Life…

What is Life?
An hour-glass on the steady run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A dew drop on the fall.

A minute’s pause, a moment’s thought.
A Lover’s troth, a kiss that never lasts.
An eye blink, the last breath.

A bubble on the stream,
Petrichor in the air,
Surreptitious gazes, desire.

The puffing gale of morn,
A cobweb, hiding disappointment’s thorn,
A mother’s breast.
A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream.

What is Life?

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this, lust for life…

this,

not from a Irving Stone novel. Not even slightly close.
this,
not from a Vincent van Gogh tarradiddle.
this, just is.

They say only the good die young. And I’m young, then I’m good. Then I’m worried.
So, I on that trek I embark to find sense in this, that we call life.

To find meaning, to seek the light, of what is, what should be and what might be.
To find oneself in the haystack that is life.

One:
To love, to give; to care, about the others more than you care about self!!!
It is sweet in the present, and painful in the past.
Like, nearly all that get, don’t deserve, don’t appreciate or don’t take a moment to let you know they do.
It wounds, you heal, but the diseased stay diseased. If it is a disease it is one that rarely heals.
They’ll ask again, you’ll realize a NO was appropriate YES moments later. You can’t take it back, you can’t escape from it.

Two:
You want it, you badly want it. Butt when you get it, you don’t need it.
You leave work early, money in your wallet, on full slayage.
You want to have it. Soon as you leave the gates, you’re clueless. What bar now? A movie perhaps?
But with whom will I be? A few meters from the bar, you stop, pause and ponder on the next step.
6-pm beer needs company. Who do I call?

This one, no. This, not at all. The other, perhaps; oh shit they are abroad. What next. It’s 15 minutes and you’ve been standing on the veranda of a fancy eatery.

Perhaps food. But the menu is like written in indelible ink. You’ve eaten this, and that and the other. This other one tastes best on a rainy day. And the last on on the menu is a meal for two. Arghh, you move on. Grab a bike and move to the Hill to see the sunset. You want it, you want life, but you’re lusting for it.

To the Hill, to breathe in life, you need that. To think through things, it’s about time. It’s a beautiful out there, you love it and take one or two, perhaps many shots. You love the shots, they make you almost complete. Then you think it’d been sweeter if you had at least one or any of those you love to feel, with you.
To share with you.

You start thinking of whom to share with but can’t quite figure out whom. Arghhh, this one just doesn’t love sunsets, whatever they like, you’ll never know. The other is a but, she took your headsets and never returned them.
The whole phone book is full of would have beens but isn’ts.


To be continued… but first Nora is presenting at Kigambo Hub. Got to look for that pot of gold.

I will

“I have a headache so I won’t write.” I have thoughts. That yearn to be let out. And they’ll be.
I have a lot that I’m sleeping on. The sleep is sweet. I want more.
I’l write something so nice. It’ll have tongues wagging. When I wake up, I will.
Oh here comes the rain. Soon as it dries up i’ll write. I love the rain. I love the sleep. I live for sleep in the rain.
I’ll wake up. I’ll write. My friend, she wants a Billet-doux written. She longs for it. I’ll write. She’ll smile.
I bought her a flower. It dried up. she smiled. She didn’t sneeze this time. It was dry. She loved it, but she didn’t say.
The chocolate. It didn’t melt. It was melted. Words were written. In it. “Write me something, anything.” What was left. It was smudged. On her favorite seat. My face.
“I can’t say i love you. I can say I love ink, this ink, you and paper.”
I’ll write. Anything. It’ll be short, it’ll be from the heart and it’ll be about us.
When i wake up. I’ll write.


From this dream. When I wake up… to be continued.

Three Years.

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Three years. I’d be joining Nursery school would have joined Nursery School today. I can almost hear myself sing all the nursery rhymes. I can almost feel myself sharing all my fancy day 1 food. Have been a giver since day 1, literally.


Approximately three years ago I moved on from Blogger to the fancier sister WordPress. And like they say, “the rest has been quite a story.”

I’ve made buddies, lost some *those that feel like you almost wrote about them, almost kissed and told, yet it was just imagination triggered by a moment some time back.

I’ve written nice pieces and better pieces, I’ve procrastinated once too much, I’ve been hit by the block. I’ve got past the 300 Follower Mark. I take pleasure in knowing that I can share with a number that big. And humbled for most read, and some reply, comment.

I pray and hope, even promise to write more. To be bolder, to swim beyond the reef and to write more. I promise to try to be Me.

 

Ayyy

Little Pretty Woman
Blessed with a bosom capped with twin peaks
Adorned with dark thick tipped nipples
Lance them by the edges of my mouth
Let it joustle with the thrust of my tongue

Take me deep into it
That little place they call sin
The enclave hushed by desire
Major Arcana cards held aloft
Where you’re High Priestess and I obey

Let me touch your thin veil of awareness
Where touch is forever more
Envelop me with your nether lips
Warm embraces the hedonist never forgets
Engulf me in swatches of sodden covers
Palpitating with a certain accord to the pink

Little curvy woman
Blessed with a derriere so bountiful
Juggled by the sway of your hips
Lay me on your altar of euphoria
Pierce me with the dagger of your eyes
Cleanse me with the taste of your lips

Even as the furnance that is my loins burns
Erecting the tower that is this meat
Babel reaching for the stars inside the slit
Veins filling the shaft with venom
Don’t cool it down for no remonstrance

Despite the flush of my cheeks
Teach me the ways of your castle
That I may lay my life down to defend
Be my Delilah, this strength I give away
This hair, eat away

Daughter of gods
Let me adjusting the bra that contours your bust
Let me take you from behind
Not like the dog I am, but a god
Let me into your infinite wetness
Across the waves of your ocean
Animate my desire in your well of creation

Impale me with your long sharp one
Bruises deep burgundy like fine wine
The colors you place onto my body
Soothen it with your warm wet tongue
And the littl whispers down my ear

Allow me to abseil those twin peaks
So I embrace their dark tipped cupolas
Grinding and winding down like an funambulist
Let me overturn your mound
Tending the sweet spot. Of pleasure
Tendrils convulsing the cradle that is your body
Hold on tight, this is us.No names, just pleasure

lovulets- Love and rivulets…

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I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
In the desert, where love wasn’t supposed to grow
Pinch sleep out of me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
Underneath the peeble by the river
Talk some sense to me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
As the bra and the panties hit the bedroom floor
Won’t you just pray for me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
Under the moonlight as she lit up to make clouds
And then she passed to me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
One knock on her one room door
And the eyes locked it up

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
Stood up
She picked the flower and gave to me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
At the hostel sinks
She sprinkled water at me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
It was handed to me
Mean guy shouldn’t have left her with me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
A jacket away
And she was truly the one for me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
Right in front of me
Remind me where it was supposed to be

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Bambi Nyanzi

Stella Nyanzi is still held. Much as i don’t condone her utterances, i abhor her incarceration.
She has rights, and her rights should be respected.
In a country like Uganda where everything has been gazetted for a select few, rights should be all that we have left but, do we?


Well, what to do!

Plug in ear phones and… Renegades ~ X Ambassadors


Run away-ay with me
Lost souls in revelry
Running wild and running free
Two of us, you and me
All it takes to make one last stand.

And I say
Hey, hey hey hey
See us living like we’re renegades

Long live the pioneers
Rebels and mutineers
Go forth and have no fear
Come close and lend an ear
#FreeNyanzi #FreeUsAll

All hail the underdogs
All hail the peasants
All hail the outlaws
The proletariat and the ‘less than thats’.

It’s our time to make a move
It’s our time to make amends
It’s our time to break the rules
Let’s begin…

And I say
Hey, hey hey hey
To hell with living like we’re renegades.


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Once Upon a Time…

Once upon a time, there was a man; who fell in love with a woman. They got married had children, and lived happily ever after…


As kids, stories were such a five-finger exercise. So smooth, so penny-plain and so subtle. Then growing up happened. Curiosity set in, many a cat died, the cats with in us. Schrodinger’s too.

Adam and Eve eating an apple metamorphosed into something bigger. You start to wonder how thighs come into a story so pristine.

Little wonders about what Jack and Jill where doing up that hill, and how the well could be up, not down the valley.


Stories ceased to make sense, as we drowned in novels, belly-flopped deep into meaningless books, got lost in Mangas. With each text read, a realm of Sunyata. A rabbit hole with a trap for light at the end of the tunnel.

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But still there remained that crave to read. To feed our little minds with something, anything. Twitter and Facebook happened, blogs too. And Snapchat and Instagram were invited to the party. And it was lit. As it was intimated that, as the Social Media platforms are food for the eyes, books and in particular short story books were food for the mind and the soul. So ensnaring…

One thing that’s eerie about stories, and mostly short stories is how quickly they can shape your surroundings, life and emotions.  Maybe you start reading one over your lunch break and, if it’s the right one, before that peanut butter cup you bought for dessert even has a chance to finish its melting shape-shift into some kind of sugary cement, the whole world has been destroyed around you and then rebuilt, and then remodeled into something outlandish, Museveni has retired and Nelson Mandela resurrected. Nothing is quite the same again. Ohhh, until it ebbs away.

This happens whether you like it or not. The best short stories haunt you for days and weeks. They take you to a dimension you can feel but can neither live in nor touch. Great stories exercise this violent beauty on you in a variety of ways: some by making an absurd world familiar (or vice versa), some with a slow burn, some with a voice that colonizes your thoughts. Some do it quietly, almost without you even noticing, and some do it with high wire acts of imagination or intellect that make you into a breathless witness.

The trick, then, is finding the right story, one that is capable of such a thing. This is no easy task. Tastes differ, of course, and it can be confusing to spot the small boat of a great story on the wide sea of fiction. What any reader can offer you in terms of guidance is actually the same thing that any good writer can offer you with the story itself: a way of saying, This is what moved me and made me feel strange and alive in some way; here, why don’t you give it a try?


I could say it’s the same with Music. Find a song, and it takes your soul through every valley with all sorts of shadows, of course you fear nothing then for the beat is your comfort.