Zeyya, My Kenya

Mombasa…my love grows

As her beauty touched my heart like the sight of her brown skin,

I sought her lush greenery and crisp ocean waters,
I am hers, she is mine, touch not her former torments because as does the mother suffer in childbirth so does her loving and beautiful reward emerge,
I hear the beautiful call to prayer for those faithful and sense the other choices made by others who believe–their business all,
Sand and ocean proclaimed loves healing waters and intense sun as up on Bamburi Beach the waves and tides chased and taunted visitors and family,
Just as the beauty of Tudor Creek with its octopus shape is lost on day visitors do the citizenry love its long grasses that move as people who progress through fog to begin their day, or imagined as spirits whose tattered and rotted burial shrouds wave gently and reach to touch all living, perhaps in hope of a rebirth or memory to share,
Languish not upon the Umba River for there are times when it will widen and hurl all from its shores to places unknown or as of yet undiscovered,
Feast upon beauty my Zeyya for not as much of yours as I have compared to your land visited up on my heart and now cemented thus.


This is a fable…a small table set for two, moonlight, a gentle breeze as the stars frame the beauty of you. 

Amazed by the love in your eyes, each time ours met, as words not needed — if spoken, not heeded. 

 When heart as light refracted bends to produce a rainbow of beauty, as seemingly charted upon loves duty. 

 A tender moment shared, is as much for the moment dared.



 words not spoken are most

profound when life expects

more, hears not a sound.


 Would we speak as neighbors,

I believe so – yes, true.

I would eventually say hello

to you.


 Perhaps though today, would

my words tickle as does the

feather escaping its pillowcase.


 We have yet to regain the

wonderful union of words, when as

early writers struggled, debated

poetry or verse, with the strike

of a key answers to questions

appear instantly, at times making

things worse.


 World literary giants might nod

or poke, while searching for a

reason as to why everything works.


 Waver not in your passion for words,

by the same strength of heart and

values one can feel through your

mind a suffering.


 Perhaps today this is required of

all to resemble a buffering.


 Wishing upon the dreams or

expectations of others was a focus,

perhaps a mainstay of the culture

of times past.

 Saloon, campus or home was a place

to study, think or debate styles,

merits or even the principles of



 Whether the World notices many

blogged words is of little consequence,

words pour from your heart and in this,

it’s all that matters.

Poetry Thursday

Captured Beauty: Melancholy

Captured Beauty: Melancholy

Eyes of the largest pools of innocent
charm reflecting back to the viewer
exactly what they want you to see.

Life’s questions motives, hears only

The eyes stare, not with hate
as some imagine. Easier to claim
disgust, a shake of the head or shrug
of the shoulders than to look inside

You see me in the places where you
have walked – I was the loner, whom
all claimed was unapproachable,
while I wore my jeans that never
seemed washed, hair long and
sometimes unwashed for days,
adorned in a black leather jacket
when cold over an ever-present
T-Shirt that was underwear during
winter and outerwear during summer
while upon my face the scowl was
ever present.

Perhaps I was the hip nonconformist
priding themselves on keeping sane
while a World tore itself apart.

Am I the tender beauty whose eyes
have observed enough of the
injustice in my time to flee inside
mind and save that small place
where I might cower or relax without
the unfairness that seems the
established norm today. My hair I
need to cover all or most of my face
because there are villains that are
walking about in plain sight and
working to destroy youths futures
behind closed doors.

I could be the class clown who while
making people laugh at my antics,
was observing all and trying to see
the truth within people.

Was I the ner’ do well whom, most
grownups gave up as lost, dense,
radical – not seeing the true beauty
before them bearing up under pain.

What now when even our society is
split amongst right, wrong, kinda.

You wish for me to leave the safety
of an environment I can control and
move all out into your ideological
self-realized “myscape” then accept
that as the status quo,
pppllleeaassee – hello any active
brain cells moving about in there.

Who decided a few people should
determine the course for millions,
that should scream loudly about our
system of living being flawed.

So I have constructed a wall inside of
my mind where brick by brick I built
over time, upon hurt after hurt and
I shelter there, against pain, injustice
and unfairness practiced as the
norm today, against theft and
mocking those who are the victims.

I do not stare to offend, only while
behind my wall I do not wish to speak
to anyone. Not, rude just please a
little space to hide from this World
and it’s angry at times persistent
demands on my time.

I share this with you, I use my hair as
a shield and a shout out to others
that you are not alone, we are not
any better than other people, just
different. Shielding my eyes from
stares and smirks or even ridicule
is not unheard of, being abused or
bullied because I do not look like
some politician, or hair cut like the
military is no ones business but my

I like me as I am, please try liking
yourself – it works.

So you look into my eyes of guarded
resentment and you think I blame
you, I don’t even know you.

I can see every finger of resentment
pointing inward from my brick wall,
straight towards me. I do not need
to be constantly reminded. The status
quo is doing fine admonishing
me in my own head with droning
droning droning – yesssch.
Sometimes I want to ralf.

Hey, haters of my hair or perhaps that
I wear mascara as a guy, or too much as a
girl, so what.

I love, too. There is a cute guy at
work that I am ga-ga about, though it
would not show on my face; or that
there is a woman who I am love with
whom I would hug her forever, if she
acknowledged that she even had feelings
for me.

I have a heart, it can be hurt.
I have feelings, they can be abused.
I have opinions, they can be debated.
I have choices, I have made one.

I stay veiled behind my hair and
I build my wall a little higher, seems
safer and the pain is mine to carry

Poetry “building my wall” Thursday

Wayfarers Guide: Raven

Wayfarers Guide: Raven

Midnight colored was the cloak worn
upon the body, night crossed black
eyes while aloft beyond Earths

I compared this to my vision of you.

Whether covered by cap, veil reveals
the most stunning mantle found.

Claiming the darkest of night to
brightest of days; your hair is a
covering of reverberating beauty
from head to ground.

Shunning given norms of
personal space, I was riveted, as
intrigued, fascinated; I fell under
your spell.

I saw as the wind played with softest
of tresses, sending them gently,
almost tenderly across your face.
I stood fixated, not from afar,
perhaps in calling distance not far

You were the star of the show, this
life. My admiration grows daily don’t
you know, not fawning is healthy,
loves growth should be slow.

Warm skin, enhanced with bangles,
and lace. Gloves and wrist covers
from full sleeves to hands perfectly
adorned builds toward your gentle

The blouse, shirt or sweater you don
merely becomes a secondary feature
when covering your body; you are the
foundation of beauty which GOD
used like a fresco for the completion
of you HIS masterpieces.

Each opening in lace is the frame
for a tender portrait that lies behind.
Every opening is a masterwork of
purest beauty as skin and lace
performs a feminine dance that
intrigues the mind.

A complex humanity is housed
within, so much honor, and life’s
deepest mysteries, intelligence you
possess having much to share.

Deeply entrenched are values of
woman’s persona; man sought to
define woman in a myriad of ways.
Man remains befuddled as a
stumbling babe in her complex day.

Able to share for those in her
life, deemed necessary she will touch
across all races and creeds, whether
in peace or amid strife; it is a
motherhood value. What a wonderful thing.

Paths diverge and part as is her choice,
when she shares what wondrous magic
she can impart, not one magician has
managed to recreate her granted ability.
Nature is not all the time fair, her

Giving, whether natural or not.
Abilities giving not into fear, not
intimidated by tasks. She can fight
as well as love those she chooses
and many count themselves blessed
who stand in her favor.

Drifting on unseen air currents, my
heart reaches for you. My net is
cast but comes back empty.
So lost in what is not, I think on the
values and joy, the mysterious
complexity of women.

Our world is fortunate.

The raven drifts out of my sight.

Poetry Thursday

Captured Beauty: Her Face

Captured Beauty: Her Face

Just for a moment, the fleeting
instant, when the rarest of events
occurs. She passes, and the mind
captured amidst all manner of
activity; her beauty.

Does she notice her impact upon
those watching, when today we
must shun all manner of appreciation
of the same.

Must she seek loves beauty in verse
or rhyme, when some find solace in
her whispered name.

When the movement of light played
across her face, touching her lips,
and down, then across her chin;
many the wounded heart goes when
the scene is replayed in the mind
again and again.

The foundation of beauty begins with
the jaw hinge, it carries the ramus-
which is the rearmost part of the jaw.
This bony structure is the place
where beauty ties the face, framing
and defining face structure, is often
observed being kissed by the neck.

The dental plate and the chin mound
accentuate beauty. Whether he or
she, sweet morsels seem to drop into
the mouth.

Beauty defines, yet, the dental ridge
and teeth are backgrounds that
establish the overall appearance.

Then, the skin.

Matters not, if hued, pale, dimpled,
narrow, full, loose, scarred, smooth,
finely haired, or tightened.

The effect is what feeds the mind in
he or she as they view each other,
establishing the basis for pleasure,
for the duration of memory, and
recall of the viewed.

Mind locks upon the moment to recall
with delight that brief pause, locking
away details, as the mind replays the
scene in fractionated snippets, so that
frame by frame her beauty, his
handsome features become
inescapable from the mind.

Where else but in human minds will
the very snippets of our daily
experiences form into a historical
newsreel and rewind for us visually
again and in time again.

What determination makes we as
viewers appreciate the gentle
curvature of chin to neck?

What establishes the focus of eye
to that part of the body, when so
much is ado about other parts?

Simply put, the eye that captures
a particular spot of beauty away
from the norm appreciates the gift
of the person as a basis of who
they are, or at least in fairness,
possess the potential to become.

Matters not as acquainted, as
friends, as intimate friends, or as
romantically involved. To the
passersby on the street, or a dip
and a nod to the co-worker who
chances by – all note things of
beauty from each other.

Only the viewer may or may not
be aware of how much they have
garnered in capturing anothers
chanced beauty.

Wayfarers Guide: Seeking Solace

Wayfarer Guide: Seeking Solace

She like many others were proud
of so many young men marching
stiffly erect as the music blended
with the cheers echoed in the great
city. It was August 30, 1914.

How right and correct they looked
and he grinning. She adored his
smile. She remembered his hasty
fumbling of her blouse buttons.

To be closer to my wife to be. To
touch that which is warm, soft and
delightful-your flesh; ours to be
joined after my return.

She had resisted. A proper lady
would not have put herself in
such a position. Thinking about
how long he might be away, she
steeled her resolve and moved
love to the forefront.

They embraced and kissed.

After all, what could happen?
The cowardly Huns would flee
from the brave and determined
French soldiers, then in a few days,
perhaps weeks at most. He would
return to her arms.

By April 25, 1915 he was gone.


He was as though a baby had curled
into the mothers womb and
peacefully slept. Hair askew, lips
in a slight pout, his mother thought
him beautiful. She stroked his hair to
right it. Leaning over the coffin, she
tenderly kissed his lips. Cold blue
lips heightened with a soft red ochre.
This to give the illusion of warmth
and life.

How she hated the girl he had fallen
into an infatuation with shortly
before departing for the front.

Had she known, as he died he thought
only of the girl; her scent and beauty
was intoxicating. Her passion, not
even unloosed. His mother would,
approve. But, before he could write
a letter to explain; he was felled.

Ironically, the Yser Canal was but a
few yards away from their trench
line. If he had stumbled to the top.
It’s refreshing waters might sustain
all of the soldiers afflicted by the brutal
gas attacks.

Their own training served to end
their lives. Hunker down, the
artillery is pounding away at your
position. Stay put lads, that shrapnel
will slice you to ribbons.

What is this, the mist, choking, then
blinding, can’t see where to run. The
disorientation and mind numbing
concussions; ack ack, where to go.
I’m so very tired, very very tired.

Many passed out, like her love. If, his
family would grant her permission to
share the loss and then to place his
body in the ground. His family
refused and barred her from his
wake and funeral.

She was devastated and
heartbroken. People thought ill of
her. Bound to be a spinster or
worse a jinx. Men, did not wish to
associate with her, owing perhaps
a misfortune; or even a muster
to duty.

She bribed the graveyard caretakers
and they provided the location where
his body was buried.
Like others during this period, so
many young, innocent women of
of beauty were to trek the cemetery
for solace, comfort, or if they must

I was here to accept their final
decision and help from there.

What foolish bravado; a man goes to
fight the Huns – for your freedom,
and the best way to repay his
sacrifice is to flee out of this
World. Think on this, a world he
sacrificed his life attempting to
make a safe place for you, his love
and the people he did not even know.

We can repay their debt, by living.
She could not hear my thoughts,
tied up in this form as I am.

I read the faces of the visitors and
know those most likely to mourn
deeply or those who are not carrying
the slightest intention or desire, of

Yet, this trend is not limited to men.
The English medical corps are
staffed by men and women. Both
die when the shells reach that far,
and death soon follows them.

Agony and loss are equal in their
treatment of both genders.
Love/loss, while searing, and
torturous is relentless.

She walked along the gravel road,
and I heard the gravel crunch under
her shoes. It was cold and the light
dusting of snow would not endear
its beauty upon any one.

Her dark coat covered her shoulders
a fell down so that her shoes peeked
from beneath dress and coat hem
with each step she took.

Her cap was winter and allowed her
hair to spread gracefully over her
shoulders like a gift from GOD.

I looked at her face as she noticed
me not. Since, I was situated upon
the swell of the hill as she stepped
around the hedgerow and started
up the hill of Place du Cimetiere
Milita ire, France.

Stoic, vacant, like the war wounded
who walked the lanes and byways
of the healing city of Plaine. Hers
was a chilling reminder of the pallor
of death hanging about.

She did not wear the dark color of
mourning, but of an emerald green
and a lovely royal purple. Highlights
of blue atop crushed velvet gave her
a fantasy like appearance. In truth,
she was beautiful.

Come, are others about. Not, on a
cold day as is this. She had
something else in mind. I must wait
for it. She wept approaching the
grave. He long since caring in this
world, perhaps, waited anxiously in
the next.

Time would tell as she reached into
her pocket.