Where I Am From….(Guest Post)

Where she comes from.. Photo by Wambui Ndirangu

Where she comes from..
Photo by Wambui Ndirangu

I am from the rolling hills and the clashing thunder beating against the slithering slopes.

I am from the snow peak – reflecting shadows on the pine trees.

I am from the grassy fields with mountain goats skipping on their feet.

I am from wondrous places full of different shades of green.

I am from sunshine, happiness and joy indescribable!

I am from tinkering bells as cows come home from pasture.

I am from the land of the free fifty years on.

I am from the land of different tongues and colors – where black, red and green flags wave to and fro…

I am from Kenya!!!

Nyokabi Gatheru

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Posted by on April 20, 2015 in Uncategorized


She Must Come To Pass


Don't Resist     Photo by John Scully

Don’t Resist
Photo by John Scully

A collision casts the dice

An inevitable trajectory

Growth with a mind and life all its own

What you think or want doesn’t matter

Termination will be bloody

You could die or be torn in two

by strangers minding your business

Shouting for life, pulling your right leg

Screaming choice, hanging on your left


Weighting to heaviness

Slowing down to sitting

You are immobilized

Gnawing, scratching, wrenching

This wild cat won’t let you be

A slow walk of pacification

A deep breath to explain all will be well

You are wasting your effort

The traveller must get to the destination

Howling, lunging and clawing you

By the loins swinging and ripping

Life and death may be in a contest


The ground you rest on is hard

Your hands hold onto what is due

Your bloodied eyes look

into desolation and abandonment

You spread out in acceptance and surrender

Educated fibres lean in and push

Trained bones move into position

Hope and faith smooth out a way

She is strong in the North

Fruit is ripe in the East and West

The South kicks into a dance

A country is born and opens her eyes










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Posted by on April 19, 2015 in Uncategorized


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God, What is Your Name?

#147NotJustANumber; photo by Muratha Kinuthia

#147NotJustANumber; photo by Muratha Kinuthia

She pleads in Jesus’s name

for salvation of muslim neighbors

God’s army reports for duty

She must now recite the Istefta Dua

Her eyes beg those of the soldier

who killed a teacher of Fardh in Mogadishu

Allah didn’t read that Somalia news

Jehovah Jireh, please save her!

Jesus, Mohammad, Jehovah, Allah

and bullets swirl in a bloody pool of God




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Posted by on April 7, 2015 in Uncategorized


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A tome with no purpose

Its not clear (photo by John Scully)

Its not clear (photo by John Scully)

My early journals were promises

Swaggering through life

paying no attention to onlookers

Diving into every first time

to the amazement of admirers

The heap of letters is now compost

Festering and full of disease

Sour memories of confusion

Flaring and smoking for nothing


They confirmed and affirmed

Travelled everywhere with me

I touched base as with a friend

Reviewed the past like a teacher

A therapist untangling my life

Displaying everything like the insane

It only existed if it was in my journal


23 years, a boyfriend,

scenic and threatening Windriver mountains

and a 60 pound backpack scramble,

crowd and settle in

filling my life

The man is the atmosphere

The ‘Winds’, lovers that thoroughly beat me up

And the backpack volunteers to help them

Bruised, scratched and swollen

I keep winning

The snow dares me, marking steep slippery boundaries

pushing me out of the mountains

I write that I have turned into a fountain of tears


We are my dad’s daughters

Only university degrees will make us his children

Good colleges and employers

agree that I have a good brain

I hold my BA “happy with life”

The MSc is picked up like a receipt from an office

I win jobs as I read the adverts

Dad smiles wryly

He and I would have been laughing

if schools taught faith


A restless spirit plagues me

My family loves me in spite of its foolishness

Friends unveil its deprivation

Men gut it out and parade it in the streets

By mid 1998 the scene gets so ugly

I can’t bear to look

Pages are torn off the journal

Incorrigible repetitive lines succumb to a fire

I stagger under the scorching heat

Employers run around me exhausted and confused

I turn 37 flying business class to London

Feeling “old, tired and ill”

asking God to “speak to my spirit”


A haphazard reference, a dated map,

a dirty mirror, a dustbin

A journal is a mad person’s chronicle

I turn 38 knowing if “I can be still”

things will be alright

“feelings are just feelings…and not the truth”

“people are innocent or afraid”

“I must stop fighting and leave others to flare”

Pages later, I turn 39

Am still stressed

I start a separation from the diary


A tome with no purpose

A friend writes on hers obsessively into the night

And then makes a fire of it

On vacation she talks to a new journal

more than she talks to me

A man’s lousy poem

is inscribed on my heart and my pages

“short hair, bright eyes, warm look

sharp tongue, wide smile, proud lips

…Until next time”

This writing is now terminal


I have no record of turning 41

Dad dies, quaking the earth

Its no use scribbling as

doors to my life shut and trains leave its station

I have nothing to say

Nothing I know can help me

I give in

and eat my mum’s lunch

My spirit becomes still

And I write a good poem





Posted by on February 6, 2015 in Uncategorized


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An Orange Scarf

Photo by John Scully

Photo by John Scully

She asks me which is better:

The red or the orange scarf

An endearing smile of

grace and beauty

curved over sixty years

She doesn’t need a scarf

and my stranger opinion doesn’t matter

Her bony hands have delivered large loads

Good friends came and went

She knows feuds have no gain

and that the sun sets

on all things laughed and cried over

So she honours her heartbeat

with an orange scarf

And gives me a broad second smile





Posted by on November 10, 2014 in Uncategorized


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She will not be ignored

She says what she likes

She says what she likes

Opinion enlarged on itself
Unannounced and unapologetic
It raises my eyebrows high
Surprising my eyes wide open
How can she be so sure?
I chuckle to myself

Endless mindless drivel?
Is she ignorant or are we foolish?
We can’t answer coz she continues to spit on the mic
“An unemployed man is a new phenomenon,
Men were always on a hustle,
A young man who does not work is dangerous,
Girlfriend, forget what he tells you,
If the car is not on your name and you do not pay insurance,
You are a glorified driver,
How long did you say his penis was?
Yes. There you have it. I just asked”

The mic stays hot
She decided yesterday what you’ll talk about today
Filling empty minds
Banging on rigid ones
Riding on strategic ones
Sending pretentious MPs to pay tax
Feeding the hungry
Moving angry voters forward
Hate her, love her
We cannot ignore Caroline Mutoko


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Posted by on October 15, 2014 in Uncategorized


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Magic in a Girl


“I know who I am”, “who God says I am”



Elegant defined fingers know,
what hands were taught before birth
that ten year old feet thump
to a rhythm on the bass drum
and in sync with cymbals,
who God says she is.
She shows us who she is

by BT

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Posted by on September 10, 2014 in Uncategorized


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