheek.
I pull closer about me the widow’s weeds
my sheets and bedspread have become,
they mourn with me the extent of my naiveté,
for though the glacial fury has descended
and restarted whatever timepiece which tracks
the course of my enduring ire,
I tell myself that the hour of lamentation is done—
three a.m. has become four, time to sleep;
the babes will wake and they will need me,
or whatever pathetic creature it is that wakes—
angry and drawn from the nightly lament—
to a woeful existence
that is more than in her power to change.

~ Wamuhu Mwaura, posted on Words Much Like Poetry March 19, 2008

Note: The originally posted version of this poem has been unavailable to readers for approximately three months now. Apologies to those who've come across the "Page not found" message. It is now available.

Image: Thomas Burke, Andromache, Public Domain

Burden of History

2009-12-02T14:10:00.000-05:00

By Kirill Coda

I look out onto the world and wonder
what it would be like not to plunder
or even buckle under,
under the weight of all my blunder
one's mind does ponder—
what if I could turn back time,
back to when I was at my prime
and maybe commit a victimless crime,
or I could just apologise...
But for what, I did what any man would do.
I listened to my words much like poetry,
much like the words of a decree,
no man would disagree,
that the burden of history
is the world's greatest misery.

Note: This poem was submitted to Words Much Like Poetry via our project on WEbook. A direct link to the project has been provided on the row of links found just beneath our header.

The Weight of Water

2009-12-01T23:59:00.001-05:00

a swift turn, and salty tears find
the barricades I've constructed against them,
obstructions forged of altercations
with serrated blades wielded by burdens;
instead, for the homage I've paid them,
words much like poetry travel
the well rounded curvatures
that delineate my face.

as for the tears
(who've failed time and again in their attempt
to deluge my barriers, to wreak their own brand
of havoc upon me), I refuse to assign the weight
of that water any significance,
though fearsome it may be—mountains,
sturdier than I, have given way,
formed canyons to channel it
so that the world's grief might stream
steadily into Poseidon's cherished hold.

perhaps a day will come, a day when
that substance I hold back
finds its way around obstacles,
as water is wont to do.
until then, I shall drown in my words,
grant them leave to express my woes
in lieu of that which I have denied license.

Image: Ansel Adams, The Tetons (Snake River, Wyoming), Public Domain

Ocean Against Me

2009-11-30T13:15:00.006-05:00

tell me what is to be done with this half-heart,
how to cope with Time while awaiting Destiny's verdict?
will Destiny speak the words, words much like poetry,
that will return me to you; words of potent conviction
that will cause the ocean to fall away
and no longer stand against me?
I cannot fathom what possible offense
I could have committed against the briny deep
that it saw fit to punish me with its very expanse.
I lay nightly upon the dwelling of my lonely stretch,
my lonely patch of shore, contemplating my bruised portion...
it aches where I tore us asunder.

Image: Petr Kratochvil, Ocean sunset, Public Domain Pictures.net

The Intruder on the Beach (Revisited)

2009-11-30T02:00:00.006-05:00

This poem began as a short story written as a class assignment. I was a junior in high school, so the comprehensive editing that I've put it through over the years has been necessary. I wouldn't say that it reflected an immature tone of voice, but my writing style has changed drastically over the last decade and the story is one of my favorites. As I am presenting it here, it has been revised once more.

The Intruder on the Beach

I have traversed this beach for what seems eons; yet,
time upon time, what I seek always eludes me.
I seek it in the sound of the crashing waves, the smell
of the salt air, the feel of the chill wind—
which whips against my weathered face.

I walk farther from the water’s edge. eyes scanning
the distant horizon, searching an elusive peace of mind
in the sun’s reflection upon the blue-green surface of the ocean,
I walk. walking on sand that bares much witness
to my habitual walks, and those of others, as evidenced
in the footprints that crater nigh the entire surface of the sand.
a testimony of the pain of the world, perhaps?

a while longer, my steady gait has gained me silent ground.
the crashing waves and the seagulls and such that fly by
my only companions. then, I hear them, moments before I see them.
a young couple. I slow my already slow pace and lethargically
move along. so far I am unnoticed and…

suddenly, the girl turns her head sharply.

she is blessed with classic beauty. large eyes, deeper in color
than the darkest night—they sit above a small nose and bow
shaped mouth, the lower lip fuller
(sensual, soft, kissable).
about her oval face, thick mahogany strands of hair sway,
dancing in the salt air. and shapely curves define her
as woman and not girl.

she reminds me of my Heather. not in likeness of feature,
but in youth. she, this woman not girl, radiant picture of life
that she is... a life my Heather did not have the chance to live...
her youth, this woman not girl, also reminds me
of my advancing years. of how old I have grown
in the years since sweet wife’s death.
not that I need reminders.

I see my age as my hand moves my cane before me,
a third appendage which firms my limping stride,
a hand covered in wrinkled and spotted skin.
and too, I know the wind throws grayed hair,
mostly hidden beneath a black top hat, across my face.

I attend the woman not girl with an immovable gaze
as I drift inexorably closer, drawn to her
by the force of memory she evokes in me.
she attends me as well, and at her inattention
her young man jerkily throws up his hands,
joining in an intentional harmony with the rise
in pitch of his voice.

the woman not girl flinches, but does not take
her dark eyed gaze, which begins to show anger,
off my approaching form.
dear, sweet bliss, how she reminds me of Heather!

why? why, on this day come here?
a rhetorical question, if ever there was one for myself.
this is where I proposed to Heather, where we spoke
our vows, where...
...she lost her life—this day thirty years past.
but why, why on this day did this woman not girl,
with her midnight eyes, with her angry lover,
why come here!

I am mere feet from the couple now
and pass them by with a tip of my hat, a halfheartedly
spoken, “Sorry to intrude.”

I turn slightly as I journey on and have my first look
at the young man. he is handsome, tall,
and at an age I shall never again be.
as a flash of jealousy courses through my broken heart,
I turn and look out over the ocean.
cruel, wretched thing.
I wish that I had sweet wife back.

I sigh and look back at the young couple (they are embracing now,
the heat and anger gone, upon the young man’s face
a kind of wondrous peace, such unguarded emotion) hoping
that they shall love, be permitted to love...
until their dying days.

I look away, only to turn back moments later.
reason dawns.

I have become a man forgotten of splendor.

no matter that I turned from it, splendor still dwells here...
in the sound of the crashing waves, the smell of the salt air,
the feel of the chill wind, the sun’s reflection upon the blue-green
surface of the ocean, in the sand that bares much witness
to my habitual walks and those of others, as evidenced
by the footprints that crater nigh the entire surface of the sand.

Heather’s image firmly fixed in my mind, I turn away
from the couple a last time and walk into the water.

~ Wamuhu Mwaura, posted on Words Much Like Poetry July 30, 2009

Image: Unknown

This Life I Lead

2009-11-27T19:30:00.004-05:00

by Cedric Pierce

Rufus Tooks was sixteen when a stray bullet pierced his forehead, cutting his life short. I was fourteen and forever changed through witnessing his murder. While everybody ran, I was paralyzed. I still remember the half cloudy moon, the barking of dogs, rapidly overshadowed by police sirens. He didn't die instantly, with his eyes open, sporadic breathing. I could hear him in pain. "Help me, Ced."

Rufus died within 20 minutes. I've been constantly haunted by his demise. I'm unable to shake the image of his body lying on the cold gravel road. I still see the small bullet hole, with a slightly larger hole, with pieces of his platinum brains loosely hanging from the back of his head. I waited while the ambulance hauled his body away. Hypnotized by the white chalk lines. Where not long ago, a living, breathing human once lay.

At the time, I was confused. Where was his soul? I half expected to see his soul exit the body. His precious soul, the essence of Man. It would be an understatement, to say I shed tears for Rufus. We became closer, due to his death, than we were while he was alive.

The funeral, held at Jones Mortuary—what would be the being of the East Palo Alto wars—was packed. Police surrounded the funeral home, to ensure proper respect. I played the background, not desiring to face Mrs. Tooks. The Washington brothers attended. Michael, Ray and Chris Washington. They were East Palo Alto, what the Kennedy's are to America. Dwayne "Insane" Henry, and Julius "The Camel," were also there to pay respect.

There were a lot more who attended; I singled out the ones who have since joined Rufus. I had 3 years of experience of the game under my belt at the time. During these times, I would learn all there was to know.

Police would interrogate the turf to no end. However, talking to the police was a serious sin, that was punished by death. Not the kind of death that God granted Adam and Eve after eating the forbidden fruit. Snitching was an instant death. It was explained to me that police don't care about our people or neighborhood. They care about control. Justice plays no part in their system.

When a black man kills another black man the neighborhood decides what is justifiable or what punishment will be handed down. Police don't care about the deceased or the killer. As far as they are concerned one bullet kills two niggers.

Revenge would become a mandate. No politics involved. If you kill one of ours, we destroy all that you represent, respect or love. In the beginning, there were rules... They quickly became abolished. Such a savage way to exist.

With undeveloped mentalities, depraved environments, poverty and the lack of education and life skills—most of us never have a chance. Many nights I prayed that God would save me, while my days were spent doing the devil's duties. The trap was not being able to process emotions.

When you witness death after death, it becomes unnaturally easy to deal with the process. It becomes an excepted part of life. Somewhere dying and killing merges. Murderer, killer, or any other label is society's way of branding the act. However, it's never perceived as survival, or self defense. It's a struggle, a contradiction that I haven't come to terms with.

If an individual poses a threat, do we wait to be struck, or should one strike? Even if cooperation with law enforcement were allowed, by law there is nothing that can be done, due to potential threats. If the government doesn't believe potential threats aren't serious, we would have never invaded Iraq.

This doesn't justify the inner city violence. We are truly at war and under attack, without the resources and/or intelligence to save our selves. I do want to convey that we are human. We love in the only way we know how. We become forever changed by what we are taught or what we witness. I've often desired more out of my life. Not knowing how to get there. And with no one attempting to assist such a journey.

When an individual has goals, dreams, and ambitions with no outlet for such endeavors, life becomes an unbearable existence of misery. We don't become drug dealers because we desire to infest our communities with poison or play our part in genocide. We do it to live. We do it to eat. We do it to escape that feeling of being a nobody. When a person feels worthless and finds something that makes them feel special, makes them feel like their life means something... Any cost is worth paying. It has nothing to do with the legality of the act. It's a human flaw. We all want to count. Why do celebrities do the strangest things to remain in the spotlight? They're rich, beautiful, and appear to have it all. But they can't accept falling off, no longer having meaning.

Once again, this is not to justify what we do. It is my attempt to explain why. What if you envisioned never having one dream come true? Or everything that makes life worth living, never having the opportunity to participate whether real or imagined?

I wish I could be a good guy. I respect and admire Barack Obama. My eyes water, knowing I will never have what he has. Beautiful wife, who's an educated professional. Two pretty daughters. Family is a man's greatest asset. Senator Obama is in a position, that when he talks, people listen. My voice is yet to be heard. I exist, but have not lived.

Life is about position and options. The position one is capable of being placed in will be defined by one's options. Growing up, I had a lot of options. However, I was ignorant of most of them. If a person does not educate self, to any and all of life's benefits, we can only blame self. This is the life I chose.

~ 2007

Caged

2009-11-27T00:26:00.004-05:00

they lie in wait
below the floorboards of my consciousness
they try to find their way up
through the cracks
they try to seep through
through the damp porous walls
of the dungeon of my mind

their long dragging fingers reach for me
through the rusted bars of their cage
the cage i banished them to long ago
the cage of my dreams

they will not let me be
they will give me no respite
they will grant me no surcease
until i turn them loose
until i cry 'havoc!' and let slip their leash
these words
words much like poetry

Tuesday, 17 nov 2009 05:46:27 hrs By Michael Maina

Giving Thanks...

2009-11-26T14:27:00.003-05:00

Wishing all our U.S. readers a Happy Thanksgiving!

Unforetold, Destined

2009-11-26T13:08:00.002-05:00

which should I lend credence?
the song in my head
or the beating of the heart,
for the path to choose

in quest for answers,
the puzzle of life
is just a cryptic jumble,
with no pieces fitting together

I have lost my thread
I cannot find my way back
the grail I seek,
eludes me in this labyrinth

I know the words
they sing in the head,
with stubborn persistence
but the tongue is tied to silence

will the eye behold heaven,
the angel of surreal dreams?
will the hand touch silk,
the warmth of delayed company?

the die is not yet cast
the forecast cannot come forth
the cup is half full,
it leaks equally with every pouring

in the stillness of day,
an expectation shall brew
there will either be a storm,
or a rainbow bathed in a gentle hush

The Man, the Moon and the Flower

2009-11-25T17:59:00.002-05:00

it was not enough
he was not enough
her world was not for him, yet
he lived the world without indulgence

for long he wished for the crux event,
and when it came, he escalated to near nova
but his moon denied him
and it shined, mocking his vain attempt

he yearned for the wild flower
pitied by the ivy and the poison oak
as he fetched pollen for his unrequited love
her thorns the agony of unspoken rejection

a declaration, a denial and then pity
their sympathy only heightened his pain
as he longed for floods to purge his fractured heart
he grabbed at straws, while jealousy consumed him

her world was not for him, yet
he grabbed at his pillow, praying for the genie of wishes
but there was no sting on his shoulder
and he knew not why that mattered

he bore his pain for six moons,
till it ceased to shine
he forgot her name, and she ceased to exist
only a shadow, crumbs of memory

if only he had known
with a brief flare of forgotten consumption
he left a mark on the fair moon, who though sought other stars,
was destined to shine with him once more

The Messiah's Dirge

2009-11-25T08:22:00.009-05:00

haaa ha a ha a ha a haa
haaa ha a ha a ha a haa

... up and down the street at Ashmol,
just before the midnight toll,
her face pale, in her long flowing shroud,
this night in the sky is nay a cloud,
her deathly eyes cast up to heaven,
this year of our Lord, 1737.

haaa ha a ha a ha a haa
haaa ha a ha a ha a haa

... she hums to her master Luthier Stradiv,
a sad dirge of the messiah on Christmas eve,
in the moonlight with a graceful stride,
dances the widow who was Luthier's bride,
tears like a river flow down her cheek,
the dark of death lends an eerie streak.

haaa ha a ha a ha a haa
haaa ha a ha a ha a haa

... in sombre notes is the music into the night,
as the messiah strums the "Song of the light"
to those who see her, shrouded in grief,
and beg the heavens to grant her relief,
as she cries for the last time; again ne'er,
in Ashmol the messiah's prison lies forever.

haaa ha a ha a ha a haa
haaa ha a ha a ha a haa

.. goes the tune to the messiah's dirge.

----------------------------------------------------------------
This poem is imaged from the vintage violin fashioned in 1730's by a 'luthier' named Antonio Stradivari. It was so magnificent it was named "The messiah" sometime in the 1820s. The messiah is now a museum piece at the Ashmoleum Museum ... and it's never to be played forever.

from the Trapped in Time series by M. Davies

Eve's Lacking

2009-11-24T21:25:00.003-05:00

they met in years still tender—
days so long buried in the passage of time
it seems that they walked in the newest of light,
upon continents that knew no division,
and watched as the Greater Force molded mountains
from rivers of fire.
though, if asked, that Eve of gentle desire
would have scoffed at the beasts of the realm
and told them in terms lacking no uncertainty
that knowledge was hers, and no fruit,
forbidden or otherwise, could convey upon her
any further wisdom.

Image: Expulsion of Adam and Eve by Alexandre Cabanel

Gems of Memory (Revisited)

2009-11-24T11:29:00.001-05:00

It was not so long ago that I posted this poem, but I wish to revisit it because it represents something special.

Loss of a loved one can be sorely devastating, and it may take years to come to terms with it. Someone once told me that the pain of a loss doesn't diminish, but rather someone develops the strength and endurance to bear it. Jewellery can sometimes seem to possess a part of a loved one; a little piece of their soul. The wedding band, engagement ring, family heirloom; these hold such significance to our lives in relation to those who have gone before us.

The events in this poem are based on truth, something that happened. It tells of the journey of two loved ones who experience an incredible bond, as the life of one of them nears the end. The other has to muster all the courage they can to watch the one they love pass on. It is true some bonds can never be broken, their substance undiluted even unto death.

Gems of Memory

upon six gems we struck a covenant,
to be as one among the chaos of our youth
to bond our hearts of jade and azure,
to an unlikely perfect graft

a mystic of sentiment you were
a chestful of gold-lings and shinies
the sparkle at the summit of passion found
the gentle whisper of a diamond brook

but your brilliance hid the crack in your refraction
a weakness you hid to preserve my integrity
and as you slowly splintered,
I motioned you make house with me

you slowly lost your luster
and I shuddered in silence
as deep down I knew,
the Gem Maker was calling you home

at the failing of shines,
we made our vows
the imprint of our eternal memory,
and the band of six jewels a testament to our union

you were broken and I could not mend you
and I tried to shine brighter for the both of us
but I could not fix your center
and you gave up your last light in mine hands

Originally posted on September 9th, 2009
by Antony Kamau.

The band still exists somewhere, I know it. Such an incredible story it would tell, so would the one who wore it for a while, until they let it go so as to move on to another incredible story.

I feel her nudge, urging me on,
the guilt I feel I know is unreasonable
the itch on my finger will not go away
'courage!' she whispers in my ear

my heart glows warm with comfort abundant
I gather courage and go to the girl
my strength fails me halfway
and I steady myself, gasping for breath

'patience' she whispers gently
'don't leave!' I whisper back,
turning to catch a glimpse of her just once more
but then there is only silence and eternal loneliness

image created by Antony Kamau

Oracle (Revisited)

2009-11-19T16:08:00.002-05:00

Xerxes has bribed the old disgusting men and they have been promised oracles, beautiful girls who will live atop a dark mountain, to be violated by orc-like creatures.

As she danced, she was to me like an angel, weightless; her sheer garment like wings made with milky water.

Frank Miller's graphic novels are what poetic pictures are made of. I have been a fan for a long time and here I make a vain attempt at recreation with a minor modification to add spice. (?)

the tender weightless misty threads
wisped, spiraled up and met with the stately figure
they kissed and caressed tender curves,
hugged as they rubbed and rose,
skidded upon a heaving curve,
hit upon the parabolic obstacle and dispersed

a hiss upon the glowing brands and new misty weightless rose
they knew their enchantment, they knew their instrumentality
snatched, they jetted into a dance with garments,
a fanning wing tugged at them until they entered the twin cave
and a dark bony clawed hand intruded upon the flawless milky skin

hoarse cackles mixed with velvet whispers
and drool stained the silk and satin
pale skin glowed and the curves convulsed
narcotic evanescence hovered expectant-
a squeal arose from within as coarse and sharp violated supple soft

eyes, unblemished white, glowing
hankered at her and a stained grin arose from the creature
as it held the chain that bound a celestial
the damned one rattled the fetters as he hobbled forward
and yanked the immaculate into a dirty embrace

her wings fluttered - resistant, as cracked lips
opened to reveal jagged rotting teeth
and went for the kiss of revelation
white iridescence hid the unimaginable coupling
and in a shriek the demon sucked all glory from the shackled star

he smiled as he searched the stolen nimbus for the sight
and within he saw his master in all his darkness
as he hovered over the earth, having cast the mistress of light asunder
his dark wings fluttered to cover the light
and flooded the world in eternal shadow

Inspired by Frank Miller's 300

Posted on August 21, 2009 by Antony Kamau

Perhaps I shall write another poem based on, well, Sin City. I am afraid it might be so gruesome that it would need an R-21 sticker.

in his final stand, covered in bloody majesty
his garb an impediment to what he had to do
he went to his knees in false defeat

he was no god-king
they had to know, his divinity was a sham
his fate the damned oracles could not forge
as his spear marked a god for defeat

The Immortality of Intimates Reconciled (Revisited)

2009-11-18T11:40:00.012-05:00

I have this terrible tendency to withdraw into myself when life throws one curve ball too many. I stop calling, stop writing and find weeks of silence turning into months, and sometimes even into years. I am not alone in this, it's a quirk of human nature, I think. Our unwillingness to burden those closest to us with our troubles. But true friendship is a curious thing. It allows for long spells of silence, requires it at times.

The poem below doesn't really reflect on the issue of prolonged silences, that is a concept I broach in another poem—which I will be re-posting at a future date for your reading pleasure. Rather it reflects upon the reason as to why we reconnect, why we reach out to those who profess to care, those who truly do.

The Immortality of Intimates Reconciled

I think on intimates,
friends who are well remembered in study,
and wistful longings begin to nag at my spirit,
they displace the usual lines etched upon my face,
amounting it to a solemn landscape of woe
for the solitude we wear close to our hearts,
solitude that much resembles
cavaliers chain mail and suit of armor
in the way it weighs upon the form
and sinks us deep into the quagmire loneliness.

I think on the way my intimates and I,
on those ever rarer occasions of desperation
for that which is much needed but singularly found,
stretch out to one another
arms that tremble from the exhaustion
of carrying our individual hindrances
and touch fingers, in reconciling manner,
across the erstwhile distance of our parallel lives.

I think on the events that shaped us
and that which drives us even now,
the seeds of our aspirations, which we have sown
and seek to make fruitful,
tending them in the way of gardeners as they begin to grow,
nurturing them as they begin to bloom.

in each tender bud,
I see the prospective for greatness
that lies with the realization of our goals
and I weep for the endless universe of possibilities
that was secured us by those willing
to trade blessed life for equality and freedom.
now, we can be as the empires and the conquerors,
the poets and the playwrights,
the sculptors and the painters,
the inventors and the explorers,
we can be as ill-forgotten as they,
a mighty root in our tree of known kindred
and not merely a withering branch.

but I wonder still if I have the right of it,
or if perhaps I seek nothing more than a method of explaining away
my demented longing for the immortality which comes of great feats
and lasts us through the ages,
kept alive by those descended of us,
by those who speak of us until time immemorial.

~ Wamuhu Mwaura, posted on Words Much Like Poetry March 19, 2008

The last two verses might seem odd, but the quest for immortality is another facet of human nature. And though as a child—wandering through libraries and galleries, determined to leave my mark upon the world in the way so many other writers and artists had—I thought only great feats would accomplish this task; I've since come to realize that immortality isn't gained by feats alone. And though these feats play the largest part of enduring us in the memory of others, without family, and indeed friends, what value lies in the quest if we have no one to share in it while we still live?

As with the original posting of this poem, I dedicate this firstly to my cousin and secondly to all those who have taken hold of places in my heart and refuse to let go.

Toward Glory, Burning (Revisited)

2009-11-17T06:02:00.011-05:00

Hard times seem to be a constant with me. To the point that I've begun to feel as if they are all I'll ever know. There are moments however, when the need to be more than the sum total of my bad experiences swells within me and determination gives rise to hope. I cannot (alright, will not) explain the inspiration for this poem in detail, know that what strings it together is: a bad habit (terrible really and I need to quit), a day spent in an environment I care nothing for, my opinion of those who seem to inhabit that environment, and my determination to find my own brand of glory—the kind of glory that will ensure that I, myself, do not become like those inhabitants I very nearly sneer at in this poem.

Toward Glory, Burning

light flares and paper burns crisply,
leafy contents send acrid smoke trailing lazily skyward
and contentment swells starved lungs denied their usual fill,
long hours spent in demeaning wait,
in straight shoulder-back seated pose,
book of sonnets upon my lap,
mind screaming for release,
this world of seemingly needful empty hands
stretched out in greedy longing
so that lackluster days might continue on
through to life's end, does not suit me.
I do not belong amongst this lot,
I will not refrain from striving toward glory.

~ Wamuhu Mwaura, posted on Words Much Like Poetry May 1, 2008

Image: Michele Walters, Fire works, Public Domain Pictures.net

A Yearning for Freedom (Revisited)

2009-11-16T10:00:00.000-05:00

This is my take on imprisonment. A Kenyan cell is not a place to be, even a holding cell. The moment you enter one, there is an obvious pecking order, which much later translates to where you are going to sleep. There is the newbie corner, pretty close to the waste basket, if you know what I mean. Then there is the first hall, a corridor really to two adjacent cells. There is the intermediate cell which houses the ones who have been there a week and finally the VIP cell, for those who have been there more than a month (This is a scenario of just one of the holding cells).

To be brief, one sleeps on the cold rough floor, packed side by side alternating on opposite ends. This is to ensure a 'best fit' scenario to accommodate a cell meant for ten but packed with a number north of 35. The VIP cell is the only one that has sufficient mattresses and blankets, albeit full of bedbugs.

Depending on what you are being held for, your wait can be indefinite, despite the rule that you cannot be held for more than 24 hours legally. The wait for the inevitable, which could be being charged in court or being let to go is hereby visualized.

A Yearning for Freedom

the air is slightly stale, and I am surprised I do not grimace to it. at least the floor is not very cold and I wonder at its rough comfort. the smell of leather will be my companion tonight for it is from the one solid thing I own here.

the yearning has not subsided, in fact, it is more intense now. I choke at the consequent emotion, and anger rises up my throat and I wonder if tears would help. I know they will not come to me, they have not for a long while. I blink at the darkness, willing my eyes to glue shut and for a second I muse at the curiosity of a certain mystery.... at which point my mind screams for light, but in a hushed voice, barely audible from even within me. the thirst for it is a contradictory need, as I yearn for this stifling darkness to swallow me.

the leg jerks at a touch, just as virtual grace steals me away into the summer heat, into square pavements bustling, breathing and alive... they will not come to me, and I shut my eyes so tight it hurts. a different breeze wafts in, carrying with it evidence of a basic human nature. I welcome its stinging distraction from my chainless shackles. my mind slowly lets go of its cyclic thoughts, a frustrating prison of tight unyielding polythene skin. I claw at it as it chokes me, tightens all around me, denying me air.

they will not come to me, I must be strong, the thread holding me is unraveling. is this the road to insanity? it cannot be...

they will not come to me. there is no shame to it. but still, they deny me momentary solace. should I turn to look? the glitter might be my window to mental freedom, it is light within darkness. but what is a drop of water upon perched lips, if the whole draught will not be mine.

they will not come to me, and another light steals me from within the darkness, though only for a short long while.

Originally posted on March 3rd, 2009
by Antony Kamau

This is quite possibly the very first poem posted on this blog, after having being invited to post my work. I wrote it impromptu, like they were words suppressed within crying out to be expressed. A floodgate was opened then and I hope the torrents never run dry.

they tumble down the hand
seeking freedom
seeking speech
seeking expression

I give them audience
to speak for me
and to me
the words much like poetry

Dark Waking Dreams (Revisited)

2009-11-15T02:16:00.015-05:00

Dark poetry appeals to me in certain ways; it might be that every one of us has a dark side. In moments of despair, everything around can mutate to a nightmare. The elements in this poem are contradictory just like dreams are sometimes. I picture myself dreaming while awake, one of those dreams that I will just not wake from. But then again, I might be dreaming that I'm wide awake.

It can also be a puzzle, a labyrinth of sorts (I love labyrinths in my poems), where nothing is what it seems and darkness is like cold boiling tar.

I cannot point to specific inspiration, other than imaginary sprites whispering dark things into my ear (these would be from the Darkess and the Old Soul series); I just imagined what it would be to lose my mind, not that I would want to. Nevertheless, read and enjoy, and let it have a meaning specific to you.

Dark Waking Dreams

the ground waves to salute my succulent bliss
its accent not without an unheard scream
the gauntlet has been served, its rim I will kiss
the portal to my waking dream

sirens call to me
why will that record not cease to repeat?
my sorrows chime and won't let me be
I will be naught to defeat

I go up the upside down stair
heaven will be my hell
despair my repair
will conundrums my fortune tell?

the never ending spiral my straight
upon the brink tribulations pour up to me
across the chasm I need a street
darkness boils scalding my glee

the path goes straight back to itself
sanity dogs me, taunting me to desperation
the ladder is too short, and reason stands upon a shelf
save me from this labyrinth of desecration!

Poem by Antony Kamau,
Originally posted on May 3rd, 2009

whisper to me, little shadows
scare me a while to giggles
imprison me into walled windows
they are too big, I cannot wiggle

Sunflowers of My Youth (Revisited)

2009-11-14T21:55:00.004-05:00

Originally untitled, Sunflowers of My Youth was written sometime in the late 1990's. A despairing poem, it was among the first of such despairing works that marked a sense of loss of innocence.

Was it only last night that I was so young
In knowledge and in action
Now I lay here far older than I was yesterday
Soiled and unclean with a filth that will never wash off my soul
Was it only last night that I was so innocent
Believing in ever-lasting love which I now in my old age know doesn't exist
Believing that love in its all-encompassing glory could heal a world torn apart by hate
Was it only last night that the world seemed so flat
Now it with all its rounded dimensions has come crashing down on me
Bearing down on me with its overwhelming weight
Causing all my fragileness to buckle and snap
Devastating me with its one mighty stroke
Was it only last night that I was so young
Was it only last night that I felt so wonderful in my ignorance and innocence
Was it only last night

Towards the end of 2006, I took an avid interest in acquiring publication and began pouring through my notebooks in search of poems I thought worthy of editing for submission. Despite editing this particular poem several times, I only submitted it once—its subsequent rejection placed it on my back burner for an entire year.

When my cousin came to live with me in December of 2007, she brought with her a whole host of memories that had been locked away for the better part of a decade. Needing an outlet for all the emotions (guilt being at the forefront) that were suddenly drowning me, I once more poured through my notebooks. This is what became of the poem.

Sunflowers of My Youth

was it only last night that I was so young,
in knowledge and in action?
now I lay here, far older than I was yesterday,
soiled and unclean with a filth
that will never wash off my soul.
no longer an innocent,
now, I am among the damned,
and I long for the sunflowers of my youth.
my youth is liberally perfumed with the scent,
a sweet intoxicant that made me dim of wit
and convinced me of an invincibility I did not own.
all too soon, the world, with all its rounded dimensions,
crashed down upon me,
devastating me with one mighty, unforgivable stroke,
and stealing from me my youth.

was it only last night that I was so young?
that I felt so wonderful in my ignorance,
in my innocence.
oh, sweet sunflowers of my youth,
I crave the carefree air that you lent me,
but I no longer breathe as those who have not sinned do,
and with gills grown out of necessity I continue to live,
though I drown in the misery my wisdom has wreaked upon me.
and for what?
a love that blinded me against reason?
a love that I had already scorned?
redemption is beyond me.
were it offered,
I would probably refuse it.
wretches such as I do not deserve Paradise,
and it is the scent of light blue and not sunflowers
that will wreathe around me as I descend into the pit Hell.

~ Wamuhu Mwaura, posted on Words Much Like Poetry December 29, 2007

The poem gained its title from the Elizabeth Arden perfume Sunflowers, a scent I used to wear in my late teens. A scent I'd not worn for years until my cousin encouraged me (she did a lot of that) to purchase a bottle and wear it for old times' sake. I find the fragrance both evocative and enduring, two ideals I did not feel that I embodied when I took my first whiff of it from a tester at the age of fifteen. However, the shield that it provided me against my innate shyness was a fragile one and it crumbled under the weight of adult realizations and heartbreak of one form or another.

Once my cousin moved out, I found I could no longer tolerate all that the scent stirred within me. Perhaps, though... Perhaps, I came to the realization that time and experience had built the shield that my youth had denied me. Well, regardless, what endears this poems to me is that it earned Words Much Like Poetry its first fan. So, this one's for you, D.K.

Image: Anna Cervova, Sunflower, Public Domain Pictures.net

Tireless Horses

2009-11-14T01:57:00.004-05:00

the stony bump has me reeling back to reality ... I stare at the path as it disappears behind me ...

as I turn and look forth ... I see myself again; holding the reins to the tireless horses ...

I am driver and passenger both ...

the dark path behind ... echoes the even darker path ahead ...

I sit alone—where I go, I know not, but I vaguely remember whence I came ...

the only sound is the rhythmic trot of hooves ... like the tick of time

pulling me towards an inevitable fate ...

shadows of the past

pass by so fast ...

I throw my hand out in an effort to reach back,

against a shadowy tree I graze my finger,

in an effort to make my thoughts linger

... another stony bump ... I am thrown back to the wooden seat ... forced to look ahead

and endure the everlasting trot ... from the Tireless Horses

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New From: Trapped in time series by M. Davies