It is so common for me to pen pieces of poetry or prose and leave them in my drafts unsure how they fit on these timelines or what to title them. I also feel like my work dilutes with every edit which is why I prefer to free-write when I can.
These two are such pieces and I hope you enjoy them.
(i)
In between
The chaos of a transforming world
Voices of the dark rising feminine energy
Can be heard
Asking a patriarchal society
Until when do you want your laws
To stain the divine rage
That comes with carrying a womb.
Past these undocumented gender warfares
Battalions of alto tunes
Prevail over the customary idea of womanhood
In a defying anthem
Questioning every rule set to subdue
The goddesses
Centred in their confined essences.
Down in the same gutters
Where women multiply their fearful steps
By the zero honour
Of having a simple no as a choice
A revolution is being born from the simmering
Longing to be free
To decide what is good for them.
(ii)
Whispers from the dim stars
Have fallen onto my ears
And the tears
From the secret wells
Of my invisible pain
Have chosen to die at the feet
Of my bony neck
And at the moment I am
Reminded of my insignificance
By the mighty silver eye
Spying on the night sky.
The ungodly hour
Unfolds like a forgotten symphony
As sleep eludes me
Like a child of the night
And the morning light
Refuses to follow me home.
Memories from the past and beyond
Have held my mind
And all it houses within
Captive for scores of days on end
While the gears of time
Take me back to the days
When I left behind
The skin
That set my path on fire
In search of peace
Only to return
To find it
Waiting by its walls.
This happens when I can not do anything else to a piece... When that is all my poet has for that particular moment. Do these count as poetry? Yes, and though they feel like they are unfinished, I have nothing to add to them.
...wambuku w.
