it's hot out there

It’s hot out there

With scattered trees; most of them leafless

There is not a lot of green

Brown mostly

Dried grass and dried trees

A lone anthill

A fallen tree right outside the hockey pitches

It’s vast too

It stretches beyond view

It must be hot out there

I would not know

I look from the 2^nd floor of my library cubicle

Air conditioned, well lighted

Tiled floors, glass doors

A work of art really

Fine smoothened study table and chair

Mahogany I think

I open the glass window

It’s slightly covered with dust

Someone should attend to that

It must be hot out there

Because in the distance I see a gleam

It has stopped…the gleam

Oh there it goes again

There is a figure too

Oh yes, it is a man…or a woman

Too far to tell

With a slasher

Slashing the dead dried brown grass

Swing swing swing

His or her swing is constant

Musical in a way, poetic

He stops every now and then; or she does

Places his or her hands on their waist

I can only guess that he walks around

Sweaty face, dried lips, for shade; or she does

There is none, not anywhere close

For the trees are scattered, and dry, and leafless

Without shade

‘He’ bends holding, holding his knees with both arms

One hand on each knee

Without putting down his slasher

Abit later ‘he’ raises walks one, two, three steps

Gets back to his slashing

I get back to my tiled floor, and glass doors

Air conditioned and well lighted

Smooth table and two chairs

I have two chairs I notice

It must be hot out there

Dirty Blue Socks

It was raining when I left for work

It was raining and it was still dark

As I left my flat,

A girl was dropped in a fancy car

And another girl

Neighbors, students about my age

Probably from many of the nights out in town

And I walked away in the rain, slightly ran

With my head bent, not to wet my face

Thinking of the irony

Public transport is good

Sometimes unreliable and chaotic

But good

So that I caught a ‘matatu”

Not long after

Sat at the window like I always do

In no time, from the hills of mathare

Men walking upwards to the town

They are in files, disorganized files

Their hands swing in synchronized motion

They have their trousers tucked in to their blue socks

There is no telling how far, most of them have walked

But you can tell where they are going

To some low paying jobs

To cater for their unworking poorly educated wives

To provide for their malnutritioned babies

It’s dark

It’s windy

And it’s raining

The men hold umbrellas in their hands

But they do not open them,

The rain splatters on them

Drips down their arms

Down their umbrellas

And the wind blows the drops

From the hanging tip of the umbrellas

So that the men keep walking despite the rain

And the darkness covers their sweat

And their blue socks are dirty

Public transport is good

So that I get to town long before,

Long before the trekking men

It’s too early I’d complain

And it is, it’s still dark even

But not for the two old ladies

The two old ladies in reflective clothing

The two ladies sweeping the street

The two old ladies with beat up faces

More beat up than the wheelbarrows

That they collect their trash in

Our trash in

I don’t know who to ask

But am sure if I did ask

And I got the answer

It would go something like this

The girls have to ride the fancy cars

Someone has to ride them

And some don’t

So they walk in the rain

With unopened umbrellas

And dirty blue socks

And there has to be malnutritioned babies

And someone has to sweep the street

It just has to be that way.

God says yes to me

It seems of late anything i try to write be it an article, short story or script ends up being a poem. as such, I'll just flow with it. i have a lot of unfinished pieces and it gets boring to try and finish them. so in such times i read my other finished pieces and those by others that made an impact on me.

This following piece is one of my all times favorite poem. its tittle is "God says yes to me" and its by Kaylin Haught


And no i am still not religious. its simply the simplicity of the poem. if you will notice it is about the freedom of contemporary poetry writing...what do you notice about her God?

I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic

And she said yes

I asked her if it was okay to be short

And she said it sure is

I asked her if I could wear nail polish

And she said honey,

She calls me that sometimes

She said you can do just exactly

What you want to

Thanks God I said

And is it even okay if I don’t paragraph

My letters

Sweet cakes, God said

Who knows where she picked that up

What am telling you is

Yes Yes  Yes