The bright shining visage
As glowing as the glossy morning sun.
Brighter the legs,
Though not fully seen,
That pulls a thousand eye’s apples
The skirt tangles
Above the knee.
Chubby thighs and knees too.
It was a sober chilly foggier morn
And the fainting Beings.
The rest wool flocked
The socks locked ankles
That protrude the blocky shoes
And the unmindful bosoms swing.
The neatened curly locks hang on her temples
Thoughtful, mischievous timid eyes
With conniving looks –
They look and don’t look.
Cognizant of being starred at.
Look at everyone and not at anyone.
Her whitish brown angular countenance
And the big bag of assumed knowledge on her back.
She walks into the school bus GF 8,
Lost herself in thinking of thoughts -both hers and others.
Pulling down the tens of ‘manly’ sights.
And the unmindful women
Both in envy and admiration.
I'm writing this poem on the ferry.
How much do I like this? Well, very!
The water, when smooth,
Does nothing but soothe
And my stress I am able to bury.
Though sometimes the river is choppy;
My handwritten words come out sloppy.
But still, I can write;
On my desktop, tonight,
I will print out a neatened-up copy.
I see sparkles
I hear wedding bells
Bright sunny day
People make way
I stand in the middle
As I see him
Looking at me, dazzled
His eyes talk to mine
Causing my eyes to shine
His dark hair neatened
With his dark tuxedo straightened
Handsome is less to say
As my eyes hold his
I swift the floor in his arms
My eyes filled with delight
I see him stare at me
What an enchanted sight
As we stop and gaze at each one's eyes
He pulls me tighter
Aiming me to front his face
I close my sight to feel his flavoursome lips
I hear round of applause
Open my eyes
I see Dad waking me from across.
I feel a nauseating revulsion to see scraps of prose
Bundled together in a neatened pile in the name of poetry,
And prizes being awarded for such otiose verbiage
And praises being heaped for such boring coquetry.
Poetry, my dear uninitiated impostors,
Is the language of the mute solemn gods.
You ought to choose your nifty title well
And thus commence your verse against the odds.
Avoid Soyinka’s worn-out style of incompetent blank verse,
Instead, give it the rhyme scheme of the unbeatable Yeats;
The superior verse that one Tom Mboya has never read,
The taste that a Kenyan editor will haul over the rooftop sheets.
Line after line beg the company of some higher Muse
So that you may pen the will of the gods and not your own;
Alliterate here and there though you must not make it your aim,
Then lunge into deeper thought with a deity-like melancholy tone.
And never seek fame for your sacred poetic tasks.
Leave the young to sing your lyrics centuries upon your death,
And remember a great weaver of rhymes long deceased
And pray and wish you immortal blissful health.
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