Tag Archives: George Agak

Love Thyself

Everyday is battle
Every battle is a chance to conquer
We rise to win love
That which we owe ourselves
Self love is what we need; forget acceptance
Find it in dark alleys
Find it in lonely nights
Let it grow big enough to fill your trinity
That no space is left: for suicidal thoughts to roam
For conformity to sprout
For depression to take root
For standards to rate you
Give a little there, give a little here and reserve more love for yourself
For love comes to those who love themselves.

Good Evening Friend👋

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Cornmeal porridge

I love poetry. This might be because it is the only form of art that allows free expression. No rules, just heart-pouring. Being a poet, I often find myself thinking about things people never even notice. Yesterday, as I walked to church, I saw this beggar, sitting by the side of the road, whistling people to come close and drop something in his cup.

None came, all of them walked at a safe distance as if they feared he might pounce on their wallets. However, some came closer to the beggar and just as his hopes rose, they passed without looking his way. And I learn’t that those who walked at a safer distance were better that the latter who deposited dusts from there steps into the beggar’s cup.

I stood glued. As he kept calling, I imagined him shaking dust off the cup in while murmuring to himself “if dust was cornmeal floor, i’d have a cornmeal porridge”. And I moved past in steady strides, repeating the rituals of prior passers-by, church was waiting.

Woodpecker Mourns

This morning I heard Woodpecker sing
She sang melodious songs
in mournful tones
She sang of victories;
The song of a worrier
leaving a battle field
with spear in his right hand
and a shield in the left
The voices of fallen comrades
drowning his chants of praise
then tears streaked his visage
he wept for families lost
beautiful wives
in curvy shapes and sound morals
warmth of children with innocent demeanour
The soldier wept for a future lost
of bodies disfigured
and red rivers
The Woodpecker sang it all
The plight of brave soldiers
whose sacrifices were met with greed
He returned home with nothing
but a spear in the right
and a shield in the left

Like a nightmare in a troubling sleep
home was no more
where his hut once stood
a notice now read:
“ PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO TRESSPASS”
The woodpecker sang
Ooh, the bird sang this dawn
the dirges of heroes gone
She sang of Mboya
A great worrier of Joramogi
A worrier of pen and tongue
killed for being too good for the regime
The bird sang of Robert Ouko
A hero slain for being too intelligent
to the heads in crown

The Woodpecker sang some more
these sorrowful songs of dawn
of fireflies lost in thickness of darkness
of trumpets drowned in silence
of night’s vigilant angels
and daylight marauding devils

The bird won’t stop
Now she’s singing of tombs
split open by gods of revenge
the cries of innocent orphans heard
the cursing of the widows
awakened the wrath of Karma
the dead are awake now
coming for their dues
now be quiet the mourning bird
the village awaits the morning bloodbath

1oo Words Challenge

I’ll have you back someday, the glimmer of the stars will not succumb to the feral stab of the cupid you launched but will continue shining anyway. Our paths alit we’ll search for the missing pieces of our hearts in the gallows as we send prayers to the heavens to give us the glue of permanence that’ll stick us together through the test of life. ‘Babe’, you’ll call me but I will not answer, instead I will scoop you in my arms and swirl around letting the humid air of the night massage every part of you. We’ll love again.

Dear Comrades, should you be interested in the challenge, tell us your story in 100 words at the comments box. It will be a pleasure reading them.

Hearts will shrink

There comes a day when reality will spill on the pages of our lives, when your heart will shrink to encapsulate the little I offered. And we’ll weep why love always is an improper fraction, weighty expectations on malnourished shoulders

Solitude

There’s no solitude in a mass grave
No time to be with oneself
No silence
for the monks to meditate
Too many songs
too much swearing

The priest asks why
the pervert was placed above him
whenever he masturbates
it floods his bible pages
The drunkard complains
that the preacher’s wine bottle
never runs dry
men of God don’t care
men of God don’t share

The foul-mouthed prostitute
has convened a meeting
It’s a feminist’s campaign
for equal rights
see them chanting
placards held high
woe unto the sorcerer
who plucked their wares of trade

The landlord has no place here
These tenants won’t pay rent
All they do is complain
Too many cracks on the wall
Too many patches on the floor

The cannibal is cursing God
His prey has no blood
Nothing fresh in here

A musician is roaming the up and down
The promoter must pay his dues

What a beautiful sundown
The Monk wonders
but no silence to meditate