Drips in the dark

of the ground

rose strings of our ancestors

and hopes.

Firmer still our bonds hold,

invisible still our roots

that guide and soil our foundations,

smooth as marble, rough as earth worn away.

Yet still we roll on,

thoughts of pasts gone by,

with generations like memories forgoten

with childhood

and the lives of others we have never cared to know

even if we could.

When we would, we couldn’t,

drawn still our tapestry of thoughts

reads letter’s we desire to read;

aware of our makings

but unable to pull apart and examine

their bold throngs that make them so;

never able to follow them back,

back into the ground,

beyond the death in memory,

beyond the rebirth of their recalling,

beyond our remaking in the the making of our selves.

Sprawled through still

through earth deep and wet,

we grow like organisms, rolling on

with roots deeper and wider spread than

our compact selves know.

                                     - Kivuti

booksandbeers:

Flipping beautiful

darksilenceinsuburbia:

Tatiana Blass. Penelope.

Installation at the Morumbi Chapel in Brazil.

http://www.tatianablass.com.br/

A new phase begins, where written grows spoken. I hope you enjoy it!

Prompted by the words of a friend - Kimberly Mwamburi - who’s words with glee that weaved topics and inspired, like a birthday flame that reignites with surprise.
Here, my words were shared, recent work, of a blog where stories are told. Here friend listened, with encouragement and hopefully genuine enjoyment - but genuine encouragement non-the-less. There still, recommendation’s arose, including poets words in the Poem-A-Day Celebration where an obvious word was uttered: poetry is grand - but often better spoken than read; if not better, than convenient.
So strung the obvious - the poetic words I wrote and posted, and the stories told, unwritten and spoken. With a complimented voice for which I humbly thank, why not speak the written.
Simply said, written poetry will now (as frequent as the means would allow, and suitability would suggest) include a recorded voice, speaking the words who’s written form are included.
I sincerely hope you enjoy it! Kivuti Xx

A reading of the Poem ‘Leaving Alexandria’ by Brian Kivuti. The poem was a response, written in inspiration of the book ‘Leaving Alexandria’, an autobiography written by my inspirational figure, Richard Hollow.


-Leaving Alexandria-

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

FUCK YEAH!
This shit’s hot,

pinks against diamond gold,

if only on dark skin it would hold,

gleam bright!

Adorn this hand, whisked up to balance chin;

whisked down and glide,

held in air, making motion to a point explained,

as gleam, how cool do I look?
Not with rock, but piece on fist,

jewel on pink skull.

Crown on death’s cool foliage

now warm blossom crowned

with diamond floret’s

as the living death of some beauty;

as the preservation of my cool.


On my hand,

yes, it would look good.

In my mind, yes, it would be better,

to hopefully inform a design

that will swirl another or I with something cool.

-Kivuti

dull the encounter of being,
tire the senses to a standstill,

maybe we can breathe.

dispose of the intellect,
trade imagination for currency,

maybe we can sleep.

oh, it is a terrible sun to evolve with,
shoes staggering achingly into years.

ah, it is some telling of the paper,
maimed honest to have filled its page.

and of what else, but to
find recovery in inspiration,

as to arm precision down to
its every squint,

when poetics are a best-burnt secret
and sex another sell-out drug.

what of the simmering
madness in silence?

what of its persistence
through music?

speak! such daring sun.

a scorch so quiet.

and a dare works: somewhere
between

warmth and cancer;
beauty and dehydration;

light unto blindness;
god into death.

tell me that bit about heaven
one more time.

tell me that bit with
the lies.

I just can’t see with
these cataract eyes.

A Poem-A-Day Celebration: Impair 

Poem submission by Cooper Callinan

Holy Lord!

Part me as such

as Moses so did the read sea.

Sliced further still by solid meat

and preverbial reach

of heavenly ideals

and blessings making their way

like thundering birds

that part the way

of this carpeting cloud.

Further bellow the valley stretches

and plummets into rocky depths

reaching between crags and cracks

the makings of my true being,

sinking deeper still into an unknown world of potential.

Here, in supposed Hades depths dwell’s a spirit,

with wonder as the clouds and heaven’s,

that sweep, divide and move with heavenly grace of another form;

swirling with cracks and churning with a life

extended far beyond the sight of it’s presence.

I part,

and you show me the way.
Forward, forward

through cloudy carpet run

with sure ground below feet. 

                          - Brian Kivuti

Deep in desert sands they reached
High into space where rivers meet.
Twisting slithering through red giants
Standing shoulder to shoulder in grand alliance.
Spires of stone in mushroom form
Pillars where earth exploded and tore
Gorges who split the earth left scars
and monuments like golden Mason jars.
Swaths of crimson paint splatter and dry
Against coppery cliffs in morning light.
Bridges and arches plume from the earth
In hardened explosion gave their birth.
The land stretches, wrinkles, far and wide;
Surveyed by eagles in denim sky.
In the land of needles reaching for clouds,
Monstrous stones take a closing bow.

Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

The proverbial storm rose,

fracturing like splinters of a ship on shore

the ego cracks and foundations shudder as moving earth.

Confidence wanes with the passing sea,

foam clouding up with the storms wind

raising froth into fog that obscures the present,

past,

clear logic and hope for a better time.



He spoke, my father once; that when the doors are barred

and there seems no way out,

find a window and you’ll find your way.
I looked for my window, and here it was:
in a story by another,

Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close.

Story upon story,

this awkward figure found a foot,

listening to story that aired out sea

like bubbles rising from a hidden vent.

His search becoming my own, this sea fog eases

and soon, by tales end

earth and sea feel more sure against foot.

It’s ok to be who you are.
It’s ok to be overwhelmed.

With each step over winding sea,

we walk on water,

not float, but stride,

with confidence rising

with passing fears.

The storm is our thought,

our being,

the sea is our self

beyond passing father and passing fear;

rising and falling, now falling to calm surge.

He, like we learn to walk on water.

He, like we, always knew:

like a child learns to walk.
Like your voice, heard loud and changing,

but always different to the other. Always the same to you.. in all it’s forms.


Black to Black his search moved on,

Door to door and over deeper sea we stride,

not a window now to find, but a door, hidden.

Hidden in another, hidden in the search.

Hidden, now found

and opened in the passing search.

'Seek and you will find', it once said.
Finding now seem’s the process, not the object;

the fruit of the found unknown beckoned to,

now heard in the murmur of your searching mind.

Now silent in retrospect, the story unfolds;

another listen’s and looks,

and here you are; a tale to keep, a story past,

more steps to take for some story more.

There is something sure that is felt,

but in words hard to tell,

but in many ways and many forms it will come through;

a certainty that this walk produced.

Certainty, that in his search produced,

further still I found. 

                                                  - Brian Nunu

-Drought-

Having done their green work
the grasses say to the sky,
We thirst

The sky is blue and silent,
clouds tease. They slide
silently under a brilliant sun
hoarding their wealth

they are the Himalayas of heaven
cold and distant,
imperious,
proud of their majesty,
their volume,
joining and unjoining their vapors
among their kind alone
holding it to themselves

they are vacant
as an empty page
void
while the grasses
need psalms of moisture

they billow above dry prairies
counting their vaulted droplets
saving whole seas for their own
rainy day

Jim Culleny (7/29/12)

-“Ready sir?”

—“Ready for what?”
-“For what I’m going to tell you.”

Silence followed by more silence.

There was nothing to say but everything to watch.



At the end of his seemingly

endless sentence,

he stepped forward

with a pose.

-“You sir, have been schooled.”
-“Pass on what I have taught you. I know you will.”

We looked quizzical

until we found ourselves speaking

in more words than we knew.

                                                  - Brian Kivuti

Source: walla-ces

-We Join Spokes Together-

We join spokes together in a wheel,
but it’s the vacant hub
that makes it possible
for the cart to move.

We shape a pot to make a void
to hold whatever we want.

We stand up walls to make a house,
but the hollow within
is where living takes place.

Non-being is at the heart of being.

Lao Tzu

Silent slippery fall.

Leaps forth, and bounds

down dashing drivelling ball.

Slowly rounds and STOP

here it come,

tumbling fall

from rounds world like words

stop here before the circle turns.

Beautifully silent

is the wind on his face.

Wonderfully true,

his fate yet to meet.

Yet in his crying downfall,

no pain,

no sorry,

whisks past leaves like silent air,

and petals, white

like… DECLARATIONS!
Soft blue against white,

Body tumbling

by missing clouds on blackened trees,

against empty skies of gentle blue

shadows shake and stream on back and limb,

milky skin and thigh with hair.

Dark brow and darker crown,

Here he comes, round the world

through the bare,

until at last we stop and see

the picture will not move. 

By Brian Kivuti (Sept 2012)

Dimming focus

Substantiates,

Rises up and congeals into a fuzzy haze;

Moving from silver, into black,

Then here, my cotton swamp

Clings and stretches,

Limbs arching like bows

Releasing arrows.

First one pull, then sweep,

Then SWOOSH;

First arrow flies beyond this musky place.

Its sound is lost in the world outside,

And yet I can see it?
THUD, it makes its mark.

Again and again, against the grain of pulling web,

Limb-bows, brown like aged wood,

Smooth from the touch of loving use,

We let arrows fly,

High and low.

Astray, and then here, hitting the mark.

We, never knowing whether we are unskilled or skilled

In this foggy mess;

Only by this effort, our history,

Our gut that wields limbs

With lithe force

Urgently pushing back awkward gestures –

That we are built, bred and whole.
Skilled and with knowledge.

Drowning in confusion,

But never lost to our nature

That thrust long wood higher and higher.

Further, and wide – sometimes miss. Many times certain.


Cotton melts like mercury’s flow,

Air breaks through with a refreshing whisp,

Whisp’s bursting fresh with lights piercing ‘hello’.

There, our freedom hits like a heady cologne,

Fresh, nostalgic, but new again. Filling our hair and chests,

As limbs stride

And bow, then straighten and flex

With the freedom to be our powerful selves.

People without doubt.
People of faith.

Bows arched and ready, still…

With the energy to launch sure

Our making out into this world…

by Brian Kivuti

We had waited through so many lifetimes
for the stone to speak, wondered if

it would make compelling pronouncements,
anything worth writing down. 

Then after the war of wars 
had ground to a shattering halt, the stone

emitted a small grinding sound rather like
the clearing of a throat.

Let us be indifferent to indifference, 
the stone said.

And then the world spoke.
.
by Moniza Alvi

I am love.

Peace is my step

and joy is found within my voice.

Truth is my language, my search, my hope.

I am love,

with peace in every breath

like the still sea that surrounds me;

full of life, this is the world within me.

Love, forever I am,

Forever was,

Forever will,

on this journey knowing truth

with much more yet to come

that always was.

                                                      - Brian Kivuti

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