Whirling

stuck

There is a windchime at my back window,
It makes a slow song in the wind-
Sad, like the owner.

The plant next to it has a flower,
bent forward in search of light
And I am rocking myself to happiness in the living room.

It’s all too hazy,
My light,
Dimming off slowly like a dying eulogy.

Jazz is playing off my speakers;
sluggish music
like the will in me to see through tonight.

Everything is whirling,
And my being is threatening to disintegrate.

Do you think that maybe,

You can stop me from reeling.

 

Shiru_wa_Wanjiku 2017

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Some days…

LEO_5491

Some days I feel like a flower;

lightly pinned on a fur coat

with the winds blowing both in and out

of an open warehouse where I am hanged.

 

On others I am a wolf;

howling to a dripping moon

spelling out dreams with wails

letter by letter.

 

Some days I feel like a dying candle during a hurricane;

with the water rushing in

The anticipation of drowning

sweeping me away.

 

On others life feels like a grave;

and there are no flowers on this side of the grave.

 

Shiru_wa_wanjiku 2017

 

 

 

Liturgy

rae

The procession is stuck at your home;

with you leading it

lowering your head-

mumbling supplications for your soul.

 

I find your prayers oscillative;

words of repentance tossed in and around grit teeth-

“forgive me, for I knew no better.”

 

But lover;

what solace do you seek,

did you for a second think that hearts break in whispers?

 

Turn that other way;

say  five little Hail Mary’s

leaving your cloak of self-righteousness at my feet.

 

You will do that for me, lover,

won’t you?

 

Shiru_wa_wanjiku 2017

Photocredits: Photo of Rae of Rayerae by Kelvin Kaesa

Sunday Afternoons

KRN_0196 (1)

What  do you think of on late Sunday afternoons;

with the sun calm

and winds lazy strolling through your window curtains?

 

Do you think of love lost,
bodies you have perused through like scriptures

with the messiah sipping through your fingers;

finding no salvation?

 

Do your dreams cross your mind;

like ships in high tide

and you an inexperienced captain

in search of a shore?

 

Or does thoughts of home come knocking;

Home,

where love is muttered through silent prayers

and stern looks?

 

On late Sunday afternoons;
do you think of you?

 

Shiru_wa_wanjiku 2017

Photo Credits: Kelvin Kaesa

 

Inside Out

 

KRN_0183

I have dreams,

delicate shells swaying back and forth the sea of self-doubt;

a country girl in a big city.

 

I have worked so hard to survive me,

built origami homes with pages of my spirit;

always rushing,

Like gushes of waves, hitting hard the shore of myself,

yearning  and loathing .

 

Loneliness rolls out my tongue like home should,

sounding like unanswered phone-calls on Sunday afternoons;

with the house cool,

dark

and I sprawled butt naked on the brown sofa at the corner.

 

Conversations with myself have been bare lately

with bleeding knuckles

sore eyes

and an exasperated beaten down soul.

 

I am learning to gather myself up

continuously muttering;

Don’t you know,

darling,

that beating yourself up has never been a fair fight?

 

Shiru_wa_Wanjiku 2017

 

 

Home

ineedthis

This is how nights are spent in a city miles away from home;
Gin, Jazz, lime-
ghostly moans of forbidden pleasure
hightailing the vacancy of the night at 11 pm,
nestling desire while groping at strangers bodies.

 

Would you push your fears aside,
reach for my ready groins-
hear them call out to you as our Messiah?

 

At 12 am,
You skitter & stagger across the ‘waiting to happen’ moment of the city
Toasting to the shadow halo of beer and drowning
the emptiness of routine to the last drop-
a clockwork of sensations as if intricately tied to chasing love.

 

You say you seek more than just flesh and hurried gasps,
for a soul that exudes the familiar scent of home-
Don’t you know that you can’t make homes out of abandoned houses?

 

At 4 am,
You rush to the bathroom and scream,
From the background there are dim club lights
And loud old skul hip hop
You wait for dawn to displace the nightly harlot
and wonder if this the is closest you’ve been to home?

 

But Darling,

should’t home be more than the music drawn from drunken lips?

 

 

This is a collaborative piece of me and the amazing Eddy Ongili of eddypoems . Enjoy 🙂

Shiru_wa_Wanjiku 2017

Photo Credits: The internet

 

B-r-e-a-k by Anon

wanyuru1

Here we are: breaking bread again, you want to know how I am doing (do you?)

I want to paint to you a picture of how it feels to carry around a broken heart.

But I learnt last week that honesty does not serve as an apt ice breaker.

This is the longest I have stayed away from cliches- I am intent on breaking my own record.

 

It is for the best.

 

Surely with: a broken train of thought, a broken image of self, a nearly broken spirit-

I cannot risk, to top it all off, to sound like a broken record.

So, you can understand if this poem (what poem?) breaks here-

 

The writer does not wish to be named.