03 September 2009


sparks glow under the
ashes banked up in
anticipation of morning light

the long night, stretched-out,
elastic, pours down around
her head, four-legged
stool her only support,

as she whispers, lips pressed
tight to the wall, how have I
come, how have I come, to
be, to be, to be

cool, the wall, plaster-white, daubed
with the last dirty protest, it
soothes the cheek seared over
with the flush of blood
concealed by black

while electric remembrances flash,
limbs thrashing through
the brainpan, the signs for arrivals
and departures are still evident
on the airport concourse, the
last embrace a sweet, a
sweet devouring



this a must read poet. i have admired the poem rendition. keep us entertained.

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Simon Mwangi Muthiora.

ggw07 said...

Marvelous! Gretchen

Kraxpelax said...

Dark nights washed by distant rippling trees
and alien winds covering your eyelids, purifying
like everything, move on with splendid ease
leaving us a message: life will never cease
its sleepy course in vain
in order to attain
rebirth, since Death is not and Life is dying.

The heat around Time's corner waves a scent
for creedence revival of some virtual vampire
as deep inside. A force considered spent
returns from utter non-existence that was meant
to keep us out of breath -
Is Life both Life and Death?
Riddle of the Night! The Day be hot and dire.

My Poetry Blog



Adiós, mis vacas! Que pasa en esta temporada de tristeza?
La soledad se cultiva en las ciudades;
viva la muerte.
Uno no debe imaginar que el hombre es bueno.
El paisaje se despierta en un fiel espejo, pregunte.

La noche ha porches de la siesta en ruinas con pistacho.
Débiles enemigos se disipa amigos sin
valor. La calle es corta.
Hay falta de coherencia, la esperanza y la fe.
Todas las puertas evitadas saludan: No pasarán.

My tentatively spanish poetry blog;


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