his words pattered my mind
as ease made its way.
Tension succeeding remorse, back again in circles
now slows as acceptance takes its place.
Only a small move by his words,
but acceptance is none-the-less sweet.
Sweeter than the bitter of self-remorse.
Sweet as self-pity, sweet as pity for all.
Slowly the plans roll over in revelation,
made way by the passing of the desire
to be something different.
Holloway is here and gone,
may be here again,
maybe not. But I’m thankful for this gift,
slow acceptance for what is.
Brian Kivuti

Tell me my friend,
why would you crucify another
for a fault you call your own.
Raise your banners now and know they are false
But above, your true banners fly;
that real thing that is you,
Imperfect and beautiful in many ways;
Ugly and contemptuous now
if persecution takes hold.

Cast it out
Fuck it all

You’ll feel a lot better
to know you are flawed and wonderful
struggling for light & air
just like the one next to you.

Brian Kivuti

-Standing on the Sea-

I see you waters surging round
As the fog flows
From view to view.
I stand on pebbles and on beach
In ocean, peering into deep sea.
Through darkness that wisp’s in heavy swirls,
Growing closer and further
Like curtains in the wind:
What I desire to see eludes me.
Figures and growth in the water -
Come; I see them.
An observer stood so intently watching,
Dreamily peering as though awaking from sleep,
Closely watching through blurry eyes
In a hope to see
Something clear
That we can continue to walk;
On water and on beach,
Not drown and not swim
Not struggle, but stride
By what is said to be the inevitable fog
That covers much of how we exist.

The water calms me,
Telling you that I stand on sea,
Watching its waves and currents slide;
Metaphors of our thoughts that shape, grow, but never die:
We change form,
All the while seeking to know what lies beneath –
Our constant,
Our pearl. Our life that fleets
vibrant within,
Schools swim like water-bees
Building a hive like coral within.
We know there’s much,
So peer on we do…
I do…
But hope to see for more than a glimmer,
The brilliance within this seemingly splendid sea.

Brian Kivuti

-Sirens at my Window-

Nearly here,
Its just there!
- That realisation, the burst of energy,
That accumulating desire,
That just slips under my chin,
Flows through my limbs
As my heart pounds in its coming,
In its being;
By its being here.

Smoke rose from my lips
as cigarette in hand lay’s still,
With eyes widening still –
A recollection drew close.
I take a breath.
Here it is… why can’t I see you close?

With breathing slow,
The words touch lips, mildly dry:
“How can I make you believe in me, when I don’t believe in my dream?”
It is this dream and conviction that seems close,
A purpose – and though in these 2 lines I’ve tried to say what it is
that kisses my bowels sweetly
… I rarely come close,
unless through action or abstraction.

Make a poem of it,
something sweet that turns a feeling
into something to experience.
Maybe through re-experiencing this original thought
through a retelling just told – I will come close;
Closer, by the majesty of telling and reconstructing a complex thought.

Breathing slows like the meandering man outside my window,
Phone in hand reaching another far, far away;
Foot kicks a stone as he changes direction
As I hope to catch a better glimpse of what this poem intends to say.

He has reached his person,
I seem not to have mine,
Except what it seems to be an ecstatic wave to a distant figure on a
Distant hill, or across the river,
Shouting “Who are you?”
“Who are you?”
I speak to myself, and of you;
Gently seeking our fate,
And know who that one is that stares us in the face,
That we will soon meet,
That we have travelled with,
And is – who we are.

Cigarette done.
My lungs are tired,
But a step closer to this man on the hill feels like satisfaction –
A meal that fills
And says; ‘speak, eat, drink, talk and act’
Our actions and telling,
Our active experience brings you to me
Like sirens in the wind.

These words seem inconsequential,
Except as a working of thought…
Listening to the sirens of the man we are to be.

Brian Kivuti

-Seeking my Blue Fairy-

You spoke to me,
Advice with words of truth as you always would
Spoken now in my memory – not as you spoke
But as I remember,
Cut, pasted and selected.

A soft breeze blows at my feet,
A metaphor for my root
As sat across the table – friend typed;
I thought to share this thought,
But refrain, refrained…
Doubt holds deep as doubt does,
Never to leave
But grow firm
The truth we blag within,
And the knowledge that there may be something sure,
Sure as we have made it this far;
Sure as you assume that I am genuine,
And I, you.

Build it he said,
In words of another text;
Find your blue fairy and make her true.
Find your blue fairy and treat her as you;
Far flung and yet so near,
With compassion that stands no more fear…
With fear of loosing,
Without fear of choosing; what is, and what is not,
Of worth to know, and of worth of please.
“I am here!” She speaks,
in words so soft, we can hardly hear,
except as a murmur; as a heart beat to the ears
of an infantile child;
to a child unborn.

Thump, rise, thump,
Rolls the signal of more,
Rolls her voice that is yours.

-We are – genuine, that is,
as genuine as flood of liquid thought that surges our roots
like dust in a storm.
Blowing up and hazing the view
Of our firm foundations,
Making it clean in
Its cloak as a screen
Not unlike planetary fields
That swirl in quiet surges,
Around a dark majesty we seek to know.

Friend walks out and I complete my words,
Thought still to build and know
That she should come as she
Was here,
Is here. Blue fairy. Dream true.
Our reason and hope,
That bears only question,
But no direction from another,
Away from her call.

Brian Kivuti

Slumber comes slow, but on my friend, sweet soon. He, Chondo, lay quick to silent sleep, to the tale told by friend and flat-mate to serenade slumbers patient call. He lay, for the first few words aware, drew close to recollection some phrase; but into dreamscape fold, night cloaked, breathing slows as my words delved into abstract form as recollected thoughts formed over around a friendly face. Successful by the standard of sleep swift call, sweet on the mind of a friend who’s closing memory drew peace to mind. So to you, as did I feel the same call in experiment, hope with ease, sleeps slow sigh calls so gentle your name. Slumber soon with peace to bloom on your brow; across all else. Into landscaped dream, action! Prompted by words of a wonderer still and silent, with giant and hill. Chasm and lake. Light and thought. It appears there may be much to the tales now than meets my attention, to be discovered by step and search. All I can do is keep an eye, an ear out and follow the words that spell a world built beyond my view. Shared alike, sleep silent now, rest highly soon.



A wee bedtime tale, told unscripted.

In the imagination of a Brian Kivuti, the scene simmered with coming sleep… now hopefully in yours too. Rest well :).

- Tree -

All day I waited to be blown;
then someone cut me down.

I have, instead of thoughts,
uses; uses instead of feelings.

One day I’ll feel the wind again.
A moment later I’ll be gone.

Dan Chiasson

What kind of devil trickery is this!?
As fabulous as exhibitions go,

Light draws no attention

but that it calls

in slits and drama.

Dramatic as swathes

poured into the darkeness of bleakness

as hero’s; galant with strides so brisk,

honour as might

or maybe not -


a cutting through the empty normality

of the usual

to illuminate and create something

out of nothing

an idea of the clean and the transcendant.

String touches light,

like rainbow touches sky.

Its roots nowhere to be seen,

a grand illusion built high its truth

that no miracle is to be seen

but an answer unseen.

There is no promise

to the end of floods,

just strings of a man,

pulling earth and all to colour

that says there is much in little to behold.

                  - Kivuti


Mark Garry

Source: urhajos

Silent walk,

silent still,

dreams circle on

from mind,

to world,

round again,

like childhood blooms

in the mind

of a story told over and over again.

Here the nomads stand,

limbs swaying with steps,

intention pulling sinew,

still and move again,

to realise an unseen purpose but that we give it.

The purpose we give,

may never be the truth as is;

Only as truth as we see. 

                       - Kivuti

Source: eqr

Slimy, sticky dew.

His words are his sperm,

his generation caught in a verse

or maybe more.

Down African skin

we’ll never know

the name of the verse,

or its origin.

Caucasian or other descent,

does it matter,

except a drool of verse,

like spoken word slurred.

Here he lies,

with names we shall not know

strewn on his face,

like poetry of a happy time

caught in a moment

when POOF!

out came prophesy;

gobble gook

on an African child’s face.

I wonder still what draws me,

that with letters so gentle

like little stream,

how with sickness and curiosity,

this feeling draws still

a curiosity;

to the ‘speaking of men’


and ‘spoken verse’

between those of African descent.

It is strange to see the images,

that never recall the same thoughts in mind

as the whites or others;

but in truth have never named

or known methods of terms

to explain a better given truth

to the these thoughts and reactions,

to images much closer to my heritage.

I wonder still, how to meddle with something

I do not know? 

Spill his words still,

on chocolate from another place,

coffee bean I, thinking still,

surrendering to the bliss of stimulation.

                                 - Kivuti


‘If there’s a young woman,
Who has broken your heart,
You must take her left side
and her right side and
Rip her in half.

Then you can begin-
Begin again at the start,
At exactly an hour
After you’ve ripped her apart.
You’ll then start to see
That what you did was quite smart,
For you now have twin beauties:
One on each arm.‘ 

-Bessington Smith

Creep along creep along,

panther strides

with deft steps.

No longer pink,

maybe pink in another way.

Step along and creep on me.

Source: obeythesagat

We are more than our flesh
In many ways, of this matter still.
Our history are actions
weighed against higher hope still.
Action still in compassion
some recommend,
lest we be thrown into piles like clothes,
with no more worth than our supposed ends.

Trending still,
this use passes on.
Leaving flesh and bone with new use to linger on.
So label as you please
as you would label a camel by name.
But he is no more camel,
but flesh and life of another
with a human name.

Compassion still remains;
a hope for much still,
more animate than steel
through the storms
that inevitably roar still.
Still, silent, for a moment now,
hearing the call of our name,
like childhood glee learning new names and meanings.

                                   - Kivuti

The soil was cold and wet on my skin.
My chest to my knees; my knees to my chin.
My thirsty roots drank milk dripped down from the plants
I waited and grew with the snakes and the ants.

Suddenly daytime pried open my eyes
The womb where I nestled pushed me toward the sky.
My body displaced mud, bugs, grass, and earth.
My head broke the surface as the ground gave birth.

I laid in the grass and fought to believe
The trees exhaled and ruffled their leaves
Their cool breath rushed into my lungs and I choked
My cough stirred the silence and the moon awoke.

She rose from her blanket of clouds and she yawned
She said to the sun, “I will see you at dawn.”
Her gaze caught my eyes and she froze in surprise.
“The child is born!” She announced to the skies.

I got to my knees, and then to my feet.
The moon’s ancient face; calm, shining and sweet
Caused seismic disaster to show me her smile
And birds made their song heard for miles and miles.

Empty stones with empty words,

beautifully carved as its

stronger words still invoke stronger ideas.

His stone on flesh,

maker made love to

by another many years from himself.

Hair raised, pulled back by the edge of stone,

warm scent mingled and splashed

amidst cool scent marble;

a gentle kiss to another time,

and another one: another that never was,

existing now in his embrace;

in the makers embrace.

Softer kiss on harder stone,

eyes gazing cross-eyed,

never meeting,

like powerful men loved


and loved, without good return.

Sexy still, the skin on stone,

hair smoothed,

and desire lifted.

Narrative untold, but the view of lips, stone and embrace.

Source: DILKE