POETRY CELEBRATING BEAUTY

LUSCIOUS LOVE IN TENDER BLOSSOMS.

Luscious love in a tender blossom,

A blossom that in ripeness,

Has the fragile appeal of youthfulness.

For whenever I look into your eyes,

My heart fires with a warm glow of pleasure.

Your eyes, soft and inviting

Touches every part of my being,

With gentle fingers of sensual delights.



Like a breath of scented fresh air;

The curve of your luscious lips,

Hold lavish promises of glorious love.

I cannot help, but gaze in adoration,

At such sublime beauty,

And in yearning wonderment,

I dissolve into a mood of ecstasy.

Though for eons, this mood

Has been a stranger in my heart.



I cannot help, but be enthralled,

By the magical allure of your smile,

A smile that is as soothing as

The sight of a soft textured flower,

Ripe to be plucked

By love's magnetic power.



For alone in the depths of loneliness,

Only the shadow of your elegance,

Like the classical appeal of a princess;

Is the constant companion

Which keeps my heart tingling giddily,

And my soul, in a rapturous spell,

Sings glory to thee!

MY DREAM ANGEL'S VOICE –

This poem, like many that will follow is inspired by Louis JaberNyiri Aballa, the lady who has completely swept my heart away.

POETRY FROM MY HEART

MY DREAM ANGEL'S VOICE –

A heart tossed away in darkness,
Misplaced and forgotten:
Then in vivid starkness
A scintillating love begotten
Light pierces my hearts gloom
And dispels the doom
In which my life was imprisoned.

`Tis yet another tender noise,
Whispering echoes of feelings lost,
In a honeyed dreamlike voice,
Which make warm and silky sensations flare,
Slowly thawing my hearts frost
And twain in harmonious pair,
My dream angel releases the snare;
And my life finds freedom awaiting again.

Her beauty fills up my soul with joy
Like the scent of sweet smelling flowers
Whose fragrances intoxicates me as a boy,
Dazed by a spell of loves consuming power.
I delight in her
Soothing presence from a far,
In whose shadow my life has found meaning.

Perchance, this pearl of rare beauty is not aware,
That she is the light of my hope,
That the spirit of her elegance makes me swear
Again not to drop
To the bottomless depths of despair.
In my dream angels voice
A serene not of compassion
Awakens and recreates a new person.

Your sighs and assurances, dream angel,
Have become an eternal receptacle,
Wherein my dreams blossom forth,
Like the dazzling splendor
Of the birth of a new and glorious joy.

LOVE NOT LIVED

When I wrote this poem, I was at a point where dejection with self was just about to sweep me down the dungeons of despair. I took a careful look at my solitary existence and decided that all was not after all lost. I was craving love, a woman's tender love, so much that I found it almost unbearable to hold the physical ache in my heart. After interminably long hours of pensive reflections, a warm feeling ruptured in my soul. I thought I could love a woman in my imagination.

It was then that I got out of bed and went outside. The sky was luminously lit by beautiful stars and there was a cool breeze wafting in from the lake. I sat down gazing at the beautiful vault of the sky, and then the words of this poems began taking shape in my mind. It was about 1.00 AM. Wrote this poem to that imaginary woman I would have loved to have. The woman of my dreams. Little did I know that some day this poem would find its real owner. I have found the woman who came to me in this poetic dream, and this poem is one of a series that will be dedicated to Louis Abala Jabernyiri.I have found true love in her, even if just for a spell.

LOVE NOT LIVED
Sweet nectar upon my tongue,
Would not be as delicious as,
The caress of your succulent lips upon mine.
Your soft, and warm looks,
Are a valuable treasure,
In the deepest chambers of my heart:
To be cherished - every breathing moment of my life

N ought... But the universe dissolve,
Will anything steer my destiny,
To the nether world of Bliss.
But your sweet love;
Perchance, the only strength of my will -
Which now stands tossed about,
By the fickle wind of chance. AND FORTUNE

But knows I, Gentle maiden of my dreams,
That none sane can conjure,
The self-same wisdom of love.
`Tis unfathomable...
Thus my heart despairs,
Whenever love like a thief,
Steals into my soul

For no one;
But every man and woman,
Can cleverly choose
AT WHOSE FEET TO LAY DEVOTION.
So, abide your time;
My gentle love.
My beauteous Queen,
Seek not beatitude In fickle fortune.
But repose your dreams,
Your peace of mind In that which fate;
Has placed in store yonder,
Hidden from sight
But visible to the unseeing Eyes of the heart

For our hearts,
in desperation
Yearn after each other,
But are locked apart in mortal fight for happiness,
By the insatiable need for possession,
Possessions that sooner decay;
Even as our hearts perpetually,
Beat a solemn song of tenderness,
Of passions,
And of love not lived.

Could Our Innovation Create Jobs for 780,000 Poor People? | News | Digital Divide Data

Could Our Innovation Create Jobs for 780,000 Poor People? | News | Digital Divide Data

CREATIVEHORIZONS: JUST YOU AND I

CREATIVEHORIZONS: JUST YOU AND I

JUST YOU AND I

This poem was written for Caryl (not her real name)I was a high school teacher way back in 1995, and my students (girls)thought I was the sweetest and sexiest thing that had ever dropped out of heaven. I see myself as very ordinary looking, but on more than one occasion more than one person has claimed that I radiate and glow with a rare kind of charm.

I was in my twenties and being told by a bevy of girls that I had sexy gait and looks excited me to no end. One particularly cheeky girl would literally block her face with a book in class. At first I thought she had eye problems, but each time I asked her what the matter was, a ripple of giggles would answer me. Then one time one of her friends blurted out, ``teacher, she is afraid of looking into your eyes.'' Why? I asked, ``they make me feel bad,'' she answered. `How?' I was perplexed. Then a hidden voice gently said, ``sexy sir!'' Who was that?' I fumed. ``But it is true,'' most of the girls chorused back

I got confused and didn't know what to do. I was the only language teacher of English in that school, and I have yet to understand why somebody decided to make two particular books to be set texts at this particular time- Romeo and Juliet for drama, and The Concubine for prose. This two are stories based on highly romantic events. So you can imagine what my classes used to be - teaching love stories as part of the curriculum on one hand, and having to deal with lovely girls who would be beside themselves with excitement whenever I uttered a word. Most of them imitated the way I pronounced words and would repeat occasional phrases after me. Such incidents used to interrupt my classes and every attempt I made to bring them under control invariably led to more mischief

This led to a pattern of study - my lessons were often punctuated with moments of fun. The students themselves would then say, ``now let's carry on with the lesson sir.'' Such were the times that formed the background to this poem. Caryl was one of the loveliest girls in school. She was one of my greatest admirers. Years later when we met, she confessed that she had been and was still madly in love with me. Way back then, I think she was simply infatuated but didn't know how to tell me. Teaching ethics aside, I was not a piece of wooden carving. I too liked Caryl a great deal - the way she walked, her smile but most of all, her voice (read the colour of voices elsewhere in this blog.She was my student, so I fought hard to keep my distance.

Two events gave words to this poem. One break time- I was on duty - Caryl deliberately delayed in the dorms then after everyone else had settled down for lessons, she decided to walk very slowly, almost absent-mindedly, back to class. When I spotted her, I was furious. I asked her what she thought she was doing, but instead of appearing cowed, she smiled and calm replied, ``Teacher, I really like you - the way you talk when you are annoyed, and the way you walk.'' I had a stick in my hand. She then grabbed it, threw it aside and giggling uncontrollably, she took off, running to class. At that moment, I felt and fell in love.

The other incident took place not long after. This was during the April break. The month of April can be one of the most magnificent - what with the tender, green shots; brilliant, silver evenings and clear, crisp star studded night skies. It was against such a lovely, sun flowered evening that I saw Caryl, all smiles and sweet in a nicely fitting floral tunic, walking towards me across a field of green maize crop. I was on my way to our local market. `` I thought I would find you in school,'' was all she said and then she gazed at me with all the adoration a lady in love can master. That night, unable to sleep, this poem broke forth from my heart.

Jut You And I

Yellow, mellow and golden;
A sight as wonderous as Eden-
We BEHOLD.

Just you and I,
In a breathless moment;
Transient but everlasting;
A soothing spell -
Blissful and comforting
Makes us a pair of dancing stars in a dusky sky.

Just you and I,
Your friendly feminine flames
Hotly touching my bosom;
Yet tenderly plucking melodious chords,
Of romantic hosanas in my heart.

Just You and I,
Your joyous gliding spirit
Gently lifting my soul,
Floating light like feathers
Towards mountain peaks,
Of heavenly twilight streaks -
In blazes of pale-red, pinkish-purple and soft amber.

Just you and I
Our heartbeats jingling like Christmas carols;
Fluttering like butterflies on sweet roses,
Thirsty for the honeyed buds.

Just you and I,
Strolling across the universe,
Strangers to each other:
Yet both enraptured by concealed passions.

Just you and I,
Embraced by warm kisses
Of caressing evening breezes.
Just you - the love of my heart.

THE DIVINE WILL?

In this poem, I simply tried to question the criteria God uses to determine who dies, when, Why and How. I wondered whether, perhaps, like laboratory specimen, we are in the celestial order?

The actual incident that triggered this train of thought was a ferry accident in Mombasa. I had never imagined such a large number of people dying at once in the seemingly peaceful waters of the narrow channel separating Mombasa Island from the mainland. Prior to this, there had occurred a series of earthquakes leading to countless loss of lives elsewhere in the world. My basic question was and is - Did God create us during His free time as objects of Idle Fantasy?

My imagination was fuelled by the terror I used to experience whenever I rode a ferry across the channel. The ocean can be mysterious. This poem is a dedication to those who perished in the infamous ferry disaster.

At that time, an ominous hour,
Riding on the pinnacles of relentless power,
An emissary from divinity,
Careless and curious: It came.
Frenzied, formidable and furious-
A proclamation of the Divine Will to Kill.

Who, but the immortals,
Heirlooms of mortality through times gaping portals,
Could discern such insidious intent,
Stealthily creeping upon the earth's innocent,
Like the ghost of an alien and savage deity,
As deeply in sleep, not divine pity
But faith in tomorrow too humble
Saved us from the murderous rumble.

So we escaped!
Because it was an earthquake,
A harmless one of its kind,
Or maybe-
God changed His mind.

But not this time again,
When death slowly and silently came,
Clothed in a mist of misery and pain,
And as mercilessly as Abel and Cain,
Paid a homage of death to Mombasa.
Mtongwe Vanished,
WITHOUT SHAME!

It was all confusion,
Yes -
There was no escape from agony and anguish;
Certainly not for them -
Helpless passengers trapped in a ferry
Like sheep in a pen,
Waiting for the butcher's knife,
Only,
They did not know theirs was the ocean,
Calm and cold,
Deep and deadly,
Tranquil and tempting,
Waiting without warning to
Surprise, submerge and silently swallow
To kill.

Yes! Yes! Yes!
The waves Chorused,
While the ferry performed a deadly Dance in mid ocean.
THE SHORE AT LAST -they thought.

But time stopped in solid silence,
Expressing the Divine Will to
Still Humanity -
A token of whimsical labour,
As high on His Heavenly throne,
God gaped at the vain follies of,
Countless hours of idle fantasy;
For in a trice of time and terror
They all died lonely deaths.

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Nothing has been more inspiring to mt creative bent as glorious sunsets. The poem I am posting tonight was inspired by the sight of a beautiful maiden washed by the silvery rays of a sun setting on the backdrop of a cool April evening when tender shoots of greenery were singing joys songs of.... , Visit the post if you enjoy this

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Ever More No More

The pain of not having an aim,

The pain of watching dreams Slain

By the aim of making gain,

Is a game hard to tame.

Time, they say, erases pain!

But pain stretches time forever,

Never welcoming peace again -

And so pain remains,

Overseeing the remains of dreams

Drowning in the depths of life's streams,

Whose death echo chimes of sorrow

For nothing awaits tomorrow.

Now my heart has a stain

That always will stay;

Fraying the purity of my soul,

Slowly,surely killing the spirit;

Extinguishing the light within;

Enthroning darkness evermore,

And so my life means no more.

I wrote this poem one morning when nothing seemed to make sense out of my struggles to be a writer. And for some inexplicable reason, when I started writing I was so happy but when I put the full stop, I suddenly lost grip and collapsed in a wave of racking sobs. Catharsis? Was it that!

My blogs will be about this and more. Visit and read some more here

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