MY HEARTIST by M

I sit in ponder of my beloved

So far, the distance kills the heart

I cannot vent

I am mad at him

Who gave him the authority?

To anger me and be angry at I

And with the distance

Assault to injury

It kills the heart

Yet my soul yearns for he

In love

In fight

In fury

In anger
In frustration…Still

I submit

Funny

That in these fiery times my insides burn most for him

I miss thee

I burn in anger and desire

So far

The distance kills the heart

I close my eyes

O my beloved is here

Staring at me

In my fiercest fumes

I want to burst…I want to charge…oh I should explode

And yet

Am halted

But how can I?

The exuberance of his charms won’t let me

Assuredly, he moves towards me

Am confused

My bosom heaves, uncontrollably, pleasurably

I miss you

His gaze fixates upon my eyes

Am bathed in calmness

His arms tightly but gently devour my body

I coil senselessly in submission

I totter in his intoxicating embrace

I blink

He lain me down, sunset reflecting in his eyes

The passion in them ignites my body, my desires

I want you

I tremble in his lips’ tender traces upon mine

Oh that…that I do miss, my heartist

The dexterity of your craftsmanship

Nay

Squirm not over spills and splurges of your shades on my surface

This canvas thirsts

Insatiable of your paint

Worry not of broken and of misplaced brushes

For the skills on thy digits is enviable

Alas! How they tickle

How they stir these nervous nerves

How they paint the corners and edges of this canvas’ curves

Your art on me is impeccable

When you work on this plane

Undesirables turn orgasmic

It is such

In breaking my heart

I would care less

You ponder why?

Well

Our fate, to be or not to be

Pieces of mine shattered heart form a mosaic of your face

Juxtaposition in thought

Of my love against your selfishness

Unfaithfulness

Disloyalty

Egotism

Anger

Disavowal

It don’t matter how far

Nor the distance

Every air you exhale

I feed my desire in its inhalation

Devoid of, I succumb

Nay

Its not obsession

Simply

The loves that burns for you

That the eloquence of words cannot quench

It refuses to die

Its destiny

For he know not the depths of my love

O reader,

If ye cometh across my beloved

Doth pass my word

That I deservedly declare

‘I am your canvas

Paint your love on me'


I received this poem from my girlfriend, so much I want to say about this piece. I wont, instead I'll say thank you, I am glad I am forgiven, loved and missed. I love you and I am honored you love me this much. I am yours; you are mine.

#100daysofblogging #Day11

your woman: myqueen. A response to the poem 'Betrothed then Betrayed By Oyoo Mboya'

This poem is a response to a poem I read by Oyoo Mboya I will post the original first then the response.

ORIGINAL:

BETROTHED then BETRAYED.

Tomorrow at dusk
She'll be in your arms
Her face behind a mask
Read the pattern on her palms.
Tomorrow at dawn
The priest will declare her your wife
Uncover the veil, beneath the smile
there's a frown
You are not what she wants in life.
Tomorrow at noon
You'll feed from the same plate
A (g)olden honeymoon
That seals your fate.
Brother,
Before she became your bride
I plucked her petals, still tender
In the journey to womanhood, I was
her guide.
Her body is scented with my stench
Kiss her and you'll taste my lips
Feed and wait to hear her belch
There's a name in her hiss.
Look deep into the fires of her eyes
The blaze that burns to blind
Do you ever care to ask why
She's one of a kind?
Dust her bosom for my fingerprints
The contours I caressed to break
The stains on her thighs
Are of pregnancies we longed to
make.
She'll cook, just like I taught her
In bed, my name will feature
I am her eternal star
Her past, present and future.

®Oyoo Mboya.

RESPONSE:

Photo|Courtesy

This are but tales you tell to satisfy your hungry past
You made a woman from a girl
that much I agree
But you remain a boy
Your words betray your ploy

Of the stains she's cleansed
Washed by the product of my loins
The hissing was quelled; she has just graduated
with a doctorate of the diploma you so graciously accorded her
I should thank you
for all the callous caresses you politely introduced her to
I could never have asked for an easier time
You are indeed godsent

I admit,
It may take a while to forget you
Its never easy to erase the opposite holotype of everything you are
Meticulous
Astute
Sturdy
Direct
She was a woman when she met me
You made her a woman

She is a queen under my care
An epitome of decorum
A royal diadem of peace
She is patience
Wrapped in royalty radiating love
She is my shield from pain
In her I find much strength

She is a queen
Executive director of the home
Symbol of my kingdom
and flesh of the flesh of my fledglings
Your one-time woman is my lifetime queen
It will take more than memoirs of your lips on hers
More than dusting prints of her thighs and bosom
It will take more than the past
for her to be annulled from this golden throne


Pablo Neruda writes I am not jealous/of what came before me I echo his sentiments.

#100daysof blogging #Day9

what is your why

If your conviction to become a better person rests in someone else’s heart then you have got it wrong.

Ultimately it will have to come from you

The ispiration

The drive

The push to attain completion

the burning desire

and oil burned way past midnight

It rests squarely on your shoulders 

Find out your why

Make it YOUR OWN

#100daysof blogging #Day 8

unto the uttermost

“Once you learn how to die, you learn how to live.”

Quote: Mitch Albom, Tuesdays with Morrie

Sometimes its not about going by all the rules,

Its about bending some

Getting the results done

For when they said to the donkey 

just lie down and die

He heard not and kept shaking dust off his back

the faster they shoveled the faster he shook it off

I was from a long journey, I could barely muster strength for the stairs home. I was reminded by the inner voice that today is the tomorrow all procrastinators thought wouldn't come yesterday.  Inch by inch I will grow my yard.

#100daysofblogging #day7

a moment with wisdom

he boasts a large collection of autobiographies and critiques of the famous African leaders. He just doesn't keep them he reads them and reviews them.

from a different angle

audio and visuals proff loves his jazz

This is his sitting room. Neat huh?

a shell a day, brought to him by grandchildren, neighbors and friends he never throws them away

"these are works on Castro and Cuba, I read a lot of Marx and Lenin at your age"

A religious man who says of himself "I am more of a Quaker than I am a Muslim he then ponders the statement and rephrases it to say I am a Godly man. I owe him my all.

Montage like arrangement of his family

This is an entire house full of manuscripts and reels with speeches of the famous leaders. Three rooms full. 

reflections of a man seeing his end

do you see the book on Timbuktu?

Old china set. He says he keeps it to admire more than to use.

Dedication to Professor Ahmed Mohiddin Mohamed 

This is not a poem but simply excerpts from my conversation with Proff

I am at that point in time where I rarely make an effort to think

I just let the thoughts come and I jot them down in Ink

Most days I sit outside and watch the sun run behind my neighbour’s house and sink

It is faster now that I am leaving

All the while I am admiring my wife

Or scratching my balls

For I have seen my fair share of falls

I have had my thrills

I just wish for the young people to be empowered

To unearth their spirits and to be discovered

To go all out

Do not be fazed by the clout

"My only regret is I never took a photo with Mutunga and Museveni as I had grievances with them at the time I met them."

Desire vs Imagination: I'm I foolish to keep on hoping?

“When your desires and your imagination are in conflict, your imagination always wins the battle.”  Emile Coue

I longed to find the one

just one

I longed to sit and share moments of what I was 

of what I would become

I longed to have another by my side

that was my desire

then I found one

the one

I thought she had another

and another

for I never felt like I mattered enough to her

for her

I was always looking to see her part

that was my imagination

I sat alone again

and hoped that she would take my plea

my begging my requests

I changed my imagination

centered on my desires

it was late too late

it started with no we cannot keep this up

it ended in "never! This can NEVER be"

and now the imagination won

I have to content with this state

at least until I know my fate

I longed to find the one

and even when I had her within my reach 

I let my imagination win 

but my desires still burn me inside

they nudge me

they prod me 

this desires have a mind of their own

tell me I'm I a fool to keep on hoping?

away or toward

two steps towards charring
to burning beyond recognition
still two steps away from brilliance
from beauty and natural elegance
just two steps
In either direction and you chance to lose or gain
win-win?

we are but birds

There are several ways to kill a cat, half of which are still under experiment. There are equally just as many ways to skin a rat, but very few people can come up with ways to keep a rat or cat alive. I am taking a weird tangent I can barely think of a way or a thought that’s pure. I am alive. I possess a chance to make things right. That is a start. To what, I don’t exactly know. We are but birds flying distinct paths, we are vessels made of brittle porcelain. We are half brittle half strong. We must be constantly baked to realize our full potential. Alas! Who are we, always on the move constantly searching for answers that we may know what we don’t. Persistent until we find out, yet when we find out we are unsatisfied. We are troubled by our own minds, slaves to our actual selves and fugitives of the truth, whom shall we trust if we can’t trust ourselves? Whom shall we believe if we can’t believe ourselves?

We are born pure; every holy book believes we are born without sin, without blemish. Along the way the clean slate we are given at birth is dirtied by the involvement with other people as we live. Our purity is diluted slowly by the tiny evil deeds we pick up along the way. With age comes the ability to choose between evil and good. Our conscience clouded or not plays a part in the decisions we make. Some are good and we enjoy and revel in them but others are poor and from them we gain experience after learning our painful lessons. We learn or we enjoy. For everything we do in this life there are consequences. We are told we will be punished for every foolish word we say, we will be reprimanded for all our unlawful deeds. Sometimes we desire our slates were clean, and instead of doing it the hard way of cleaning and clearing it all up we flee. We are but birds.

Fathering children at every corner we pop into skipping off to the next. I do not claim to be better or any different but I do desire to be different, to be someone else not this. Not a bird that perches on every tree, a bird that flees in times of disaster. If I have to be a bird then may at least be an eagle to perch up the highest cliff, to make a life not to the nearest branch to host noisy chirps. Or we could be fish, then there will be many, many of us.