The Bull In The China Shop

If I respect your opinion,

And you respect mine,

We’ll do just fine.

Discourse leads to compromise in time

 

There is seldom need for a bull in a china shop

Force, facing fragility brings progress to a

Full Stop.

Before it’s had a chance to be heard.

Though too far from here to hear,

There is a herd,

One of whose members is fallen and butchered

Before 36 pounds of heart reaches

Full Stop.

 

Over 11 million ksh for one kilo of horn,

And a maximum possible fine of 40,000ksh.

I guess certain risks in the industry are real, but

Pay someone for the dirty work.

It’s literally a steal.

 

Mombasa,

City ya raha, is

The Port of The East Coast.

But we’re leaving it to Malaysia to catch our smuggling boats.

In the name of hard worked for, soap stone goddesses,

Whose images are actually carved out of the carcases

From where they once came.

 

Again, there is no need to have a bull in a china shop.

These smuggler’s raids rape a service sector that is 63% of our trade.

All they need to consider is sources for gun powder implements’,

They’re only up against a government, that never implements.

So we are implicate,

in gigantic profit, that knowingly impoverishes

the Black, the Red, the Green and the White.

 

This game of horns and tusks,

Is a thorn in the tasks

That an entire nation is geared to achieve.

Our 3 ton mothers are being cut open,

Before gestation completion,

Crushing beneath them, the archaic

Flimsy laws, on which they are leaning.

 

We are custodians of national treasure.

The loss of which, immeasurable.

It takes 1.8 years to make a baby elephant.

And that’s something that none of us can do.

So, before 2020 finds their population through.

 

We Will STOP!

 

Allowing any part of our majestic

Bulls and Cows

To find their tombs in any Chinese shops.

 

There is NEVER a need for a Bull in a China shop.

I’m Here

I’m here.

To sing a song of strength

Of which history bears testament.

Here to speak up and be present,

The evidence of her resilience.

 

I’m here to chop down the tree,

Whose seed, I wasn’t in time to bite,

To eat, so it would never have sprouted.

 

Here to kill the tree, whose bark,

Covered with rot, has lost its spark.

Whose fruit has never seen the light of day.

 

This tree who shades her from her light,

Who shields her from

Her ancient might!

This trees name, is victimization.

 

I’m here right now. To shout at her,

That we may yield a serrated, saw.

And banish it forever.

Without it we are Mother Earth.

Our fertile, minds,

To our world, give birth

To love

To hope

To continuity.

Malala 17.10.12

Dear Father,

May we be
May we be thankful.
For the soul that is Malala Yusaifzu.
For the courage of one who, selflessly is…
Thank you for a world in which, her story
is repeated, reported her attackers retorted
in voices echoed by religions of all sorts.
As a child, she
Is courage
Seldom found in adults, who would rather conform.

May we be
May we be cliff faces,
Ready,
To shout back a steady
Resounding of the royal whistle she blew
May we hold fast the remote, when she appears on news.

Knowing that the world would be a much better place.
If we spoke upright and frankly to represent our views.

Guys, I Can’t Afford To Be A Poet.

As a child, at an age six I stopped finding the phrase;

“Your a poet and you didn’t even know it”

Funny.

Because, I did know.

Until Twenty Three, I thought it would only be,

Only in writing.

 

Then, I did my rounds, sometimes ten in a month.

Dues must be paid, when you work with your mouth.

My day job also requires investment.

Running a business in its teenage years,

Doesn’t pair well with expensive hobbies,

Or weekends of beers.

 

Unfortunately the “This is a new event”

Line, cares little for whether I arrive home fine.

In this world, a girl my age, in her right mind,

Doesn’t travel alone past a certain time.

But the passion that burns my insides,

Won’t allow me to say “No.” Even when

You wouldn’t give me a comp or two,

To ensure I’m accompanied on my home route..

Makes me wonder; If I don’t make it home.

Would you keep a straight face, at my funeral?

Saying:

She, was one of Ours.

She, wrote and performed for hours.

She, may still be here, if she hadn’t picked a poem with so many bars…”

Or should I just wise up now and say “No.” From far.

Because

Guys, I can’t afford to be a poet.

 

There is something,

Something,

Revealing,

About standing and speaking.

It’s rather like getting undressed.

So you, seduce me, with acclamation, singing…

“Would you let me, see beneath your beautiful?

Would you let me, see beneath your perfect?”

Then, with your actions, and no other words,

Say; “It wasn’t worth it.”

“Not even what it cost you to get here.”

Guys, its breaking my heart,

And I know I have fans, but

Guys, I can’t afford to be a poet..

 

I give with my right hand,

I give with my left.

So I don’t have an eating hand left.

In the interests of self preservation, I write,

To get what’s on my mind, off my chest.

In the interest of self preservation, I find,

That I can not afford to invest.

In what gives nothing back for my time,

When I’ve given my best.

So guys, before my inspiration is empty,

Of the little left of my strength,

And I stand before you, as a ghost of myself.

Let me stop, to say. If it goes this way,

I…

I can’t afford, to be a poet.