You have come mightily upon my brows,
Yet blessing my folly when I had cried nude and
Watery,
My vagitus loud with the frenetic timbre of wartime
You have swept through the corridors of
Silhouetted stalks, fanning lean, vertical leaves that shield
The nakedness of the African seasons —perched
And soggy,
And at waking time, when November bares its
Thunder-whetted fangs with the ruthlessness of a Puff adder.
It is cold and skin-whitening.
Streaks of flaking, dancing rods descend on femurs un-pumiced.
Dehydrated throats accompany ancestral hymns on the
Humming bees’ melody, stifling the courage of the Tchagra.
Drab, and cracking the serrated softness of heels and
Stale, moss-ridden kernels, the waves of the storm,
Blinding, besiege our common sempervirence,
Long lost among the blurred firmamental gaze
And straw-gold material upon this prostituted earth.
Snuggly warmth comes by the power of woodsmoke
When dawn, shy from the raillery of the rising sun,
Hastens to the coronation of sacred rain beyond
Our limits —a pomp of relegated and flustered seasons.
What hastens a head
Up to the heavens
Questioning or pleading-eyed
To so angle it?
Reflex, instinctual, rather
Child's to a father?
Upfaced for a look
Of lone neediness
Earth's, too, yet dawned on, yet warmed
Of its own god's love
Have sensed. And at which same hour;
Night-deep, fogs devour.
Boy,
There’s heavy fog tonight
It blends well with darkness —
The synergy between floating white cells, outside
Of our anatomy, and
Pulverized charcoal,
Thus wetting the greyness of
The breath of late November, cloudy and smoky.
With such picture, I can only think warmly of
Bridge over Troubled Water by Simon and Garfunkel.
The whole album.
Every song on it.
Best listening time is when New York City finally sleeps,
Cuddled by slow-racing, blinding fog.
Now, dew hastens to the face of the earth,
Masked by the veil of a harsh winter either
In front of us or behind us.
And that’s time for you —it comes and goes,
And still remains where it is and has always been.
Behold the Present
(ere truth be twisted)
Behold the present now: though Truth be rent,
And bent by Fate to counterfeit intent;
Reverse it, rend it—still the hour stands
To name thee won by no deferred commands.
The ages mask what breathes before their eyes,
They gild the lie and christen doubt as wise;
Yet every veil they draw, each fraud they spin,
But strips the world and hastens truth within.
For Truth bends not to time, nor tongue, nor crowd;
She waits while empires rise and fall unbow’d.
Stand here—no court beyond this breath is lent:
The sentence speaks: thou art now won, present.
War in its profound essence
begins not in the battlefield,
but in the dark chambers of human ego.
The self-interest thrives on the illusion of invincibility,
distorts the judgement of historical forces,
designs the destiny of nations
to misshape the configuration of the world.
The selfish egos of war write the story of pride,
seeking a permanent legacy of triumph.
The tragedy lies in their blindness to the primary truth
that all existence is intertwined,
and to harm others is to destroy oneself
when the guns go silent and the dusts settle.
In the irrationality of war their vanity
can’t transcend the narrow limits of egotism.
Sedated by the delusion of greatness
the selfish egos of war seek to embed themselves
upon the enduring world,
but their quest for immortality ironically hastens erasure.
Silencing thought din in our head,
we shift into our heart instead,
granting strobes of bliss beats consent,
God’s touch about naught can be said.
Being blind, we follow the scent,
our faith held firm, will to God bent,
that soft rhythms of the universe,
words penned, love’s whispers represent.
Without any need to rehearse,
poised in repose we pen a verse,
with each flicker in space portrayed,
that the vast void we may traverse.
God Himself hastens to our aid,
that by mind we be not betrayed,
so therefore choosing to be still,
we sing songs our ego forbade.
Every time we pick up the quill,
auto-writing gives heart a thrill,
signalling we’re with God entwined,
Who makes easy ascent uphill.
The man in the elevator hastens,
He feels ill at ease, with most teeth broken;
He pushes the button, marked in red ‘Ten’,
And seems very much anxious, now and then.
But halfway up, the elevator stalls,
The man frowns, apparently quite appalled;
He presses the ‘Open’ switch, rings the bell,
And yells at top of his voice, “what the hell?”
“I need to use the restroom,” he then screams;
Soon the lift kicks open as in a dream,
A woman standing there squeaks, stern but calm,
"So late again today? You know the qualm!"
I am a poisonous thorn
among spring’s blooming flowers,
crumpled leaves and petals,
trampled by wandering feet.
Sanguine feet,
bloody thorn.
I stand alone,
a roadside stone
beside a field infested with thorns.
The dusk sky of a golden evening
leans over the spumy, distant sea.
I watch my shadow,
still black unlike a stone,
a long shadow without desire or pain,
something only I can trust.
My fugitive past hastens,
fading away,
leaving me behind,
unworthy, forgotten.
Ah, nostalgia…
They were before me,
perfect life,
the blooming flowers of spring.
But I remain,
standing in a vast garden of thorns,
becoming a thorn
with time.
Midnight,
Hoots and despondent howls
From crevasses of puking earth prompt weakness at slumber
Webs!
They encircle the pin-line threads of silence, viciously muted,
Drawing porous patterns of maladroitness
Dawn,
Loose drops of old water, cusp-sized, blend with the rays of the
Rising sun, smelting our principles.
Images,
Lachrymose consternations congeal the blood in our brows,
Stifling the grace of blinking lashes
And we lose patience.
There’s a new-nurtured ruggedness
Which opens the snouts while we yawn.
In the distance,
Moonlight, sapped, means nothing with her downward gaze.
But the sound of maudlin drums hastens closer and nearer.
of the chakras seven, where energies play
prior to refraction of the rainbow’s hues
the zone where polarities commingle
glows God’s light in heart’s womb
light of a star, viewed from afar
the bubbling joy of children at play
building sand castles on the sea shore
soul’s smile at morn when stretch and yawn
pristine snow flakes mark birth of empathy
enabling us to hold the hand of a beggar
the agendaless vibrance of innocence
hastens to forgive errant brothers
coming of age, compassion dawns
the robe of a pope, the symbol of purity
recognising underlying unity of the universe
love’s luminosity expands beyond all horizons
bliss magnetism pulsates in mind-body prism
we become love’s flame that has no name
touched by spirit our eye is now single
pulse mirroring heartbeat of God
Sabbath rest hastens
sunset charisma lightens
my weekly burdens
A happy twenty twenty five
Let that smoldering that remains alive
Find the fanning winds that revive
And stoke the fire into thrive
That it may warm and light without strive
May thy wishes merge with will
And may God grant you zeal
As he hastens his covenant deal
With blessings upon blessings for your fill
One here and another hot on its heels
Be one with your Maker
The Messiah, our breaker
Who is immensely a Giver than a taker
Who turns any gambling stacker
To a sure and certain mover and shaker
*HAPPY NEW YEAR, 2025*
K. Muitherero
By force divine we are acted upon,
optimised for swift ascent of our soul,
wherein each life breath ushers a new dawn,
fulfilling beauteously our life role.
With the table laid for joy readymade,
there then is nothing that we need to do,
because God Himself hastens to our aid,
provided our heart’s pure like morning dew.
Life’s a maze that continues to amaze,
where if we stagnate nowhere, self-aware,
simply pausing to turn inward our gaze,
poised in silence, with love and light we pair.
Recognising we’re soul indwelling form,
we become the centre of love’s bliss storm.
“The fog may come on little cat feet”*
But Autumn eschews silence
The thick crunch of crisp fallen foliage
Hastens the homebound honking of gaggled geese
Soft whispers of falling rose petals
Fade into the haze of hoarfrost
Cold winds whistle wildly through naked Maples
Flags snap loudly to attention
A brutish barn cat recoils from the touch of snow
Squawking ducks slowly slide across an icy crust
Chattering children board a school bus
Winter awaits its curtain call
While the milk cow hastens
Toward a worn barn,
Gray as the edges of melancholy,
Erasing the spring, breaking through Summer
Like Sunday, wearing her best suit
Rustling on the wings of Saturday’s robins,
Starving for Monday, while her words
Still the grief that comes from knowing
The week behind her will not come
Again, peppering the wind
With grace and love,
Intense as the passion, smiling
As milk flows, quietly blessing,
Trembling with songs,
Who reach through the shadows,
Singing melodies with soft eyes,
Brown like the trees,
Swaying softly, silencing every tear
Who dreams of a lasting peace,
Rich as milk who fills up the bucket,
Then the cup, tinting her coffee,
Soft blonde, like a woman whose heart
Melts with prayers spoken,
While the gentle heart sighs,
At a breathless moment when light,
Falls heavy against muddied silhouettes,
Against timbers, foundations
Who decide the cow can confide to the night,
Where peace hides, amid star strewn skies,
On flowing veils of the moon’s rising.
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