What About Us?

If we elected
The same people we
Have always elected

We would live another
Five years
As we have lived
The last five
Or it would be
Worse

We would watch
Them protect their
Own
Speak for their
Own
Feed their own

Not one of them
Would care about us
Until they needed us
To elect them
To watch over
Their own
Speak for
Their own
Feed their own
Again.


PoP 12 Oct 06

I Will Not Be Paying My Taxes

It’s the thirtieth day of May
Not just another day
I sit wound in a tight knot,
anger rises bitter in my throat.
My fingers hesitate to sign off my sweat
into the bottomless pit of corruption.
This day in May,
a woman is raped,
a baby aborted,
a mother, from hunger dies.

This May,
a father’s life is lost:
potholes cradle his blood
to be savored like a rare wine
on the lips of a corrupt contractor
This day,
a traffic cop
holds out his blood thirsty hand:
his signature, permission for murder.
The people’s trust he disregards
to keep the rich man’s defective
fleet on the road.

Today,
another desperate and jobless
young man determinedly tightens
the noose around his neck
and kicks away the stool that holds his future.
A woman wails,
her screams bounce off
the hospital’s dilapidated walls:
‘No medicine’, she howls again and again,
echoing what the doctors said
as her child died in her arms.

This May,
a young girl lays her heavy head
against the urine stained wall.
Glazed eyes stare at hopelessness honed
to perfection by the illegal drugs
she sells herself to buy.
And the minister’s wife
Just back from abroad,
from pomp, romp and designer shops.
In her fancy car, back-left she sits
driven by the tax remunerated chauffer
This is the life, she thinks
while looking through the tinted glass
with disdain
at begging street
children

On this last day of May,
bent over my tax forms,
I believe I will not
be paying my taxes next year.

PoP © May 31 06

Hear No Evil, See No Evil

The burden of silence
is a load better not borne.
It is a failing of mankind
in the chain of cause
and effect.

For when the tide turns,
and choices are a thing
of the past;
when freedom’s the only thing left to give,
we will not have the chance
to speak.

There will be no place to hide
as the tentacles reach for gold.
There will be no freedom in
America;
Or liberation in
Iraq;
no complacence in
Kenya;
or democracy in
Jordan;
there will be no trade in China
or Japan.

The anger of the masses will
be tossed this way
and that.
Turmoil will become a bosom
friend.
And grief,
a parasite.

Blood will flow
where children once played.
The gentle coo of doves,
replaced by
angry shrieks from bomber planes.
The deadly birds will
shed their lethal loads,
and the resultant craters
will be the only sanctuary.

PoP 6 Aug 06

The Jobless Graduate

Before the first cock crow
As night moves to the background
I greet the day
With a stretch of rickety young bones
And a mighty hungry yawn

I look around the old junk shed
As I listen to the angry protest
of my joints’ creak and pop
From my nightly crawl
Into the windowless shell
Of my bedroom; an old landrover
Half sucked into the earth

The cold air saturates my face
As I hit the road
While trying to ignore the angry gurgle
Of my hungry insides
I dare not remember
when I had my last meal
As that will only make matters
So much worse
I pay no heed
To the sole-less shoes on my feet
Or the incessant pinch
Of the gravel on my cracked heel

I walk as I always have,
Looking straight ahead
As my family album
Rushes through my head
I see myself as I struggled through school
My grumbling stomach always demanding food
In my minds eye little children
My brothers and sisters
Too ill to make the long walk to hospital
And father gone, done in by years of frustration
Now drowned in alcohol
Mother distraught,
Trapped, with nowhere to go.

I pat my jacket pocket
Feel the proof of my university degree,
And assorted certificates
Obtained from years of struggle
And borrowed money
I stride as I’ve done for four years
Eyes unseeing straight ahead
Narrow mouth determinedly set
And swallow the lump of hate
Rising in my throat

PoP 26 May 06

From The Cradle

That orange or yellow
meant–for-children bomb
that bursts in crescendo
like a tuneless symphony
exploding little arms and legs
into shards of bone and gleaming
glistening sickeningly wet flesh
strewn all over the place.
The lifeless
baby eyes
looking
right into you
and wondering
how much longer you
will remain silent.


This is about the yellow/orange bomblets that burst from the 1000-pound bombs dropped by the B-1s in Iraq. Some of these bomblets don't explode on impact and remain on the ground stealing the lives of innocent children!

PoP 23 June 06

Kenya Will Stand United

caught with your pants down
and now fighting
in the cities and towns
the reign of terror is back

evil never wins
only angers the masses
who will make you account for your deeds
in an uprising by oppressed classes

they say the guilty are afraid
this fact stares us in the face
and we reject all you ever said
recognize them as lies meant to set a base
for massive plans of corruption

yes, go ahead,
put hoods on your heads,
like common thieves, hide your faces;
burn, loot and destroy,
whip and kick those who dare stand for truth

we may forget,
the intensity may subside
but your actions will never be erased
Kenyans will stand united

we are drained
from watching in silence as our country’s raped
we will no longer look aside
we will take action
to make this madness subside

for our children’s sake
the media will be free, democracy will reign
history will remind us, will be embraced,
will triumph even when our memories fail
evil will never prevail

we’ve seen you lose your virtue
and watched greed corrupt you
so as is done with vermin
we are shutting down all escape routes

your actions may silence a few
but the majority will rise
and start the fight anew
then you will listen to our voice
Kenya will stand united!


Kenya will stand united!

PoP 2 Mar 06

War Never Ends

Though the guns and bombs
have stopped,
War is in
the smoke that billows
over the countryside.
It lives in the scorched air
of the mountains
where we once played hide
and seek.
It resides
in the rubble in which we find
our loved ones still;
in the glassy eyes
of children
who won’t speak
or close their eyes in sleep.

War lives
in those whose spirits
went with loved ones lost,
whose lives will never again
be the same.
In those who now crawl
where they once walked
and those whose
sight is in the cane
they tightly grip

War continues
for those who cried
so many tears
and died
many deaths.
Those who ask how
to pick up the pieces;
whether it was worth the misses,
where to bury their pain
and if the anger will ever cease.

PoP 30 Aug 06

I Want To Believe

I want to believe
We still remember peace
And that we can still talk about it
With true peace in mind

Not as if it’s an illusion
Too vague to achieve
Or a victory for just a few
Not as a conquest
Where some lose and others win
Or a massacre in some sick baptism

I want to believe
We still remember peace
Where no one has to die
So we can live.

PoP 31 Aug 06

The Angry Poet

“Don’t let your anger
get the better of you,
he said as the crease between
his eyes deepened.
‘Don’t let your fire
burn you out.
Don’t cry,
fight!
Fight with words, in song, in protest!
Fight!”
These are the wise words
of my revolutionary friend.

For the umpteenth time
I bend my head.
Pencil in hand,
blank page staring back,
mocking my futile attempts at placid poetry.
Anger flares,
mad fires unquenchably burn,
and my fingers turn to lead.

How can I not cry
these angry tears
when my world is crushing
and waves are pounding around me.
When children are now being used as shields,
dying instead of playing.
When praying with open hands
invites murder.
When I can no longer trust my neighbour.

How can you tell me not to cry,
when man is no longer man
and life is lived without life.
When the cry of a newborn
sends a chill down my spine
When I’m so tired,
so tired of being an adult
without a voice.
How can I not cry,
when man ignores the choice
to listen to his conscience
on corruption, greed, and class division.
When only silence surrounds
the guns and the bombs.


Forgive my rage,
my friend.
Even as my fingers turn to lead
and another angry tear stains this page.

PoP 31 Aug 06

The Public Hospital

The stench
Is etched in the
Niche of my mind
The smell of desperation,
Pain, mud coloured tea,
And yellow black bananas
The endless rows
Of people identified by
A number on a priceless card

Scarves, different size hats,
Once white nurse
Uniforms blend in with
Colourless bandanas
And brightly coloured
Swahili Khangas
Attempting to hide
Pain, boredom and
Sleepless nights
Imprinted on long suffering
Faces

Unpaid doctors walk
Leisurely back from
Endless coffee breaks
As the stench of blood,
Stale vomit, boiled cabbage
And bloody needles
Saturate us
Like a wet blanket
My innards
Angrily churn,
Like a gourd turning
Buttermilk

With each strained swallow
Of watery bilious saliva
I hold my friend’s hand
And squeeze a little tighter
Bracing myself
For a long, long wait
Yet afraid to breath in
The scent
Wherein lives
The first breathe
Of life
The clutch
Of death’s hand
And the magical years
In between

POP 18 Sep 06

Long Live, Karimi

Your spirit lives,
your dreams each day revived
by the anger in our hearts.
The fight continues still;
that will never die,
It will never die.

When they came for you,
you stood proud and unshaken.
With each lash of the whip,
with your blood they were tainted
as you sang the songs,
those songs of liberty
‘Better to die on my feet
than to live on my knees’,
you sang and chanted.
And when they imprisoned you
your dream remained strong
your fight staunch, your purpose unabated.

When they killed you,
they couldn’t have known
that you were already dead to selfish power,
greed and injustice; pain was an old friend
and suffering was nothing new
to free the people, and bring closer
liberation.
They would torture you as you sang,
songs of justice,
songs of peace,
songs of courage.
and from your body flowed tears of blood.

Your voice is clear as day,
our spirits it restores
as we hear you sing the same songs
of justice,
of freedom,
of peace;
and your voice strengthens our vision.

Until we subdue the masters of oppression,
and our mission comes to fruition,
your voice will sing out clear
across the cities, on the hills and plains;
and the struggle will continue.
The struggle will continue!

In honour of a fallen hero, Karimi Nduthu

Lioness © 25 Mar 06

TELL HIM

After hours in deep silence and thought,
the old sage turned and said these words,
give this message to the Late Canon’s son.

At his age and with his experience
he should hide his face in his palms

He should do this with disgrace
stop all the righteous displays
of needless and noisy petulance

Though he says he was mislead,
we know gluttony was the honey
that goaded him to political death.

He should freely lie in the bed he made
when he filled his pockets with tainted money.

Now that the people know,
and their anger grows
his name in the rubbish heap goes.

Tell ‘uncle’ to bow his head in retribution and shame,
attempt to rescue his dishonored name,
from this nightmare he thought a game.

Tell the old man to put his hands in the fire
irrespective of the heat,
retrieve his words and pride.

Tell him to stop the disharmony he’s creating,
the masses he’s angering
with his indignant ire.

Tell the Canon’s son he’s fully utilized,
and gone full circle
with the proverbial forty days.

Now it’s time to stand like a man
carry his cross,
face the consequences of his ways.

Corruption Undressed

in the service of the people
an honest heart once was
hurt to see your own marginalized
conditions going from bad to worse

power placed in your hands
to submit the people’s decisions
and the community’s needs
you seemed like their ultimate salvation

your colleagues were hungry
ready to consume the people’s money
pockets overflowing, hands full,
they took all they could

love for your people wavered
money blinded you to their needs
clean hands joined to dirty
hearts beating to the drums of corruption

when friends became foes
you built even higher walls
and bought guns and bulletproof cars
to defend your greed

your guilt needed protection
from the people you were once a part of
a people you lied to
a country you ripped off

now stripped of dignity and pride
your only option is to hide
among friends in the distrusting class
you greed has caused your nakedness.

The Gates Of Justice

The expectation of a great awakening,
keeps our strides long and strong.
Visions of a historical beginning,
brings to our hearts a sweet song.

Though imprisoned, tortured and muzzled,
through the muzzles we continue to sing.
Though locked up and manhandled,
our spirits are strong, our gait is proud.

The hope of a free and just realm
calms our hearts so often troubled.
And we continue to work and dream
of a society, strong and enabled.

Though we wade through despair and desolation,
eating through our fabric at every turn.
Through the mess and lack of education,
our fight to free the people remains steadfast

True democracy, lost to gluttonous politicians.
With a handshake they handed over
the rights of men, women and children,
sold without foresight or hesitation.

We continue in the struggle,
even when we feel weak
and our work seems so slow.
We strive and continually seek
to pry open the gates
through which justice will pass.

PoP © Jan 03 2006

Agony Of A Mother

the food trucks are here now
I hear them fifteen kilometers away
and I wonder how
I’ll make the walk today

what can I do
but watch my children die
who do I blame, who?
I used up my food supply

at first I stayed hungry for a day
hoping help would come
I tried to stay awake
there was no sound of trucks, none.

the hungry days came and went
the children stopped crying
and that’s when I bitterly wept
as I watched them slowly dying

and now I’m down to one
hanging on to dear life
I’ve fed her my tears
now dry over time

the food truck’s here
I’m too weak to walk
so I clutch my child near
I cannot walk, can’t even talk.


PoP © Jan 22 06

Seeds Of Revolution

first you insulted the trust we placed in you
by giving yourselves big salaries and fancy cars
all done at the taxpayer’s expense
sly and subtle, you set the trend,
for the plunder you intended

since then you have tried to shut our eyes
by causing confusion and tribal hatred
you’ve shoved down our throats lies
while behind our backs corruption continues unabated.

the fruits you promised have not grown
the seeds have not even been sown
the deadlines you gave have come and gone
and the country drowns in tears of regret

there are men and women disgusted at your greed,
visionaries who will raise their fists and sing songs of revolution
revolutionaries who will fight to the sweet end
of your gluttony and corruption
selfless people who will give their all to save our country.

PoP 16 Jan 06

Inspired by Fr. Dolan’s article – ‘Kenya Needs a Revolution 11 Jan 06’

Woman Of Africa

African Woman, speak.
For your voice is sweet,
your clever words are priceless
and your laughter’s deep

Speak, Mama speak,
For you give hope
to hesitant and tired feet.
And your wisdom keeps homes
together, with a love so sweet.

Speak, my sister.
For your words have raised strong men
in times of tears and laughter
your pride has walked great nations
through each day’s struggles

Woman of Africa,
your tears continually cleanse
the pain of hunger and poverty,
sometimes at great expense
to your very being.

PoP 18 January 06


In honour of the African woman, the backbone of Africa.

Village Of The Dead

I walked through
the village of the dead today
my heart sunk and my hands shook,
my knees dropped to the earth

the sunken eyes of children
hunger ate them to the bone
song on their lips forever gone
never to be heard again

Emaciated women,
holding dying children
too weak, and men;
men with no hope, no pride, no
anger, all forever withdrawn.

I came too late.
That thought ran through my mind,
my fury and fear combined
as I watched them breathe their last

Too late,
I saw their bodies gaunt
and made futile attempts
to find the ones left.

I came too late,
the water and food I brought
flung on the ground
useless to the dead.

Too late,
I did not respond to their
calls, their pleas of despair
I thought it was not my affair

and now death’s in the air
what can I say?
I didn’t come before I wasn’t there
and in my shame I can only lie here

prone; on dry land, on barren soil
that bore nothing from the toil
of those who lie here
dead.

I can only lie here and pray
there’s nothing I can say
to bring back the village of the dead;
it’s too late
Too late.
PoP © 21 Jan 06
About the drought victims in North Eastern Kenya

The Gates Of Justice

The expectation of a great awakening,
keeps our strides long and strong.
Visions of a historical beginning,
brings to our hearts a sweet song.

Though imprisoned, tortured and muzzled,
through the muzzles we continue to sing.
Though locked up and manhandled,
our spirits are strong, our gait is proud.

The hope of a free and just realm
calms our hearts so often troubled.
And we continue to work and dream
of a society, strong and enabled.

Though we wade through despair and desolation,
eating through our fabric at every turn.
Through the mess and lack of education,
our fight to free the people remains steadfast

True democracy, lost to gluttonous politicians.
With a handshake they handed over
the rights of men, women and children,
sold without foresight or hesitation.

We continue in the struggle,
even when we feel weak
and our work seems so slow.
We strive and continually seek
to pry open the gates
through which justice will pass.

PoP © Jan 03 2006

Kenya - Sinking In The Quicksand Of Corruption

Kenyans are being strangled by their own. It may be a quick death if they don't embrace the paradigm shift that has been begging for attention for the last 30 years.

On the political front corruption to the highest extents continues unabated despite promises by the Kibaki administration for 'zero tolerance'. The zeros appear to be numerous in the amounts of money they are fleecing from the government and the people of Kenya. The Daily Nation on Sunday surprised many by highlighting the extent of corruption in the country and exposing in detail dirty deals made between government officials and fictitious companies.

As part of the middle class or as my friend calls us, the petty bourgoisie, I read the papers with trepidation and had to take constant breaks to recover my breath. The blatant nature of thievery leaves me aghast! It is amazing that after the looting and raping of Kenyan resources for almost 30 years by the previous regime, a government that Kenyan people put so much faith in so openly disregards their trust and immediately commences enriching themselves.

What is further surprising is the fact that the Head of Government maintains sealed lips when it comes to matters of grand theft/corruption. He does not say a word when all these scandals are going on or even when they are revealed! The ministers involved in these scandals are defended - some even by the Vice President and it's business as usual! It goes without saying then, how deeply entrenched the cream of government is in this business. The hope of Kenyans lie in each individual who feels angry at the looting and stealing, definitely not in the current government.

At a time when millions of Kenyans are dying of hunger, Kenyan ministers continue to whiz around in fancy cars and helicopters funded by the taxpayer. I am in shock at their lack of shame, and the thoughtlessness for the people they agreed to represent.

It saddens me terribly to see the state of affairs in Kenya go from bad to worse with a new government in place. It is sad that the government allows even one person to die of hunger or lack of medication. It is horrendous that millions are dying of hunger at a time when scandal after scandal is being revealed by the local dailies alongside pictures of emaciated children, men and women.

KENYA NEEDS A REVOLUTION - NOW!
Poetess of the People



BUSINESS AS USUAL

The business of corruption
is thriving; a little here,
a little there, no discrimination.
They don’t care from where
the money comes, only it’s destination.

They close their eyes to
the people dying of hunger
and disregard their contract to be spokesman;
as long as their pockets are full it doesn’t matter.

Exquisite suits and expensive cars line
up, the ministers are meeting;
first thing on the agenda is their riches and lives
not how the people are living.

The so-called people’s representatives
offering second hand
everything from clothing to education
are in business as usual.


PoP© 21 Jan 2006

Poems

I'm looking for revolutionary/liberation poetry. Anyone knows a good site?

POP