A reflection of God's beautiful image/mother/gigging musician/actor/ poet. This is part of my expression and journey. Uncontainable, uncensored. Welcome to my poetic conversations on love, life and music. Here I unfold!
Dear John stone.
by Valentine Kamau on Sunday, August 22, 2010 at 5:24pm
It's been 32 years. I did not have the pleasure of meeting you, seeing as you lived and died before my time. Had we met, you probably wouldn't have liked what I have to say much. Third generation after your leadership, am of the opinion that you didn't do such a stellar job but admittedly, even at your worst, you were better than most. After all, I’d sooner take off than give up my freedom for the sake of a nation. I’d run. Fast and hopefully live to write and tell my memoirs in exile.....I love my country but am not a very willing martyr-that's where you and your comrades get the props. It’s truly heroic.
My generation is too spineless for such a great, sacrificial order. We talk of revolutions in the drinking holes after dark and then gag our throats in silence after dawn. On that account, am grateful for yours and for your compatriot’s great show of bravery.
Still, I will not hold back my disappointment at your lack of tolerance and zeal for the TRUTH. (I’d be in some dark nyati dungeon 20 years ago for expressing this).
I continue to hold a grudge against you, (32) years after your demise, for you did not trust the truth to bring you to a place of light and freedom, the truth was too bitter a pill for you to swallow. Am idealist, am all for equal rights, wealth etc but the TRUTH is, we are just too capitalistic to be equal. The large tracts of land and wealth which continue to lie in the hands of the mighty, can attest to this fact. THAT IS THE HARD TRUTH!
My heart goes out to all those who dared tell all, their powerful voices forever silenced, never to be heard from again. Your successor learned fast, who would dare defy his endearing sentiments?
You Sir, You! You were too much of a coward to give progress the way. You couldn't stop the destiny of a people, but you did indeed, succeed at stifling it.
On this day i choose to scrutinize your lessons instead of judging you. It's really not fair, venting out my frustrations at you this way. The good book says time and chance happen to all men, so you are not to blame for the state of affairs in my life. I rise today to battle my demons: call it taking responsibility for my actions and all that- I’ll spare you the drama. However, should you take the opportunity to watch the apprentices you created in action, do resist from cringing in disgust at their blatantly barbaric politics-they certainly scramble to be associated with your ideals, which are then, ironically re-branded as their own. Such is your fallen legacy.
You are dearly missed.
Your truly,
Kenyan Patriot.
©2010 all rights reserved by the Author.
I remember my African sunsets and dawns,
Clustered into a yellow, distant , fire ball
in the horizon.
I recall when I began to dream,
When it was finally alright to dream.
I was carried away by words on paper
My imagination violently escaped my conditioned frame
and
I was let loose;
Set free to just be.
Were it not for those writings,
These dreams would have withered away
Dormant, half dead, like in a coma.
Half awake and half asleep,
Fighting to become real and sadly loosing
the battle-never to be.
Finally resting in mock peace.
Fortunately this legend was foreseen.
Long before these words,
Was planted, the seed.
As others impatiently stomped the ground
Willing their drooping sprigs to sprout,
I knelt down beside my seedling and spoke life
into its tiny leaves
and sure enough, it did not disappoint.
The birth of the fruit was announced with much praise
and song
To many, it seemed like magic pronounced, but to me,
It was the words of my mouth, His mouth.
The labor had ceased; then pursued the laughter.
Linger on the sweet memories ….
I remember my African sunsets and dawns.
Even though now my eyes start to burn,
and my throat chokes with tears
of that
Soursweet memory,
I still can;
Remember my dreams.
Ebony is about a woman's love-hate relationship with her body, her hair in particular. I'd know. I used to shave my hair every time the things i wanted to go my way didn't work out i.e. until i grew locks. I have my moments when i desperately want to cut them but the urge to fling them around like a mad woman always wins the day. So that's how I've managed to keep them for so long-eight years to be precise. It's been a beautiful journey. I've found ways of releasing my anger and frustrations which doesn't involve shaving my hair or mutilating my body lol. Hope this sheds some light to this piece.
There once was a woman
Her glory was falling
Falling.
The woman and her glory, falling
Fallen.
Her sigh of defeat grew silent ,
but not the spirit of her defiant nature.
She knew it was far from over.
She lies but never dies.
She had a lot of fire in her,
a lot of fight still left within her.
Her glory was falling.
Shimmering, colossal, mass of black
Ebony wool fallen.
How it glimmered in the hot sun
You could tell from a distance.
Beautiful, just like her
RESILIENT
spirit.
The world around her is a sham.
Ugly.
I saw through her secret ritual.
Purging her soul of the ugliness.
Cleansed.
Her black wool, lying in the stillness beside her.
Her heart started to bleed as she quietly gazed at her glory.
Then,
A ray of light fell upon her smoldering, black, olive eyes.
I could see her tears now,
rolling down unto
the ebony wool,
Next to her bare feet.
She lifted her smooth hands and gently stroked her fallen glory.
A tiny smile started to crease her round face.
Sated,
She lay claim to her peace.
This , her sacrifice.
