My wings

Today I left my wings to fly,

broke my rules to glide beside,
free.

I had to sing a song to try,

on flames so purple, my lips would buy,
time.

In haste I moved so free and fresh,

I mapped my throne and rose at will,
certain.

Mischief gives a woman the edge then drive,

a gaze so intense it distracts, it pins,
dark.

Lost in thought, I flicked my head,

afro still fresh his fingers would mess,
crisp.

Its good I left my wings to fly,

if his feet will rise I won't be dry,
wet.

Its good I left my wings to fly,

for I have seen his heart, so wild,
again.

* * *

Contents of my gym bag, For Ladybird

Jan 2019

Gifts from another man

She gave him stuff stolen from another man,
gifts of love tainted with passive guilt,

She longed to be a pair, sealed and fast,
for years of abuse teaches a woman where to scout.

Love is never found in places its never kept,
perhaps it is concealed in tears that mama bore,

Its not stealing when there is no one to claim,
its not cheating when there is no one to shame,

A good workman knows which tools to lend,
and accepts guilt offerings, especially from a wounded heart,

The lost and betrayed find comfort in this confusing altar,
giving sacrifices that nurture hope in times of despair,

She had many pieces to pick in times so constrained,
He had scattered choices to make that chance never gives,

but it won't be long before mama finds out,
that she gave him gifts stolen,
from another man.

* * *

Skyfall, Buruburu, Nairobi
7th Jan 2018

The April Sun

The shallow tears from scars now healing,

and the forgotten fragrance on tested nostrils,

now back.

The last episode of a never ending story,

or the sunken shoulders from a head so heavy,

in debt.

The slippery grip on a moistened skin,

with the silent moans from a groaning man,

that taste.

The warm December nights on hills so gentle,

or fresh yellow rays from the April sun,

will sing.

The melting taste of dark chocolate,

her simmering gaze and many lessons,

or fate.

It is these that bind the soul of a man,

Sounds of a furnace in a woman's heart, 

on Fire.

* * *

Est.Mok, Jan.3.2019, Nairobi

Sounds of silence

The crackling growl from the wobbly bed,

The silent moans from a groaning oven,

Tasted.

The inverted tears from scars now healing,

The forgotten scent of burnt onions,

Gone.

The last episode from a binding story,

The sunken shoulder from a head so heavy,

Loss.

The warm December nights on hills so gentle,

The fresh yellow wings from a ladybirds anthem,

Sung.

The melting taste of dark chocolate,

The simmering gaze and many questions,

Pending.

Its these that bind the sounds of freedom,

Sounds of silence, to the heart that's brings home,

Hope.

* * * 

27 December 2018

Fathers, for ladybird