It’s hard to do this.
I’ve always known that love and lust;
What I have and my thirst.
For one my pen free flows.
But for the other I lose words.
Yes I still don’t know how to spell love.
Yet the letters are born in me.
The words are my creation.
And the product a mistake piece.
Thinking of you.
My brain goes to overdrive.
Trying to harness my favourite things.
My life my dreams both rolling down a hill.
Gathering no moss and I’m still at a loss.
The foot drum of my hip hop tracks gets the rhythm.
Rudely interrupted by the acoustic violin.
And from afar I hear the soft keys of a grand piano.
Trying to calm down the blare of this rock guitar.
My oh so beautiful mind.
Full of cracks and fillings.
Goes mental trying to cohere the realities.
Of how you wrestle and pin my heart down for the three count.
With the acts of avenging your hurt.
Because I’m but a man.
You’ve played games with jokers.
Been led on by two faced icemen.
When you let them govern your young heart.
I’m an idiot.
You use that as a term of endearment.
Because you won’t just say I’m a geek.
And that’s why I still mention comic book characters as I try to describe this love.
I barely scratch the surface.
For the same reasons I want to sit the reader of this poem down.
And explain the meaning of each sentence.
The idea behind each phrase.
But time is never enough.
Life is short .
Yet it’s longer than a two hour calculus paper.
This is definitely relative.
And I, Edwin, will always be your Man Crush, squared.
I’ve differentiated you from other women.
Integrated you into my family.
And loving you to infinity has proved to have no limits.
In this heart you’ve found the perfect loci.
Made a poet lose his rhyme.
An insomniac run out of time.
Because you’re truly storm born.
You’ve gone through the fire.
An astrid that walks with divine strength.
That not only tried but managed to tame my dragon.
Most deserving to be by my side till I’m toothless.
Author: The Divine Bandit
I am who I am because of what I say with the words that I have, the time I’ve got and the talent I possess. I will myself to do this daily because not everyone can do it. I am blessed to have this ability. I make the shallow look, and sound deep and the deep sound deeper yet with a simple meaning. I want every poem I ever write to be my epitaph. Sometimes I am in my element, sometimes I'm not. There are pieces I don’t believe I wrote because I am not that person anymore. But the truth is; this is a reflection of who I am, who I’ve been and who I will be. I started doing this at age 14 so I guess my works will best be described as “14 going on to immortality”.
Haiku Beast Day 12
Blows off her Lucky Strike.
Whispers in the ear of her Shisha sister.
He hears the word “bigger” as he sips his Lager.
Untitled
Lyrically connecting, heart possessing.
Brain waves winding, hands clasping.
Lips parting, heads leaning.
End of reasoning, the thought of kissing.
Music playing, the beauty reading.
Pen moving, paper ruffling.
Eyes aching, brain storming.
Teeth clenching, thoughts whirling.
Toes wriggling, tongue rolling.
Effortlessly writing, emotions easing.
She finds it amazing.
Can’t notice my gazing.
Smiling, knowing I’m only teasing.
Slowly but surely this poem takes shape.
Her mouth drops, she is all agape.
Hair rises on her nape.
And I wish I could save this on tape.
Now cussing because I can’t get more rhymes.
But at least with this one I can recount the times.
When is silent language we talked like mimes.
Realizing that even this one ain’t easy as it seems.
Knowing I got to change to one that has her name.
In this society of words I bring her to fame.
I call her a lady but in olden days she’d be a dame.
She’s pretty lucky because she got a poem first time she came.
Thus here I decide to tame my words and let her look at the same.
Kimemia ’09
SYSTEM CRASH
I can feel my system coming to a standby.
Maybe the new palmtop is the cause.
My processor is losing speed gradually.
And my troubleshooting efforts cannot find the source.
The task manager shows I’m misusing my memory.
And my partitioning is de-fragmenting by force.
I have to soon backup my data.
Or at least scan my external hard-disk.
Because my buddy the Pentium III has proven to be a hater.
Hence having him near my peer host will be a risk.
I can feel the worms and Trojans creeping through the trap door.
And my Operating System has been found to be cracked.
I have laid down all my peripheral devices on the floor.
And thus my OSI model feels less stacked.
I’m so low on memory I feel like a calculator.
I’m running on the external battery, no AC power.
Working in presentation mode does not make it better.
And saving on idle time only makes me slower.
My USB ports are all blocked or infected.
And my fan no longer works, I’m overheating.
I’m always on screensaver, you can tell I’m affected.
And soon, very soon my desktop is wilting.
But what is this I dare ask?
Whose reply I get in…..
to be continued when I figure out for whom and what the poem was about. 😛
Kimemia ’08
SHE TALKS IN HER SLEEP
I watch her sleep.
She starts to murmur and licks her lips.
She has found herself in a dream so deep.
And gently my hand up her arm creeps.
Her mental storm proves to be steep.
For she suddenly shudders and on her back flips.
I smile because I know she is mine to keep.
But suddenly she speaks and my heart skips.
She talks about a guy and I hear a warning beep.
Describe his virtues and my heart dips.
I roll over and lie alone in a heap.
She continues and the cup of jealousy my heart sips.
Oh unlucky day, she talks in her sleep.
With words so sweet to another, my soul she rips.
I wake up the next day and go to work.
Convince myself that I was mistaken.
Maybe I lost my hearing in the dark.
This I do while my eyes misten.
I spend the day feeling like a jerk.
Feeling all low and down beaten.
In the light, doubt creates a crack.
And I become as curious as a lost kitten.
The devils urges me on with songs sweet as a lark.
And I follow his path already beaten.
This is the day I will find out all her murk.
And towards home my legs I hasten.
What awful news she talks in her sleep.
The movement of her lips no longer leaves me smitten.
I get home ready for a divorce.
But asleep she is and already speaking.
I hear the soft sound of her voice.
That just yesterday made me want to sing.
She talks of how he is her only boss.
And how she is a queen to this king.
At the door I take a pause.
Take five more minutes before I end this thing.
To all other things my ears I close.
And with hate I hear about this being.
She recalls of how in his arms she likes to doze.
And how he gives her a heavenly feeling.
Her clothes out the door I am ready to toss.
For no more do I find her appealing.
She describes his body and I’m at a loss.
My short temper quickly hits the ceiling.
She talks of his house and lack of flaws.
I give a smirk and move in for the killing.
She suddenly screams his first name and I lower my claws.
For I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
I move closer thinking it a coincidence.
She stops talking as if she’s listening.
My heart thumps in my chest as I am dying from suspense.
Expectantly waiting for her to continue naming.
She says the last two names and I almost weep.
I double check the name on my passport.
I feel love into my heart seep.
As I remember she’s all I’ve got.
I sink down to the floor, bending at the hip.
She sleeps soundly on the bed I bought
Dead to the world as my ring I grip.
I smile and thank God, she talks in her sleep.
Kimemia ’10
Jury has seized her
Friends, Kenyans, tourists, lend me your ears.
I come to bury the media, not to praise it.
The evil that men do lives after them.
The good is oft interred with their bonuses.
So let it be with the media.
The noble government.
Hath told you that the media was ambitious.
If it were so, it was a grievous fault.
And grievously hath the media answered it.
Here, under leave of the cabinet and the rest…
For the Cabinet is an honourable faction.
So are they all, all honourable men.
Come I to speak in the media’s funeral.
It was my friend, faithful and just to me.
But the Cabinet says, it was ambitious.
And the Cabinet is an honourable faction.
It has brought many captives to Parliament from Nyayo House.
Who wise words did the voters mind fill.
Did this in the media seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, the media has wept.
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.
Yet the Cabinet says it was ambitious.
And the Cabinet is an honourable faction.
You all did see, that on Kenya’s Ground Zero.
I did offer her a handkerchief as tears streamed down her cheeks.
Which she did thrice refuse.
Was this ambition?
Yet the Cabinet says it was ambitious.
And the Cabinet is an honourable faction.
I speak not to disprove what the government signed.
But I am here to speak for what i do know.
You all did love it once, not without a cause.
What cause withholds you then, to mourn for it?
O judgement! Thou art fled to brutish beasts.
And men have lost their reason.
Bear with me; my heart is in the coffin there with the media.
And I must pause till it come back to me.
Kimemia ’09
Lost Art, Incomplete posts – A step back into history
I am a hoarder. Of plastic containers from Chicken Inn and those from the Juice and Smoothie corner at Sarit’s food court. But worst or rather best of all, I am a hoarder of books, writing pads etc. This is how as I cleaned my bedroom from an OCD hit, I found some long lost poems I wrote in another lifetime, some a bit too erotic, others incomplete and others just plain old boring.
For the next few days, I shall post one of the poems I found and try bring a new ending to the incomplete ones. Take the journey with me. Before I tasted beer, when I was an IT geek and most importantly, when I was an idealist. Untainted by the harsh realities of love and life. The tag will be YoungCrow.
Haiku Beast Day 11
Closed eyes as I show the three ladies how to lay the pipe.
Mary, Jane and Molly are not so new at this.
They beat me off at Dre’s; all ten of them.
Haiku Beast Day 10
Climbed the Darn Hill.
And as I breathe out the Sweet Menthol.
She steps out of the Embassy in Aspen.
Tying my lesso
Even as I finish writing this piece, an e-mail comes in.
A three year old girl was raped. By two men. For four hours.
Enough.
What I remember about that night were the sounds. The scraping of the bed being dragged across the floor. The insistent pounding of fists at the door. The thudding of my heart echoing in my ears. The muttering of prayer tumbling out of my mouth in a stream of whispering.
They had come after me.
Earlier that evening the driver of the matatu I was travelling in kicked us out slurring, ‘nimechoka. Tokeni.’ Though we tried to protest, his erratic swerving had left us jittery and we felt we were safer walking than being at the mercy of this drunken driver. So several hundred metres away from Oyugis, we started walking. I was on my way to a funeral and was carrying a huge white box overflowing with flowers, stuffed with the wreaths I had been asked to bring from Kisumu.
The walk is a blur to me, but I…
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The Divine Bandit™ 