Bunguswa Writes.

Like birds of the air that flys high, like twigs that dance to the rhythm of the whirlwind, life is a mystery of it's kind an echo; oft° uncontrolled, to which we can only sigh.  We cry and wipe the tears, like drizzles from a light cloud- that wets the dust only to be dried out aloud, alike, the whistling wind will pass with our fears. So, cherish solitude under the fecund moon, listen to the echo of the glowing stars they unite us in love and erase our scars, to redeem our souls and relight our spirits soon. Again; when the dark cloud gathers, stand in the rain, it cleans the salty tears and drains away our pain. ©Bunguswa Brian ™

Like tides of a stormy sea that rises and falls in the night  to welcome a new dawn with a beautiful sight of a calm shore, and, fine sand that we oft° crave to see we'll rise and dust our knees again like roses, that oft° cry and cover their scars we'll wipe the tears that blurs for our strength from the morning sun we'll regain. Roses have grieved and with them we cry when we let them wither on our loved ones red mound roses too love, and with them we've created a bond to share love and for disappointments decry. With tides and roses our dreams to the sea we'll take never again to inter our hopes before we wake. ©Bunguswa Brian ™

She'd marry a poet,she said; to pen her a lovely piece when sad. She'd marry a poet, whose words would caress her like a dolly pet this poet she wanted, would be of color and size never imagined. His fidelity would lie on paper even when her smile was improper, he'd tirelessly pen with the blue ink- his nails knowing not the red nor pink, that oft° left her aching, for yesterday's master was prone to red painting. But she married an eagle poet, with claws, talons and verbosity of a parrot. He flew high above the sky to heights none like him could fly and he penned in red with the vigour of a thorough bred   Today she still yearns for a poet with the silence of the stars of the night who'd pen lovely poems over the flowing river in tranquility to rid off her fever. Hope one day she'll marry her desire to crown her crave that's on fire.  ©Bunguswa Brian ™

You will miss me, that day I'll leave; to the world yonder- to where only stories are told: of wild honey  and milk that rains. You will miss my unrhymed dances; like leaves against the whirl wind that sways to the blow- against their will to break a trunk that  crys fatigued. Like birds of the air, memories will fly away paving for life a new way- but to my rhythm casting a cloud, laced with tantrums of forgetfulness. On that day, unwatered roses will wither- yielding to the anger of the scorching sun. ©Bunguswa Brian™

When the sea in my eyes drowns the dreams; interring happiness in the realms of ice that freezes, I look up to the sky, sinking, I look up to God- He speaks- Within me , His conviction surges, I ink the tears. And to the rhythmic beat of the whirl winds; and to the silent whispers of solitude, I've mastered to dance embers of the morning sun under my skin without.  I know the sweet chilling sensation, resident in basking under the mild glow of a fecund moon, hopeful to dry my cheeks from my eyes' flow. ©Bunguswa Brian.

                 Chapter 1. "Son, find out the  number of innocent girls after Korir." My supervisor, a man of mean elegance had said in a calm but rather firm voice. He was troubled. It was during our tea break, after a long session of film making directed by Dr. Ndemo, one of the country's finest film makers.  "You did well with the Kiprop case, definitely you can do way much better with this one." Whatever assured his confidence in me remained best known only to him. My mind travelled back to his point of reference. I was more than consigned to oblivion.  "We don't want more deaths, identify them so we can stop this on time. " But who was Korir anyway? Why was my supervisor so sure that the girls after Korir were going to be killed? "My son, these people are not only rich but powerful too. They will do anything to safeguard their reputation." He paused long enough. "This is your call. I want you to run an e...

River reeds are dying Chirping of the morning birds is fading, that melody that lulls children back to sleep; distant and stubborn like a sheep, now slowly ailing to death. What can ail a river to death? What can ail a river to death? It's been full of life and health Alone and palely flowing, but birds too are dying in thrall° are the waters gently flowing to the grot° of death. Gently flowing to the grot° of death, in a wailful chant the river mourns of the diminishing zeal that echoed life Of the murmurs that awoke frogs And the satisfied splash that nourished lilies. But what ails the river to death? But what ails the river to death, if in the abundance of drowning bodies it's fed If heavenly tears replenishes it's flow, when the dark cloud frowns and cries? A river that forgets its past might die, shrinking to the stone-core water without. Shrinking to the stone-core water without, and ghosts of drowned bodies are emboldened Rising each day in their united ...

How do I talk my son into believing, that today's sun set in the morning? For decades he's listened to my daughters- of tales of the sun that rests in the west Today I tell him the sun bathed in the mud, when he demands why of a gloomy morning. He says papa today the sun is mourning, When he sees the dark cloud cry. Today's sun has set in the East- With the gloom morning rains our eyes So with my son we cry Hopeful, in  the west it will rise again. ©Bunguswa Brian™

I've run some miles I've walked the paths that were never mine I've been made to sleep and sink in mud I've married the pain I never loved. I've cried to the gods, I've milked and licked my sweat And I've tasted my salty flesh But fate has been sealed tight to hear my voice. Those days were golden yet deprived were glorious memories Of the golden heart Precious to sink in mud and in my air lacked the boldness to face the fear. Because I couldn't face this fear I rushed my meals on earth, and Quickly retreated to my formal world Still, I failed to tell the fear the fairy tale. ©Bunguswa.

There was a damn successful poet; There was a woman like the sun. And they were dead. They did not know it. They did not know their time was done. They did not know his hymns  were silence; and her limbs, that had served love so well, Dust, and a filthy smell. And so one day, as ever as the old, hands out, they hurried, knee to knee; on fire to cling and kiss and hold and in others eyes, to see each his own tiny face and in that long embrace Feel lip and breast grow warm to breast and lip and arm. So knee to knee they sped again, and laugh to laugh they ran, I'm told Across the streets of hell And then; they suddenly felt the wind blow cold, And knew, so closely pressed, chill air on lip and breast and, with a sick surprise, the emptiness of eyes. © Bunguswa.

Even though you are hurt, Son, take heart. Do not wail all will be well. Face today with a jolly face;  Before destiny present your case. It's said to be predetermined- it sucks; and our efforts are undermined; when we can't move for fate's sake, or for fear, and our dreams to gutters we take. Listen and rise up for tomorrow, dust your knees, stand tall and you'll glow. Even though you are broken, again, rise up, face the sky - float like a plane; to your destiny the winds will blow, fate and tomorrow will shine and glow. Shed tears to the core of your heart they build strength to battle the hurt. © Bunguswa.

We'd once burnt our butts, in a quest to relieve a life sanctified but on blisters we sat uncomfortably long, nursing injuries of a turn so wrong- those were wages of dignity deferred, torn and drizzling in inconsistent spurts. And we thought we had nothing to fear, our hearts and mind were numb from the pain, but we're now afraid of the fear that shreds us to pieces: this fear that never ceases, we're afraid our efforts might never gain, life's golden prize that we held dear. We've been dragged in anguish with no place to hide, like an ambushed and homeless mice; we know the futility resident in our running- for with renewed vigour we ended up crying, beckoning tears that fall behind the bravery of our eyes, reminiscent of the struggle that is oft° subjugated. ©Bunguswa.

Whoso desires listen to the song; this that shrinks our muscles tiny, this that salts our every ceremony, this that faints where we belong? For so long our yearning's been wrong- when our usual dance's been declared a felony, and we reminisce when we were brainy; and the power of choice was a weapon so strong. deafening was the echo of our wisdom: our strength in overcoming attrition, rising over turbulent waves of tribulation, but today we brood, resigned like an old broom. In our prayer, strength from above we seek, a cake walk be our journey to the peak. ©Bunguswa .

Let me off the hook; this that holds me imbalanced, against the turbulence of life's tribulations. Let me go,  when my voice can still sing you. Unchain my feeble arms; give me a chance to breath afresh- one last gulp of the acrid air, before my lungs you deflate, by your mass- over my resigning frame. Let me go; though for my voice you are famed, through my palms you've thrived- to heights that crush my bare head.  Unchain me, when I still can stare, when my lungs can still bare, the scarcity of fresh air. ©Bunguswa.