Sea-Crab Poetry

Dies Natalis Solis Invicti

2024-12-25T02:56:00.000-08:00

Image Credits: Musée des Beaux-Arts de Lyon

On December 25

Born was Mithra

The Sun God

In Persia.

They slayed animals

And relished from flesh.

The blood cascaded down

The thirsty throat of Mithra.

In 274 AD

Came Mithra to Rome

By Emperor Aurelius

Who rebranded him

Soli Invictus

And then the Romans too

Acquired a Sun God

In their list of divines–

This time round

An invincible one,

Who knew no defeat.

Soli Invictus

Revered to

By merchants

Who knew

That the Invincible Sun God

Would never forsake them.

And the soldiers too

Knew no defeat

In the battlefields.

None knew of surrender

In his able hand.

His persuasive mother

With a pre-perceived taste

Of a new creed

Seemingly sweet

And organized

Like verses in a poem

Persuaded him

To bid farewell

To Soli Invictus

And other Roman gods.

This man was Emperor Constantine.

Will Constantine the Great

Cast away his gods?

Will he cast away

The Invincible Sun God

Whom merchants,

Soldiers and himself

Believed in

With every fiber of their being?

He will

But not entirely.

324 AD.

No more slaughtering,

No more meat consumption

And no more blood offerings.

Declares Constantine.

Jesus of Nazareth

Is now, in Rome,

The true Sun God

And the day of worship,

Dies Soli, Sunday.

I should purchase fashion

Some days

Before Dies Natalis Solis Invicti

Lest it gets stuck to the shop.

I should travel home

Some days

Before bus fare hikes.

When they commemorate

The birth of Mithra

She will be injected

With brand new life

Which will pop out

Two-seventy days later–

The birth of Mithra

Will sow in her

Her own Messiah–

Her parents are less strict

On Dies Natalis Solis Invicti.

The last twelve months

Were a walk on a thorny path.

How can he

On Dies Natalis Solis Invicti

Not live last

And leave a booze legacy?

How can he,

On this day,

Not have his wheels

Bend time-space?

There’s no way,

On Dies Natalis Solis Invicti,

That their progeny

Will, come January,

Come back from school

A few minutes after leaving home.

How will they,

On Dies Natalis Solis Invicti,

Not feature in boutiques

To renew their looks

And keep aside coins

For their progeny?

Soli Invictus,

They believe,

Will do a miracle.

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War Of The Souls

2024-12-22T05:48:00.000-08:00

They say

That whoever will marry her

Will have daily cries

And woes.

She was his own making

In her way of talking.

She has a mind

That he built

With his own bricks of pain.

She can hurt in ways,

Only him can weigh.

Well, she has to tie the knot

Not with her soulmate

But with a man

Who should just quench

His thirst

And not her own.

She’ll drink

From so many pots

But there’s a pot

From so far away

Beyond the eastern horizon

From which she drinks

When everyone

Isn’t in the vicinity.

This pot is far

And usually inaccessible-

Sometimes it is.

To him

She’s also an inaccessible pot

But he drinks

Much from her pot

To cater for the oncoming dark days.

He has a progeny

And a helper

But when they’re out of the vicinity

He checks her ancient emails

Photos and writings

That they shared

During their teenage years.

Her parents

Want a grandchild.

She’s worried

That her pals

Have replicated their genes.

She will find someone

To handle that.

Her husband

Will be the father

Of her progeny

And her soulmate

The physician of her heart.

It’s not only him and her

Surviving

This complicated chemistry

But milliards

Surviving

In the hands of husbands

And wives

Who reach out

To their soulmates

When their souls demand.

These are innocent people

Who've kept letting go

But realize

That they’re letting go

Of their own souls–

He lets her go

But finds himself

Right at her quarters.

There must be some science

We don’t know of

That keeps people entangled

For their entire lives.

They fight to let go

Of their cherished souls

That became their own.

They spend

The remaining pie

Of their lives

Seeing them

In their dreams

And thoughts.

They use all strategies

To bury their memories

In oblivion-

They change phone numbers

Yet still text them

With their new line.

They visit cinema halls

To erase their memories

But when they see lovers kissing

In the movies

They imagine them

In their hands.

Many have learnt,

To live life

As an equation–

Societal expectations

On one side

And soul demands

On the other.

This is the war of the souls–

A lifelong war

That they win

Six feet under.

This is a war they fight

All their lives.

Their hearts and souls

Get bruised

In this lifelong war.

Soon they grow old

And then the Grim Reaper

Finally comes

And then

The war of the souls

Comes to an end.

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Bit By Bit

2024-12-17T07:04:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I find myself in a spiral of regret. After grossly violating the rules I have set aside for the smooth and meaningful running of my life. But rather than being overly obsessed with the successes, I’m learning to embrace the failures too. I’m getting to learn that they both go hand in hand. One time I’ll be a pro in this.

Once in a while, I underrate my progress. I find myself comparing myself to my peers. I visualize some who have purchased machines and built mansions. But upon getting back to my senses, I keep learning that toxic environments have been fueling this counterfeit feeling of inadequacy. Gradually, I’m getting to learn that there are gigantic leaps I have made that no ordinary human can. I’m slowly by slowly learning to forgive myself for the unreasonable expectations of others that I’ve clothed myself in.

Sometimes my days look gloomy and dark. They look unpromising. They’re laden with awful memories of my fiery past. During these days, I’m a master in procrastination. While I have plenty of unfinished facets to be painted, plenty of unwritten poetry in my ailing mind, the pen feels as heavy as a log. However, I’m bit by bit, getting to know how to watch out for glimmers in my way and the stars in my dark nights.

From time to time, I often feel a victim of village criticism and gossip- Negative descriptions of what I do and what I don’t do. But gradually, I’m learning that I’m not an ordinary mortal, and that the castles I build can’t be fathomed by ordinary eyes and lazy brains.

Many a times I’m held captive by the feeling that, in multiple ways, I have gone offbeat– becoming a night owl as well as getting hooked to intoxicants and social media. While I have always found myself attempting to reverse these habits, I’m gradually coming to terms with my personal evolution. Slowly by slowly, I’m learning to turn my face to the poetry and the deep meaningful reflections I’ve had while at the center of the sea of the night and in elevated mental states. Gradually, I’m getting to know that nothing needs to be corrected and that life is a journey toward our perfect configuration. I’m learning, slowly by slowly, that the urge for transformation is a mere aftermath of interacting with ignorant and uninformed conventions for decades.

Sometimes I wrestle with the feeling that I have been an absent father while roaming in the streets. But upon reflecting upon the mystic nature of genetics, I’m getting to know that the inbuilt compass in my son will lead him to where I desire. Bit by bit, I’m getting an affirmation, that being a product of my biological code, he undoubtedly bears an inferno of curiosity, like I do, and that one time, he will be a polymath.

Similar Poems

Whispers To My Sinking Soul

He Was A Failed Project

Beautiful Remnants

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He Was A Failed Project

2024-12-15T06:02:00.000-08:00

Do not be like your eldest brother

She advises them.

I spent my resources on him

Took him to Machakos School

And then to university

But he disappointed me

And became a rebel.

Your eldest brother

She maintains

Was a sharp sword

And somewhere

Along his way

Became a bhang smoker

And decided

To quit university.

Your eldest brother

She adds fuel

To her fireplace

Would be owning

Lots of properties–

Matatus on the road

Buildings in Town

And plenty of money.

Your eldest brother

She keeps saying

Was a brilliant and promising boy

Before his uncle bewitched him

And that’s why I tell you

To shun your grandpa’s tenets.

See your alpha brother

She keeps underscoring

Has grown hair

That resembles Miombo Woodlands,

Has been hooked

By those magical leaves,

And his helper

Keeps ringing me

About him

Becoming a street scavenger–

A prodigal son.

There are huge amounts of sadaka

That has been offered

To save the alpha son

From the chains of the devil.

Your eldest brother

She adds

Got lost for good

Upon joining

This misleading religious movement

That encourages intoxication

And rebellion.

Please don’t let your little boy

To join his Satanic ways

She advises his helper

Make sure

That he grows

In the ways of the Lord.

Do you see his prayer items?

Please do away with them

The same with the kofia he uses

To cover his mkora hair

She advises his helper

Who listens

With every cell of her ears.

Well, some of us

Seem to have been born

In an alien world–

Our nature and aspirations

Conflict

With those of the masses.

We feel lost

And sometimes we sink.

We try to forge our way through

Against the odds

Sometimes we feel

Like going with the flow.

Something inside us

Keeps us going

Although we’re hugely battered

And our hearts

Are largely wounded.

Will we heal

In this lifetime?

Will we ever

Cease to be crucified

Because of who we are?

One day

We certainly will.

Similar Poetry

Saved Sorcerer

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Where Heroes Are Reborn

2024-12-13T03:36:00.000-08:00

Man! This is so soon

Talking to you

On the yester

Discussing some website

A handful of days.

I hope to meet you

Where great souls are reborn.

A leader we've lost

A business man

Whose soul has eloped

In between our fingers

But I hope to meet you soon

Where great life is reborn.

We must go

Since we're prevailing.

Sometimes we forget

Till a great soul

Shines on its way.

I hope to meet you

Dear Nzioka,

Where wonderful souls regather.

But man! Why did you go?

Some day I shared with you

My floating and sinking.

You told me it's going to be fine

I will miss your assurance

Dear Nzioka,

Till we regather

Where phenomenal souls are reborn.

You have left me

With a lesson of boldness

And being a go-getter.

A leader and a true brother

I hope to meet you my man

Where vibrant souls reconnect.

(This poem was born on June 12, 2024 and has been in my poetry archive. I wrote it upon getting information that this friend of mine had passed on. I was touched so much by his passing and considered dedicating this poem to him.)

A Recommended Read– Metamorphosis

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Saved Sorcerer

2024-12-12T05:14:00.000-08:00

In desperation, she kneels

In front of her man of God

As if about to clean

His feet with olive oil

And wipe them dry

With her beautiful hair.

My husband

Is hooked

To intoxicants

And never leaves the streets.

She says to her saved sorcerer.

Your husband was bewitched

By his uncle.

The man of God assures her.

My Mzee

Comes home so late in the night–

What will I do?

She asks her saved witch.

Bring to me

His unwashed pair of socks

So that I pray to him

And stick his feet

To your compound.

Says her man of God.

My man leaves me lonely

Like deserted ruins.

She says to her holy sorcerer.

I suspect that he has an affair.

Your man

Houses the spirit of adultery

Replies her holy sorcerer.

Avail to me

His unwashed inner wears.

Suggests her holy sorcerer.

I will pray for him

So that he refocuses on you.

Her tenets are a war zone–

Where is my boxer?

Her man asks in fury.

I don’t know.

She replies

As if her husband will believe

That ghosts in the house

Confiscated it

Or as if their six-year-old

Auctioned it.

How about my pair of socks?

I don’t know.

She persists with her chorus

As if her man is drunk

To a point where he doesn’t know

All his items.

Isn’t her saved sorcerer effective?

Maybe they’ve been giving medicine

To a dead man.

Maybe she can attempt

Another more saved witch

Or take something else

To her man of God–

Strands of hair

Entangled in his comb.

A Suggested Read– Letters to My Lovers by Sonja Semyonova

Written by Sonja Semyonova, Letters to My Lovers is a must-read for anyone who'd like to fall in love again in the most ideal way.

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Towards The East

2024-12-09T07:12:00.000-08:00

Setting out

Toward the East

Where relics

Of our gone legends

Rest immovably.

Toward the East

Where my umbilical cord

Was consumed

By bacteria and fungi.

Toward Ngoleni

The place I was born

Where love flows naturally.

Toward the East

Where there exists a throbbing river

In which we swum

With a wide range of choices

On which pool to swim.

Toward the East

At the foot of Nthaleni

The pie of Iveti

That we found ourselves with.

I see home

The land from which my seed sprouted.

Toward the East

The land of sugarcane

Guavas and avocado.

The land of famous legends;

Eliud Mukeka

And many more

That this poem can't list.

Toward the East

Where there exist lifelong friends.

Katenthoni

A place to the East

Of the raging sea I inhabit.

Toward the East

Where we enjoyed

Playing football

Using a ball

Made of polythene bags.

There was once a young legend

Satû was his name

He was a Messi of the time.

Toward the East

There's a nest

Not yet infested

With serpents and black ants.

From where the sun rises

Is a place I see in nostalgia

And that place is Ngoleni.

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Language Of Lotuses

2024-12-07T22:42:00.000-08:00

I went out on a walk

To sit next to lotuses

And see all they have to tell me

About this hurricane

In my violent sea that I inhabit.

I went out on a promenade

In a place where I can talk to you with ease,

Oh dear father.

I went out to be with lotuses

To hear what you will utter to me

In their language.

Birds chirping

Their songs

Weaving a magical tapestry

With yellow-barked acacia.

This kind of music is a comet

And this time

It is devouring any other music

From the distant noisy tarmac road,

From the web,

From aircraft

And from the raging sea I inhabit.

I sat next to this magic

That binds me to you

My father

So that you lend me

A fully open ear

And whisper something back to me

In the sign language

Through which lotuses talk to us.

The still carpet of water

Was imbued

With round lotus leaves

Some superposed on each other

A display akin to that of a stadium

With well-watered lush green grass

And the surrounding

Uneven ring of earth

Akin to that of a ruined ancient stadium.

Indigo-violet flowers

Mushrooming all over

Like upset soccer fans

Who’ve taken over the playground

Brimming with amazing energy

Rising above everything

Like a giraffe

Towering above acacia trees

In a tropical savanna

Unapologetic

With unrelenting vigor

Mindless of the filth underneath.

I sat close to these lotuses

And then my soul

Mused something to me:

Get off your shoes!

The cold breeze

At the end of summer solstice

Entering me

Through my sensitive feet

And cooling my nerves

Like a massage guru.

While I sat close to these lotuses

A mighty gush of wind

Swept at their forest edge.

I saw a lotus flower

That bowed respectfully

To allow the wind to pass.

And when the gale had passed

I saw it stand up again

Like the towering giraffe it once were.

My dear father

I want to be that lotus flower.

A wave of sleep.

Should I slumber a bit

And feel a breeze blanket over me?

A cocktail of NO and YES voices.

But certainly YES.

Since I’m bare-foot

I will bring my shoes

Close to my bosom

like a lover.

And then they will tap me

When a hyena or a serpent

Comes for its meal.

My dear father

You talked to me

In the language of lotuses

And reminded me

That I can keep shining

Like Sirius

In my moonless sky.

In the language of lotuses

You told me

To always bow respectfully

To prevailing gushes of wind

In the stormy sea that I inhabit.

My dear father

Today in the language of lotuses

You told me to rise beautifully

Above the filth

Beneath my carpet of water.

You reminded me today

Of the way your Ma’am

Used to be a scorpion

That stung from both sides

And yet I’m here

Beseeching you

With memories

Of being a once ignorant boy

Who was once bribed

To son that useless man

Whom your Ma’am once hooked us to.

My dear father

You reminded me

Through lotuses

How you learnt to dance

To the drama

In your violent sea

With raging storms

Yet remained unfettered

And unscathed–

You were never shattered.

My dear father

This is not a poem

But a conversation

Between you

And your able son.

My dear father

I always remember you

In my creeds.

My dear father

You are not dead

As they call you

Because you remain undying

To my soul.

My dear father

We will converse again

When we meet

In the forest of lotuses.

Recommended Reads

Would you like to access poetry, prose and music that resonates with the message of finding strength in the storm as depicted in this poem Language Of Lotuses? Access such here.

Did You Know?

I feel honored to announce that Sea-Crab Poetry recently won a poetry competition on the theme 'I'm Not Made for Everyone.'

Learn more about this here.

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I'm Not For You

2024-12-05T11:11:00.000-08:00

If you're a pharisee

Who speaks to a handful

And says out their creeds

With a loudness

That surpasses that of the mouth

I'm not for you.

If you're a bigot

Who believes

That everyone except them

Shall be destroyed–

Mindless

Of who was really a good soul–

Then you're unkind

And so I'm not for you.

If you value duplicity

And always judge

Based on what's different

From your school of thought–

Rebuking the rainbows,

Those who chose bachelorhood

Or spinsterhood

Without the slightest regard

For reasons from their heart

Then I'm not for you.

If you don't care

For mother nature

And see her

As your way to fill your wallet

Without caring

About how it makes Terra hell

For oncoming generations

Then we don't resonate.

If to you

Me and mine

Matters more than the world

I'm not for you.

If you have the audacity

To arrogantly say

'This is Kenya'

It means you wanna leave her

In useless tatters

After seizing her innocence.

This way

I'm not for you.

If you go by what makes you safe

Rather than what safeguards

Your authenticity

It means you're a windsock

That points

In the direction of wind.

It means that coexisting with you

Will earn me

A title 'the bad one'

Because you'll be there

Proving our oppressor right

With your unrelenting silly obedience.

This way,

I'm not for you.

If you graduated

From a school

That used to teach

That it's all about the pennies

It means that you're confining life

Into a narrow material purpose.

If it's not about legacy

Then I'm not for you.

If you shower

Those with papers

With praises

And demean

What the 'illiterate' have known

All by themselves

It means you know not

What it means to be human.

And so this way

I'm not for you.

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Her Name Was Rain

2024-11-30T23:01:00.000-08:00

A fervent wish

To land in the East

Where this sweetheart appeared

So clearly on the sky.

I heard her roar

Like a lion

In the far reaches of the Tsavo.

Her name was Rain.

I set out toward the East

To hug her

And feel her warm tender breasts

On my cold shivering chest.

Her hugs are special

For they will penetrate

The fabric of my pullover–

No need for a bare chest.

Recommended Nature Poetry

A connection with nature through poetry is a connection with oneself. Find such poetry through this link.

Beautiful Remnants

2024-11-29T23:35:00.000-08:00

I know very well

That a large part of me

Has already died;

And I also know

That there are those fortunate ones

Whose body is intact

And pure like before.

And while their brains are still intact

I believe I reflect like a polished mirror

With my remaining piece.

I know very well

That my lungs are lined

With a coat of carbon.

I know too

That some still have them

As pink as in the remote past.

While I know that cancer lurks around

And that some are immune to it

I have a lot to do

With the remaining fragment of my life.

I know very well

That I may or may not

Breath for quite long

Like the blessed ones.

And while I may shut down juvenile

Millions will thank life

For having known me.

I know very well

That lots of enamel are gone

And that my dental formula

Has been altered.

And while I know

That some have it

As intact as before

I believe that I'm among the finest

In chewing complex things

With my remaining piece of brain.

Maybe I'm now a psychopath

As they're convinced

I know I have grown

An unwelcoming beard

And hair that looks disgusting.

I know many are no longer pleased

By how I roam in the streets

And keep reducing my remaining pieces.

And while some are good role models

Who stay at home

And attend to their flowerbeds and hedges.

I know I’m a useful vagabond.

While I may be uselessly hooked

By intoxicants

I know of some souls

Who survive by my vibes

And no rehab on Earth

Would deliver them

From being addicted

By my usefulness.

A Recommended Read– The Poetry of Israa Hussein

Israa Hussein is an Egyptian poet based in Sohag, Egypt. I have been interacting with her poetry and realizing that it resonates with the deepest of human life concerns while exuding unmatched hope and affirmation. I consider her work a spiritual guide.

Like A Soaring Bird (Israa Hussein).

Would you like to have this wonderful poetry collection in your library? GET A COPY.

Connect With Israa

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Numberless Lands

2024-11-28T23:51:00.000-08:00

There are many lands

That belong to us–

Milliards to the East

Milliards to the West.

To the North are countless

And so to the South.

These lands are pure

And in them

Boundless elation is sure

They’re in all the cardinal points

Of our very being.

In these pure lands

Are dazzling beaches

With clear white sand.

There are rivers that throb

That our sights they rob.

There are beautiful swimming swans.

There are gardens of blossoms

With days lit by golden sunshine.

I will learn to count these lands

To know their exact numbers

So that I don’t forget and despair

And instead

Keep trudging on wearily.

More From The Author

This poem captures the vitality of holding on to our dearest hopes and aspirations. Since all we hope for isn't guaranteed, we can as well balance that uncertainty with hope. I have selected some works of poetry and prose relating to this theme and can be downloaded through this link.

I Will Shut My Mouth

2024-11-24T05:22:00.000-08:00

I will staple my upper lip

And my lower lip together

When I offer a helping hand

To a fellow human

Walking through coals of hell.

I will not walk around

With my chest high

And protruded

Bragging all over

Claiming that I was their oxygen

When they were drowning in misery.

I will ensure

That what my left ear knows

Will remain a mystery

To my right ear.

I will not bother

About those who are weird to me.

I will not sit idly

And start backbiting them.

I will let them

To be who they are.

I will not relish

From talking

About other religions

Because I know

That if we were a Chinese colony

Everyone here

Would be a Buddhist

And Buddhist temples

Would be littered all over.

I will glue my lips together

When I encounter the rainbow nation

Because I’m a scientist

And I’m aware

That our private parts

Do not determine

If we’re male or female.

I will always remember

That hormones do.

I will place a padlock

On the gate that lets words out

When I hear the illiterate

Condemning the ways of science.

I will remember instead

That science is divine

And that it’s the universal medicine

That eradicates all confusion

That many creeds yield.

I will always remember

That it’s what we’ve been endowed with

To uncover our purpose

As humans.

I will keep my mouth shut

When I see people belittle others.

I will not cooperative

With those who demean

The small things

That others pour all their hopes into.

I will be watchful

With all my words.

I will be keen

On what uplifts others

And what deprives them

Of the human spirit.

I will keep my mouth shut

If my utterances

Don’t resurrect

The dormant lion in others.

About This Poem

Words can be so powerful so we should be careful about their use. Correctly used words uplift others and change society in a positive way. On the other hand, words wrongly applied will damage the fabric of society. Poor use of words is reflected by gossip, gaslighting, intolerance and all manner of verbal vices. Get access to books and other items that spread this gospel contained in my poem from this link.

Whispers To My Sinking Soul

2024-11-23T05:13:00.000-08:00

Sometimes in my existence

I feel like perishing is the next thing.

I see my world crumbling

Into fragments and fine dust.

And all my hopes

Gradually get shattered.

Afterwards

My greater self

Whispers to my drowning soul

That I I’m being exalted

To a demigod.

Sometimes

Something says silently

That I’m a slave.

It tells me

That darkness

Is my abode and destiny.

Afterwards,

Something in me greater

Whispers to my sick soul

That I’m a swift eagle

Roaming the cosmos.

Sometimes

My soul resists perfecting itself

And instead

Cripples itself

Into an immobile entity.

Later on,

Something triggers my soul

To rise up

And color its unfinished faces.

Sometimes I lament

The offspring of my choices

And the aftermath

Of my decisions.

So sometimes silently

Trudging alone

On deserted paths

My eyes become a spring of tears

And my nostrils

Two adjacent rivers.

Soon after my cheeks dry out

And my nostrils

Become twin dry air streams

Something in me silently says

That we have all messed

At least in some way

But it only makes us human.

Our scars are badges

Which show that we are veterans.

Sometimes I feel guilty

Of being unable

To do the things I should.

It pains me

For being a church mouse

And not raising my progeny

In my fiery world

Where my mistakes are gold.

A couple of moments later

A silent voice in me

Whispers to my sinking soul

That I have done it right

Since time immemorial

So the chaos that abound

Are a celebration

Of doing it

Uncountable times.

Sometimes I drown

In my own mind.

I can’t save myself from myself

And instead

Contemplate doom.

Sometimes I remember

That I’m a polymath.

Sometimes something whispers

That I’m a champion

And that I’ve made giant leaps.

About this poem

I wrote this poem sometimes back at around midnight. It addresses the reality of depression but a the same time shows the importance of self-affirmation no matter how the situation is. According to this poem, we should not forget the good things in our lives because of temporary adversity.

I have singled out some good reads from that address the profound principle of affirming ourselves at the face of adversity– books that will remind you about your inherent value that doesn't depend on external circumstances. You can access them through this link.

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I'm A Sea Crab

2024-11-17T01:02:00.000-08:00

I can move sideways,

Forward and backward

Like a crab.

I’m a versatile creature

That can survive inside a cave

On wild fruits and honey

Like John the Baptist

And the prophet Elijah.

Ravens can feed me

And I’m still nourished.

I live in water.

I love being in places

That cool me

From the raging infernos

In my being.

If you threaten me

I will swim away

And hide under a stone.

Since I’m a crab

Home is my longing.

If you get me out of water

I’ll get thirsty for a swim

So soon.

If my waters are polluted

Or invaded

I will feel like a street child.

See if you give me peace

I will build a sanctuary

In your life.

If you fill my abode

With tantrums

I will flee

And shun you

Like a plague.

I’m a moonchild

And just like Luna

I change phases

And sometimes

I’m unavailable.

So my abode

Is a vast sea

With wavy waters.

Sometimes I float,

Sometimes I sink.

But I have learnt

To ride the tides and waves.

I am a crab

That weeps a lot

In secrecy

When I’m trudging alone

Along deserted ways.

I’m an extremely emotional creature.

While I’m out there

I’m a fearless lion–

I have learnt

Not to ooze blood

Next to sharks.

I’m a withdrawn creature–

An introvert.

I feel lonely and absent

When in lively crowds.

When I’m in throngs

For so long

I feel a debt to recover

By staying in isolation

For a while

To recharge myself.

A moon child,

I’m endowed

With sharp intuition

And a haunting sense of mysticism.

I have inbuilt sensors

That tell me if a soul

Is safe or is a landmine.

I’m a lifelong slave

Of imagination.

Sometimes I imagine

And say things

That relate to psychotics.

I have a rowdy mind

That wanders the cosmos

More than it should.

Being a moon child,

I’m endowed

With the gift of teaching.

I can teach in prose,

Poetry and use of illustrations.

I can draw diagrams

On the canvas

Of your mind

Using my imagination triggers.

Being a Cancer

I have an insatiable desire

To relish from pleasure.

So mine

Won’t be just procreation

But thrilling self-insertion

Coupled with intense bonding.

I do not have favorite music

Or poetry genres

But I know of songs

And poems

That take me far

Into the cosmos

And make my eyeballs

Glisten like gold.

Embodied in my being

Is a feminine side.

I possess a heart

Made of perspex

Which would easily crumble

Into fragments

If I fall in the wrong hands.

Safeguarding my emotions

And peaceful worlds

Is all I seek.

While others see physical beauty,

Beauty to me

Lies in tranquility.

I’m a night owl

That cherishes the night sky

Together with its decorations.

During selenic days

My elation grows

With the growing Moon.

My imagination and vision

Gets better

With the thickening darkness.

I do not believe

In half love.

I love wholly

Or I won’t love at all.

I expect the same

If I love you.

However, I’m learning

To love partially

In this realm

Where true love is rare

More than diamonds.

Being a sea crab,

This has been hurtful

For some years.

One day I will learn fully

How to live

And love this way.

About This Poem

This poem is about the rarely known way of mastering oneself using the guidelines offered by astrology. It describes my nature as a moon child– someone born between June 22 and July 22, possessing the zodiac sign Cancer. My birthday is June 29.

While the knowledge of astrology is rarely known and rejected by many who come across it, I greatly believe in it. I believe that astrology can help one know their personality so as to know the personal weaknesses to work on as well as have a clear mind about our pursuits in life.

I have identified some useful reads relating to this topic and you can consider purchasing them HERE. Cheers!!🥂

They Will Handle

2024-11-15T11:37:00.000-08:00

They sit next to litter heaps

At the back of the streets.

They see them as outcasts

The third wheel

Of the oxen cart.

These to me

Are noble souls.

If you ever get a chance

To befriend

One of these

You will do anything

To keep them

In your circle.

These are the beautiful souls

With whom I entrust

With my day.

These ones to me

Are my true ones.

Who deserve

To handle my day.

I have overheard

Those men

With those machete-like earth wires

Say that humans like us

Will be one day

Doomed in flaring tongues

Of ever-dancing flames.

I have learnt

That for a while

We have been exiting

The cocoon of life

And yet we can figure out

The beauty or ugliness

Of our days.

You will see

These wonderful souls

Jump up and down

Like calves

In the morning sunshine

Dancing to my tunes

During my day.

These souls

Will own the sea crab

And will keep at bay

Those modern Pharisees

From contaminating

The purity of my day.

They will ensure

That my day

Will be immune

From the groundbreaking criticisms

And unkind threats

Of the flaring tongues

To souls like us.

They will ensure

That my day

Is immune

To that popular promise

For those ones

In alignment

With the waves of convention.

I see these ones

Doing their work

With unrelenting enthusiasm.

So don't you worry

About my day–

I have a legion

Of souls like us

Whom we discovered

And kept by our side–

Whom we encountered

In pursuit of authenticity.

Recommended Reads

Would you like to browse poetry book

recommendations on authenticity? Click HERE.

Canines And Thorns

2024-11-12T03:25:00.006-08:00

Woooi Daddy!

Screamed my boy

Across the mountain-high thorny fence.

I held his hand

Firmly from my side.

Don’t step on the thorns!

It can’t come for you

When I’m with you.

The boy forcefully stepped

On the long sharp acacia thorns

He feared the frightful monster

With thick fur on its neck

Like a mane.

I felt like my heart was reverberating

Outside my chest cavity.

Please don’t step on the thorns!

I sincerely pleaded with my boy.

He agreed to be courageous

And trusted Daddy.

And then I leaped backward

Then commanded my adrenaline

To save my boy.

Well, we can all swim

Past a crocodile's mighty teeth

If there’s something in

That our hearts reverberate for.

I saw in broad daylight

Canines and thorns

Both stretching their hands

To devour my boy.

I saw how the Devil King

Can snatch a ruble

From your hands.

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Intoxicated Sperm Donors

2024-11-11T04:07:00.000-08:00

He lies to himself

That she’s in love with him

But she’s not.

She loves his sperm-

His genes.

He knows not

That the offspring he has sired

Is biologically his

But doesn’t own it.

He needs permission

From his sperm recipient

To go somewhere

With his offspring.

His home

Is a home of many managers

And a sea of external secrets;

He’s sitting on a ticking bomb

Soon it will detonate.

Look for wealth

My fellow man.

Find money

And realize yourself

My brother from Earth

And always know

That they love what you are,

What you have,

Or what you shall have.

I want to tell you

What they won’t tell you;

There’s no one to love you

But many to love you

For what you are

You have, or shall have.

Don’t you be lured

By the soft massages

And intoxicating words.

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Do Not Seize Me

2024-11-10T03:24:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks

I've been in my Being

Dodging like a soccer play

And demystifying you

But here you are

At my doorstep.

I have kept you at bay

By the vapes

Books, websites,

And social circles.

All these escapes

Seem futile

Since thoughts of you

Are in abundance.

I keep running away

From you.

You’re so fast

And soon catching up with me.

Sometimes I trip

And your opportune moment

To seize me

Is a millimeter

Away from you.

I rise up again

And keep running away

Panting.

I have a wonderful particle of me

Whom I must see

Become a polymath.

My skeleton, ashes,

Or cadaver

Can’t witness this.

I want to finally be whom I were

Before I got into this world

Of fighting with myself

And being a vagabond.

While I have many reasons

For fighting this ghost,

Many reasons to pick the herbicide

Inside the sack

That hangs underneath

The bathroom roof

And spray the weeds in my Being

Lurk around me–

The feeling of being in a lonely island

Brokenness and being a slave

Anxiety and darkness

Chaos every morning

Because I’m a cathedral mouse

And a burden to someone.

I see you in many objects-

The ropes we use to tether sheep,

Dams I see

On my way to the dens,

Heavy commercial vehicles on the highway

And farm chemicals in my tenets.

Do not seize me

With your long sharp claws

And frightful canines.

You’re coming so fast

And catching up with me.

When you seize me

I will rest

But my pie will grieve

For losing a great father.

My friends will lose a jewel

And my dreams

Will be buried in oblivion.

About This Poem

I wrote this poem somewhere in December 2023 at the verge of breaking down. Dear poetry fan of mine, please note that it doesn't reflect my current state of mind. Okay? More love.❤️

Beyond The Dark

2024-11-08T21:53:00.000-08:00

I hear there's a place

Always ablaze

And yet another one

Always on glaze.

From here

To our next home

Lies an intricate puzzle

The world beyond

Embedded in fallacies.

We shall use the spacecraft of genius

To hop into the depths though tedious.

We shall see through the dark

And acquire the eyes that we lack

Then spread out our wings

And be capable of all things.

Will you carry with you

Your poetry anthologies to Mars

Or will you leave them

Here on Terra

In oblivion

With people of its dominion?

We shall be called Martians

When we go there

I’ll be an artisan.

We will be a space-faring generation

And have no connection

With common mortals.

Mars, the red planet

Is our next abode.

Amongst us

Are souls

That will set foot

On Jezero Crater,

On Utopia Planitia

And on Olympus Mons.

Ceres, a planetoid

In the Asteroid belt

Is laden with what we inspire.

Ganymede, a wondrous satellite

In the Jovian system

Will be home

To other generations.

In the distant future

Our ID cards

Will bear a field–

Planet of birth.

For some it’ll be Terra

And for some, Mars.

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Legends Of The Night

2024-11-08T02:56:00.000-08:00

Crickets singing their songs

Winds blowing blatantly

And hyenas roaring.

Those who are used to this music

Find no meaning

Snoring for the entire night.

We are introverts

Who have fallen in love

With the night

Like owls

And other nocturnals.

We are the night owls

Who thrive in searing darkness.

In the night

Lies vast playgrounds

So we can play boundlessly.

There is no hurry at night

The entire night looms ahead.

We can leave no stone unturned.

Few minutes past midnight

Smoke and wind

Changes direction.

The night is laden with magic

And wonderful phenomena.

We the night owls

Relish on the tranquility

That the night bears.

Our imagination gets so clear

For the worries of the daytime

Are no more.

At the heart of the night

Grasping concepts

Is like catching a sloth.

When at the middle of this sea

Lines of poetry

Flow freely

Like fish flow into fishing nets

At the center of the Pacific.

I tried to jump into slumber

At ten pm

To improve my sleeping patterns.

Little did I know

That I’m a legend of the night.

I had not known yet

That my love for the night

Had made me a night owl

And a productive insomniac.

Those who don’t know

That we see in the dark

Keep gossiping us

When golden beams

Of midday sunlight

Welcome us for the new day.

Little do they know

That we hear all their gas offloads

And their loud nightmares.

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Comeback

2024-11-07T04:36:00.000-08:00

There has been a canyon

Between me

And the magical boy

That I once was.

When I was a lad

I used to be a Starship

Determined to pierce

Through interstellar medium

At supersonic speeds.

When I was juvenile

I was a sharp-sighted eagle

Soaring high helter

Riding swiftly on the airwaves

Like a cowboy on a mighty horse.

When I was a boy

I was an impoverished kinky-haired

And slim young man.

But I was sharp like a razor blade

Effortlessly chopping

Through what they called diamond.

I remember those days

Exam results being bulleted.

Through a nostalgic lens

I see myself in black and white

A bare-footed boy

In a dark-blue pair of shorts

With what they called rear lights

Running to the front of the assembly

To receive a present.

I remember all those handshakes with my educators.

My hair is still kinky

Only that I’m a grown-up man.

I’m still a swift eagle

Roaming the vast cosmos

Only that sometimes

I’m hijacked by the ghost of doubt.

I’m still an interstellar rocket

Only that for a decade

My mind has almost complied

To the unreasonable description I bear

As a crashed space shuttle.

My comeback

Is full-fledged-

An outburst

Of what I once was

Like a solar flare.

I'm still that boy

Only that I've been ensnared

By false and real alarms

And by tenets

Embroiled in fueling these.

My body and my mind

Have changed in a phenomenal way

Just like the climate has.

But I’m the same soul

That I used to be

When I was a young man.

A Recommended Read– Rise by Shana Danielle.

Rise, is an amazing collection that is journey through all areas of life: addiction, abuse, relations between races, identity and lack of purpose.

Would you want to add this masterpiece to your library?

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The Apocalypse

2024-11-04T21:45:00.000-08:00

Golden are the times

When the Sun of this lifetime

Approaches its Western horizon

It is a rush against the ticking clock.

During my apocalypse

I want to paint my unfinished facets

And declare war

With the things I’m yet to attack

Because of my obsession with perfection.

I’m urged to plunge myself in

Without the slightest regard

For my unpreparedness.

When my Sun approaches my Western horizon

I’m drawn closer and closer

To the rejected, the hardcore addicts,

The mentally broken and the outcasts.

And these are the beautiful roses

That adorn the remaining fragments of my life.

During my golden last days

There’s an inextinguishable inferno

Of haunting desire

To fulfill my promises to my god Science,

To praise it for justice and infallibility,

And to place myself on its altar.

Since my Sun approaches the West

I have uncontrollable desire

To hand over my organs and organ systems.

See my breath is about to be cut off

So I want to rapidly gather knowledge

And share it

With those who are deprived of it.

My apocalypse is a golden time

When I’m in love

With each of my remaining nights

And embracing each ounce of the dark.

Being born of Cancer

My end times are inclined

Toward embracing each phase of the Moon.

See these are my end of times

When I should visit

All the great places that I’ve missed,

Each of the great souls I’ve met

And nostalgic memories.

During the end of my days

I’m relishing from the sweet sadness

Of approaching the state of latency

When no more secret tears abound,

When I see no more calls

Answered far away from me.

When the Sun of my life sinks into my Western horizon

I will not miss my son the way I do

Because of reasons this poem won’t say.

These are my last days

When I should write all the poetry that is withheld

By the ghost of doubt.

These are times I should read more;

The poetry of Robert Frost,

The poetry of Ralph Waldo,

The poetry of Sylvia Plath,

Hafiz of Persia, Rumi, Phil Ibsen,

Daniel Simiyu, June Mwangangi and many others

I wish I could capture in this poem.

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