Pandora

Pandora's Box

the greek myths hold

that all the miseries,

out of the folly of pandora

were thus brought upon humans

epimetheus

ensnared by the god’s traps

unheeded prometheus’ counsel

land of all-time spring

daffodils, hibiscuses, daisies—

all growing, not in flower farms

rivers flowing with milk and nectar

oak trees filled with acorns

mountain strawberries

all these, good pilgrim,

lost

but for every trouble,

the myth says,

there is hope

to soothe human woes

Poseidon

when the swelling waves of the lake mutinied,

brow-beating thunder, rumbling skies added to the frenzy

in its maze catching the lethargic fishermen by surprise.

of what lay hidden in those Lake Victoria waters,

no soul knew; of what the lake floor spread across

with unsatiating appetite for human blood, no soul

knew; caught up in the fish net was Poseidon’s spirit

the fishermen drew it up, up, up

eish yawa, fish wasn’t that heavy omera.

it was a trident, but no one saw it

it was the enraged Poseidon, but no one knew him.

that was 1867, but why should it matter

the tridents flew into men’s heads

the son of Cronus and Rhea was on a war path

tale has it that the fishermen’s bodies were bloodless

and are buried on the floor of Lake Victoria

right at Poseidon’s shrine.

o, Poseidon,

what irked you so much that year?

was it your brother Zeus or Athena, the goddess of war?

but why, Poseidon, the god of earthquakes, did you spread

your wrath to these remotest parts, and to lakes, to boot?

Penelope

In the unbridled passions

that intoxicate hearts of men

amid many ungirded loins, discreet adultery

still, an inspiring epic is still woven

Of souls, led not by flesh,

Waiting upon the spark that will

Light up the long-held embers of love

Laurel of Apollo

Link

Sweet Daphne, such a still love

Unshaken by the tempests of our times

Others might see it as unfortunate

As for me, Apollo, your bark and roots

Remain ever sensual and loving

Bacchus

Link

Dear Bacchus:

A revolt is stirring up, heretical esophagus

are soiling your name— 

in bars, in parties, in the streets.

I saw a pair of inebriated eyes

Staring at a pavement, hand on bottle

I thought I would let you know, somehow.

Prometheus

Google

O, Poor Titans!

Where did your might escape to?

You had your son, Prometheus,

A wise soul, diametrically different

From your quarrelsome selves

For love unselfish, dear Prometheus

Stole red flower from Jupiter, King of Sky and Earth,

All this trouble for man!

Poor Prometheus had his liver devoured by vultures

Chained to a rock day and night

No greater love was demonstrated as thus.

Riddle

Trapped in the stubble of his beard

Was a zephyr of mystery

Of thoughts that resided within him.

Unfurled within his reach

Were sylphlike convictions

Of men filled with self-doubt.

Ideas, fettered in frail minds,

Walked away to their freedoms

Further delaying the take-off.

So, unshaken, he carved a path

On the rock hardened by naysayers

Bit by bit, piece by piece

Till a towering statue of magnificence

Stood in place.

Through the Camera Lens, Somewhere in Nairobi

"The Madaraka Skies"

"The Nairobi Sunrise"

Nairobi skies:

1st Photo: Taken at 6.44 a.m. on 1st June 2012.

2nd Photo: Taken at 7.06 a.m on 1st June 2012.

C) Lorot Salem

My Son and I

When I look at my son

Fingers flicking on the play station

I marvel

Some few years ago in 1967

When I was his age

There were no such gadgets

Instead, we played sheki and birkoli

And shot each other using jumla plant guns

Girls played kora, boys played lifundo

I liked pepeta, I dribbed the ball like Christian Ronaldo

We made clay toys at Kacheliba Mixed

We went to mtelezo at Shabaha

Hunted for hyraxes and hares

But my son,

My son shoots with his toys

I don’t get it—he shoots people!

Or drives fast cars by pressing buttons

We are world apart,

I, the old fogey who played in the dust,

And my son, who sits up all day playing video games

I once sneaked into my son’s room and tried them

I think when I saw a figure aim a gun at me, I ducked

That was the last I had with those weapons!

Photo credit: Google.

Mothers Day 13/5/2012

My mother, Mrs. Paulina Maya Choram, in her traditional regalia

"This is dedicated to my precious mum, Koko, and all the wonderful mother all over the world. This poem is to you all in as much as it is for my mom."

                                                              - echoes of the hills 

                                                                  

Tororot, I pray for my mum today,

Though I be far from her reach

I know that her love remains rich

Funny how, try as I might, the English

Language is under stocked of words of praise

When young, my mum chewed bananas

And fed me with them (there were no blenders);

She carried me on her back, metal box on her head

All the way from Kapenguria to Kacheliba

When water was scarce, she gurgled water in her mouth

Held me mid-air and sprayed water on my body

Back then, there were no handkerchiefs,

So mum sucked mucus from my nostrils

Then spat it out

“My son,” she always tells me,

“Good fortune is never pulled by a rope—

Be patient, don’t lie, and don’t steal”.

Whenever I see my mum

I forget all my problems; she is like a sanctuary to me,

She is like middle pole of a hut, holding my emotions,

There is something about mothers, I don’t know which,

Pulling us to the center of our existence

My mum is the uncrowned goddess,

The unsung heroine, the unrewarded achiever,

Other people have their achievements written on paper,

My mother’s are spread across the years of my life,

The referees to her curriculum vitae are Tororot and the

hills of Kacheliba,

Like all success stories, she knows pain too,

I don’t know where she gets her strength from—

most probably from Tororot— because her spirit

is sturdy like the bark of an akoretee tree;

Most mothers buy their sons gifts, my mother

Gave me hope and cheer, with it she always tells me,

“Mondanyu (my son), all my blessings are upon you,

Usichafuke roho (don’t get your spirit dirtied), utafaulu

(you will succeed)”

You all know this Tororot, so I pray to you today,

To thank you for keeping us well through the heat of the day

For all along, no searing heat has burnt out our energies

And for my mum, she has always kept pace

You hold the future, Tororot, a mere pilgrim like me

Cannot predict tomorrow, you know how our graphs will rise

You are the owner of the Cartesian Plane

But if you will allow, Tororot, this Mother’s Day

Grant my mum a little more cheer, a little more of the echo,

And in your divine plan, one day, reward her

Through me or others (you work in mysterious ways)

With a little more of what other pilgrims have

This will be to your glory, and imagine Tororot

How that will speak more of the value of Hope?

Neighbours are Bad Friends

So, what is it with perimeter-walled fences

That barricades good neighbours?

On metal gates, there are warning signs

Of mbwa kali (fierce dogs) and 24-hour surveillance

What happened? What changed?

I thought if I came over and said my greetings

Like good neighbours do, the least I could expect

Was a thermos flask full of tea and perhaps

Little of suspicious looks

But not so

Instead, neighbours know each other

If their flowerpots are knocked over by neighbour’s children

Eye-brows knit, gates are opened for process servers

Suddenly, they know each other

If the other pumps over his home theatre’s volume

Of course to out-compete the other’s house all-night prayers

I stand in-between these Berlin-walled residences

I wonder to myself, wasn’t it a thief’s theory

That the higher the wall, the mighty the residence

Which equals more likelihood for attack?

In the past, it was my business

To know how many children my neighbor has

If his child sat while I passed, I taught it manners

If I try it today, they call it ‘assault’

If I find out why they are not awake on a Saturday morning

They call it ‘intrusion to privacy’

Is this the new form of neighbourliness?

Photo credit: Link

Shared with: Theme Thursday # Neighbours

The Bridge of God

this river flows, Pilgrim, down

to daraja mungu, the bridge of God.

upstream, the rushing waters chocked between rocks

some parted under the sturdy roots of mukuyu, the baobab

others, in a moment of youthful folly, broke banks

as if, like fish, they could live on dryland

so, the cool waters thus flow

many a drunkard tested their levels

not with sticks but their knees

the small curls, sensual yet unbridled

deep mangroves roots held tight

where this river leads, pray pilgrim,

we might not know; yet, it holds such

depth of conviction

Poem shared with: Magpie Tales

Wait, Where Did We Bury It? (Florette)

I promised that I will be back. Now I am. And what a great way than to try a poetry form known as a florette.

The challenge at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads  this Sunday was this:

 

Florette:


Rhyme scheme: a, a, b, a
Meter (syllable count): 8, 8, 8, 12
Fourth line requirement of internal (b) rhyme scheme, on syllable 8.
The completed poem should consist of two or more stanzas.


xxxxxxxa
xxxxxxxa
xxxxxxxb
xxxxxxxbxxxa

Here’s my attempt:

Pilgrim, across the cemetery of wasted

words, show me just one most jaded

by the tongue. Ignore the weed of orphaned

idiom, just walk across and tell me the wisdom,

such is my thought vested.

I want you, most fairly, to be judge;

though you be immortal, candour is your badge.

Exhume the words, then, go ahead fellow

Pilgrim, I have the Court Order fellow Pilgrim,

Will you budge?