“You know how a fish sounds when it leaps out of water? If I could write that in a word, I’d know how to be a Writer. Or like the bee, that sizzling sound when it goes back to the swarm. Words are all you have to write with and most things don’t go into words.”
J.J Mason, Swan by Frances Mayes
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I don’t know how to say “I’m sorry,”
Don’t expect me to.
Dip me in sugar, so you lick a coat so sweet before you taste my bitterness,
But you already knew that, didn’t you?
I don’t know how to roll up the words “I’m sorry” and let them unravel a history of hurt.
I bleed where you wound, but cover up where the dark enters,
I bleed where you see, but cover up where you don’t.
It’s easy to smile and be a poster of sunshine, well, isn’t that what teeth are for? Display?
Josh Nuttall/ Unsplash.com I don’t know how to say “I’m sorry,”
My heart just can’t fathom the words,
My mind knows the feeling, but with it is a memory that’s tainted,
Paint me the color of the night sky,
Color me the hues of anger,
Poster me the aftermath of a hurricane…I don’t know what you expect.
I don’t know how to say “I’m sorry”,
These scars won’t let me forget, every word, thought, action, taste…every single inch of what my memory replays…
So, I sink into my hues of anger, bathe in my bitterness and when dawn comes, I arise, my skin coated with memory, my heart washed clean of feeling and my mind…oh, my mind a haven of data…information that goes back decades to every little thing that you did.
I don’t know how to say “I’m sorry,”
It’s the truth I hold dear when it comes to you.
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I met a girl with summer in her hair.
Sunshine Bright is what I’d call her if I dare.
I met a girl with summer in her hair,
and that was all I needed, better than fresh air.
Autumn Goodman/ Unsplash.com -
You know I love you right?
I could probably say it better, make it mean more than just a confirmation of a declaration, but when it comes to you,
Oh, you unsettle me.
You scatter my wits and where my head reigns you reside.
You know what’s mine before my heart declares it.
We live in words, thoughts and sometimes…we choose to come undone in the consequences.
I live for peace and understanding,
But you who know that what’s written by you can be erased, do not…
So our words come and go but the traces of their presence lingers on.
I love you.
I knew I did when I was eight…and over the years you’ve been a friend, a solace, a confidante…a ruler…
Now here goes my heart, for my mind’s far gone and I seek to venture into my mind to write another story.
You know I love you right?
You know I need you right?
You know that of all I’ve said, only one word rings true, right?
Now be a dear and let’s write.
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I came across this on Lindsey’s blog, A Rambling Reviewer and if you’ve been here for a while, you know that I can never say no to a good book-tag. If you’re new, trust me, this is a fun post because words can be heavy!
So let’s get down to it shall we?
What books have you been gifted that you love?
- Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand
- Americanah by Chimamanda Adichie Ngozi
- In the Kitchen by Monica Ali
What book(s) would you like to give as a gift to someone else?
These are some of the books that are in my collection that I’d love to hand down to my daughter some day.
If you could gift a random person any bookish item, what would it be?
A bookmark, because, you can’t go wrong with that right?
If you could gift a random person any non-bookish item, what would it be?
A mug. Definitely a mug, we all drink some hot beverage 🙂 I think.
What do you say when a person gives you a gift you don’t like?
Um…wow, this is, um…thank you!
Mention a book based around Valentine’s Day.
Mention any two tips for blogging as a gift to other bloggers and to those who may want to start a blog.
- Write as though you are talking to yourself. If it speaks to you chances are it could speak to someone else.
- Edit what you’ve written before sharing it. It’s an interesting way to make sure that you have your words right and whoever is reading knows that you’ve got a handle on your words. If you’re struggling with this- try Grammarly, it’s partially free!
Have a great week and if you enjoyed reading this post, why not jump on it and see what you can answer?
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Send me a River, won’t you?
A slow, steady provision of water, for every tear I’ve shed,
Replenish the salt with fresh pure water,
Slow steady meandering around rocks, ferrying twigs, leaves, branches downstream.
Send me a River, will you?
To be the strength I need when you’re gone,
To be the light I need when you’re coming home,
To be the joy I need when you get home.
To be everything but me…a river would do that.
unsplash.com Send me a River, can you?
To make up for the years you’ve been away,
To soak up the war you carry in your head and heart,
To silence the war in you, and bring back the one I sent out,
To prove that war changes a man, but not his soul…to make me stay up at night praying for you, for your smile…for I’d trade that River for your smile…for your fear, for your anger, for your bitterness, for everything that war did unto you…you know I will.
So, send me a River, that I may wash away these sins…these sins that we wear as our skins, oh that they may not scar our children….
Send me a River.
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I haven’t written another book since wrapping up Sifuna, I fear I may be going crazy.
Not crazy in a downward spiral way, but crazy enough to be restless and spendthrift in buying pencils, writing paper, stick-notes, highlighters and my latest craze is 30 centimeter rulers! I’ve just bought two.
What for?
Well, it so happens that I have these flashes of ideas that are so perfect you’d think they’d make the perfect book, but once I jot them down, then they fizzle out! Just like that!
So, here I am releasing my pent up frustrations to the blogiverse hoping that I’ll be able to settle down and work on a plan…calm my mind and start on something.
So, I’m mulling this over a cup of coffee and listening to my colleague’s rhumba mix which is slowly inducing me to sleep, but he puts up with my classical music so I cannot complain.
Have a lovely week.
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I love the Sun,
But does she love me back?
Does she see me down here, the one who receives the glow from her rays?
I love the Sun,
but how can I know she loves me back?
Should I ask the Moon to send her a message?
Should I like the Night slide into her DMs and maybe…await a response at dawn, of whether she thinks of me?
What would she say, eh?
Do you know?
Do you care to know?
Taiisia Stupak/ Unsplash.com I love the Sun,
But, you know she’s not my type…you know what, she’s way too hot, way to prompt with her rising and setting, and word is, she’s good with the moon.
I love the Sun.
I love how she lives without my consent.
I love how she goes about her business without my approval.
I love that she knows when to step up, shine, blaze, scorch and go to rest.
No one messes with the Sun,
Seven billion and counting have tried and keep trying but she always gets the best of them,
Now wouldn’t that be a beautiful thing, if my sisters could live without the consent of their oppressors?
Now wouldn’t it be a thing to behold if my sisters and I could walk, work, thrive and love without fear? Without the thought of being tied down to a belief, perception, role, rule and person?
I love the Sun,
But does she love me back?
Oh child of the Universe, how life awaits you!
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I see you,
Yes you.
Melody Jacobs/ Unsplash.com You just passed by me, unaware of what the sight of you does to my pheromones.
Oya! Fine Guy, the piece of dark chocolate, in blue jeans and a black t-shirt,
Not you, I’m talking about the one who’s assailed my nostrils with his musky-lime cologne scent.
You are like golden brown fried onions waiting for that blend of tomato to create one mean paste! Have I told you about the movie they’d cast you in? Trust me, even I have no clue, I’m not a movie buff, but as a Writer, I’d never kill you as a character.
Yes, you…I see you.
Oya! Fine Guy, please don’t walk back up to me, because this world is full of surprises and I for one I’m not a fan of shrill tones or accents…
I know, it’s wrong but you know what being prejudiced got Lizzy? Yeah, a fortune!
So, keep your swag and pride walking down the street, your feet carrying you miles away from me as I compose myself.
Oya! Fine Guy! I see you,
Stay fresh all day…this country’s done a number on your type…but for what it’s worth, you Guy, the one who just messed up my composure, you are one fine piece of Art and don’t you ever think or feel otherwise when you stand before the one that’s caught your breath!
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I dream of eons of folklore.
I dream of the words, told unto my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother.
The rustling of her sisal skirt, the walk to the lake, the time spent at the farm and the hopes she had of every sunrise.
But, even these dreams I have are nothing compared to the life she lived…
How would I know?
I dream of eons of folklore.
The world where my great-great-great-great-grandmother danced at sunset,
Her waist a thing of beauty, men could not dare touch it or take their eyes off it,
Her skin, golden, supple and her eyes as rich as the black cotton soil they tilled.
She was the breath of beauty, an epitome of love, but duty and child-bearing dimmed her smile.
How would I know?
I dream of eons of folklore.
The world where my great-great-great-grandmother stood by the shores of Lake Victoria and watched the Queen Victoria ship dock…and she knew nothing would ever be the same.
Her words were not to be uttered for their tongue was better, more approved,
Their god was stronger, mightier and even so, he had a book written about him,
What about Obongo’ Nyakalaga?
How would I know?
Nate Greno/Unsplash.com I dream of eons of folklore.
The world where my great-great-Grandmother boarded a canoe to cross the lake and visit her people, but the lake having known how she labored to give love and received none, swallowed her up…and for years her daughter would weep by the shores, begging the lake to send back her mother.
For what’s this world without mothers?
How would I know?
I dream of eons of folklore.
The world where my great grandmother, a thing of beauty, a heart hardened by loss and intimidation would say that everyone in her line, her generation would never have to suffer for being female.
Oh, how she chased the men away, those who came to inherit her after her husband’s death.
Oh, how she slept with a machete beside her. Worked her farm, took her sons to school, or how when she died, it rained for seven days straight.
How would I know?
I dream of eons of folklore.
A world unlike the one my grandmother resides in, where everywhere she looks she sees nothing but pain and knows one book of the Bible better than all the rest: Lamentations.
Her golden skin…I peel for layers of who she was when I knew her,
Her eyes reminiscent of grey skies, dry rivers, drought and waiting…a certain kind of waiting that’s only known to her god.
But, if you see her god, tell her that I would like to talk to her…over coffee perhaps?
I dream of eons of folklore.
A world like the one I reside in that has seen the rise and fall of women, of skins that glow in the dark, thoughts that reverberate through generations, eyes that see the unseen, hearts that bleed over the lost souls…
Oh, I dream and sometimes when I close my eyes, my soul gets a nod from all these souls that have gone before me, and that is enough to scare me awake!
nilichoandika 