Immortal Moments


Mundane moments immortalized by the magic of memory

Scents of sizzling meat or certain sounds echoing in the distance

fling you back to a moment where something powerful happened

maybe the first time baking cookies, fingers covered in sticky dough

or the ache of the first heartbreak as the words fell from her lips.

Each perfectly paired with an everyday occurrence made immortal

the simple harmony of the wind whistling in the trees captured

the pitch of your body gliding through the air as the swing swung

and the smell of your shampoo still lingers in the corner of my mind

making me turn whenever the scent drifts past me in the street.

Small things, everyday things now made heavy with meaning

loaded like the loaded potatoes you loved so, and overflowing

Even the way the comforter covers my body in a cocoon of warmth

hearkens to the warmth of your back and the burning sun

and the thrum of passing music blasting callously from car window

reminds me of the way you would dance, hair catching the sunlight

certain words that I can hear almost before they are uttered

because they speak to me and we shared the 2, 3, 4 syllables like candy

even the silence of peace whispers silver tipped memory clouds

as the silent moments march in mindlessly in the forefront of my mind

regrets stuffed in turkey like stuffing and paired with crimson cranberry shame

success cookies baked with pride and packed with happy moments like chips

and cold nights constant reminders of the coldness within

everything is stored, trapped in the everyday, tickling the edges of our minds

Mundane moments immortalized by the magic of memory

Weep, World. Weep.


Oh Weep World! Weep for the dead

I weep for the hate, the blood spilled

Kenya, country of my ancestors

Country of my blood, my blood spills

Only seen in the black and white static

Numbers, over 60 dead and many injured

Weep, oh I weep for the blood spilled

The hate that causes the rat tat tat clatter

Of gunfire and children’s bodies strewn

Across the floor and pregnant women

Holding the promise of tomorrow die,

Gasping last breathes, choking

On the hate that the metal spews

I weep for the world, the world weeps

Red blood and real people distanced

By black ink on blank screens as WE

Comment hate and then more hate

Relentless floods that surpass the blood

Pouring from the bodies of the dead.

Why world!? Weep I say Weep!

Enmity has poisoned us all, we are lost

We can’t see that when we kill our brothers die

Death begets death as hate begets hate

By blade, gun or anonymous keyboards

Weep I say! Weep world!

Not for Kenya, country of my ancestors

Weep for yourself. Weep for the countless dead

Weep for the hate unchecked, running rampart

Weep for the poison we have consumed.

Weep world…weep.

It’s Ok to be Lonely


I am lonely


It aches, piercing like a brain freeze

but slow and monotonously wretched

like the squelching of mud filled shoes

It’s burns like a forest fire, but yet

is as inexorable and liquid as drowning.

It’s a pressing need, urgent and relentless

like a bladder in need of emptying

but at the heart, a lack, a hunger that

rivals the desire for food, water or even air.




The curse of curses, to be lonely is to be alone

whether in a crowd or deserted island.

To be lonely is to be hungry, starving but unable

Loneliness, the darker sister of love

hated as she, love, is loved by all.

To be lonely is a disgrace, a lack must be filled

so she, loneliness is discarded for love

time and time again, most not caring to know,

is this love right, but ask rather

this is love, right?


We fling ourselves into love, leaping without cords

into the great unknown because it’s better to love,

but what happens when love turns dark

and wine drunk sweet sours to bitter vinegar

When thoughtless leaps lands in the thorn bush

without the sweet smelling roses for company

Do we hate the darker sister so much as to die

rather than to learn to live with her?


To be lonely is to dance on the razor blade of life,

feeling the intensity of lack but appreciating the fill

To be lonely is to stand on the edge of the precipice,

bile filled throat, as the cold wind tears at your skin

To be lonely is to dive deep, deep down, breathless

and stay waiting in the depths for nirvana

To be lonely is to run until your body screams in agony,

mile after relentless mile waiting for the high

To be lonely is to curl up alone on a cold winter night,

crack open a world and try to forget

To be lonely is to wait, not knowing what the future holds


Loneliness is the darker sister of love,

darker in her subtlety and craft

but no worse than the ravenous beast

She is the pause between life and death,

the ache between hunger and satiation

and the pang between love and loss

Loneliness is waiting, loneliness is life


Loneliness is Ok.

It’s the Little Things in Life


It’s the little things.

The door held open when your hands

are just a little too full

The bright smile and hello when

your world is just a little too dark

The careless perfect words uttered

by a friend at just the right time

the leaves blowing aimlessly,

dancing through the air.

The first burst of flavor

and your teeth sink into

a fresh strawberry.

The echoing silence after a good song.

The ache of muscles well worked

The smell of wood smoke

The weathered palm of my grandmother’s hand

the pleasant weight of a wallet

freshly filled

the way your eyes shine in the light

the memories of marvelous moments

the daily dance of duty,

endlessly pointless but filled with purpose

a porpoise arching through the air

breathing, beating, feeling

the curve of your lips

and the beauty of the silent moments

when the world seems to take a breathe


Sometimes life isn’t about the big picture.

Sometimes why, and how don’t matter

sometimes…it’s just the little things.




I am a broken toy ticking, talking, walking through the motions

My brain submerged in the sea of my overwhelming emotions

Flailing and silently wailing, hoping that somehow you can hear

forgetting that I am forgotten, cast away by what I once held dear

My each step casting dark shadows across every heart I meet

nothing can survive the onslaught of my kiss, burned by the heat

and I am left alone in the silence, only the remembered tears

drowning out the reign of my flames, leaving only my fears

my tell tale heart beats rapid, pumping bloody stories from my scar

which torn open spills out the quiet misery of the distance, far

from me even though my hand can almost brush through your hair

but the chains of my own making constrain me and I wouldn’t dare

break free so instead I march forward, hypnotically robotic

flesh surrendered to the metal cage of duty, dramatic

expressions contained and hidden away to leave unblemished surface

perfectly polished and properly gleaming, without a spot of disgrace

to mar the beautiful golden creation that is slowly killing me

you could save me, maybe, but you aren’t ready to set me free

I will wait, marching silently, smile worn like armor to protect

all my secrets, hoping one day you will near me and detect

all the words I have hidden in plain sight for you to see

and then maybe you will be able to turn the key and free me.

Stuck in Grey


When I was born, I was white.
So light skinned that my mother maybe wasn’t faithful,
whispered the villagers in spite
only the fact that I was the mirror of my father
darkened the scandalous lightness of my skin in their eyes.
I left the land of my mother, seeking to go farther
properly darkened by the sun of that dark land,
which shone brightly beautiful in my childish remembrance
only to enter a land of albinos, where I stand
apart after just learning what it meant to belong.
Outcasted again by the same curse of color, which I,
in childish remembrance thought beautiful but that didn’t last long.
Children, the cruelest of bullies in their parrot-like innocence
repeating what parents could only whisper in the darkness,
the darkness that only evil inhabits, only savages, you could sense
the fear inherent in the plastered smiles and silent poison
of their overbearing sweetness and carefully chosen phrases.

It was at that moment that I learned what it was to be grey.
Fading from view into the crowd, shedding my color to belong.
I lived and loved in this grey world, wholly unconscious until 2011
when my world ended in an explosion of color and creativity and life
All in the dark land where the sun shines brightly beautiful
just like I remembered from my childhood of chasing cows.
I also remembered the simplicity of wearing a matching shade
and blending into the crowd without fear of offence
and not having to fade in the obscurity of extravagance
loudly proclaiming my presence just to give them time to cross the street.
I was able to run without the weight of an entire race on my shoulders
I made no excuses for my color but simply existed as a part of a whole.
My grey world could not stand the assault of awareness of that bright sun
and my eyes, long blinded to the casual cruelties finally opened, shocked.
Shocked at what I saw and what I remembered, as scenes seen through the
shadowy lenses of my grey existence flushed with color.

Ha. Ha. Hey, Moses, how do you get a nigger down from a tree.
You cut the rope. 6th grade lunch table. I laughed that day.
Surrounded by my white friends. Fitting in and belonging.
I laughed, because after all it was only a joke.
I mean my parents parents weren’t slaves, what did it matter.

Ha. Ha. You’re like an Oreo, black on the outside and white on the inside.
I mean come on, you can’t play basketball. You’re an Honors Student.
You don’t even like Kool-Aid. And like, you don’t even talk ghetto, ya know?

I knew. All too well I knew that I wasn’t black enough,
my parent’s suburbia style upbringing beat the black out of me.
Because I knew that to be black you had to be ghetto,
to be black you had to carry your gat, sag with swag
and say nigger a lot. What’s good, My Nigger!
And honestly, to this day I still am not comfortable saying that word.
But even in my “whiteness” I was too dark to be white,
always careful of where I went and with who.
Always noticing the people crossing the streets
or the fathers pulling their daughters closer if I look their way
the mothers clutching babies who in colorblind curiosity crawl
up to me, smile and ask me if I want to play
the surprise on people’s faces when I speak eloquently
and the overwhelming approval that met my “white” behavior,
like some trained monkey cleverly imitating his masters.

I don’t write this to indict anyone.
I write this to indict myself for my years of blindness,
for forgetting that black is beautiful.

But I’m not the only one that forgot.
No. I am not the only one who forgot.
There are,
Black people calling each other niggers,
as if to express their self hatred which each breath.
As if to say that the worth of a close friend is only
that of cattle or property.
Black people in music glorifying the abuse of our women
in catchy lyrics that three year old repeat
as if to somehow revenge themselves upon the race that bore them
after all we “can’t treat these hoes like ladies, maaan.
Black women plastering their faces with various powders
and spending entire paychecks to look white trying to tell
their daughters that they are beautiful just the way they are
Black men going to jail by mistake, but coming out hardened criminals
ready to hate and hurt and murder, coloring the streets red
with the blood of their brothers and sisters.
Gangs so afraid of their own color that they hide
behind reds and blues and spew self hate in form of bullets

We have forgotten as a race that black is beautiful.
I hope my words can be like the brightly beautiful sun
of our dark land of ancestry and shake you loose
from the past of pain and misery into the future that we can change.