Sea-Crab Poetry

It’s now break time And it’s been a while Working on a concrete recipe. I fish out my gadget To pen a verse That had knocked At the gate of my soul. Hey!  Get back to work! This verse I’ve been sheltering Since daybreak Won’t manifest yet. Tomorrow morning The foreman and his target Awaits me Like a circumcision Not later than eight. A battle with my Being Who won’t easily give up The fragrance of the night. Today I’ll tether earlier To the realm of slumber– A promise Unfulfilled yet. It’s now past three– A blend of fulfilment  And regret. And what’s the time? It’s eight thirty. Fuck it!  Can we try our luck? O no! Mûrîithi won’t entertain. Aah, today we can rest. Today,  Slumber grabbed me Where I lay  On this couch, Placed me on her lap With her cozy bosom As my pillow And shut me down. Here,  Where we cook concrete I stagger Like a man on tequila When the sun is up. My most beautiful conversations Have been with the moon And the stars. How can I prop up ...

Poets A great day, for you Awaits. There will be time That suffices for you To recite all you wish. Aspiring medics You have me In your bench Where you dissect cadavers. I see you In white overalls Injecting embalming fluid That moves around In my vessels– This body Finally resting With its knowledge And defilements Except the poetry Will land in your hands. That day I will no longer be A man by the name Robert But a specimen With a tag– Next to a lecturer Holding a dissection kit Waiting for aspiring medics To storm the lecture hall. I see some aspiring medics Fainting helplessly Screaming At the top of their voices Regretting Why they chose medicine And changing faculties. I hope you won't tremble Next to my cadaver Because I was a harmless poet– Feel safe near me Kiss me And hug me If you can. Away from the lab– My future ice-cold grave. And back to my home To the society That nurtured my seedling Into a tree Lying  On a dissection bench– Yours Is a great program Prepared by the...

I find dread In saying this– I will say it, anyway. I see nostalgic images Of black and white. In those awry images He looks at me  With innocence Like an object Atop the Burj Khalifa. Daddy! Please lift me up! He says in echoes. I eye him  In black and white Jumping up and down Energetically and happily Like a calf  In the morning sun. I eye him In black and white Innocently ravaging The pumpkin leaves, Jungle green and vigorous, While playing  On the fluffy carpet Of dry grass. I hear his voice  In echoes And see his images  In black and white Waking me up  At daybreak  Crossing over to me And calling out vibrantly Daddy! I feel hungry! I see him chanting The Kamba songs  That we learn When resting on our bed. I see images of my pie Like a prophecy And hear his unripe voice Like a man under captivity Of a strange intoxicant. (Written in December 2019, on an unclear date.) © Sea-Crab Poetry. (Voyager of Words) Similar Poetry  Letter to ...

In the vast ocean of existence, you are the tide, unyielding, carrying with you the whispers of distant galaxies and the weight of earthly truths. Your words are not mere syllables; they are vessels, each one a journey into the marrow of life, each one a lighthouse, for those lost in the storm. I have walked through your worlds, those woven from your verses— Mars, with its red dust and endless promise, the Jezero Crater where dreams settle like ancient lakes, and Olympus Mons, where only the fearless dare to climb. I have stood at the edge of Terra, watching you leap toward the unknown, carrying not fear, but the hope of a species longing for rebirth. You are an architect, a builder of bridges that span the chasm between the stars and the depths of the human soul. Your hands hold the tools of creation— ink that bleeds the colors of the universe, and a heart vast enough to hold both the frailty and the infinite strength of mankind. Your words are tombstones etched in the hearts of men, ...

'My man' Will king the airwaves  The new identity When penny-laden Is the wallet. When the tokens  Begin, with warnings, To flicker in red. Then transforms The label  To ‘that person'. Out there  In searing darkness Coming home  Back from the dens. Knock! Knock! Knock! To the realms of dreams She's tethered Within the confines Of a morgue. He’s got to find  Somewhere To lay his head And temporarily  Bury his woes And wait  For the next daybreak To eye  His beloved progeny. O boy child, Aren't you aware  That your tokens  Beep in red flickers? She’s so adoring  And warm Like a gourd Homing hot porridge. During the conjugals She’s a millipede That coils and uncoils. She’s a martial artist With amazing stunts That leave no stone  Unturned. But when the tokens  Begin to warn His siring machine  Props up the blankets Like a tent in a function With no one on Earth  To dismantle the tent. Were he an adolescent...

Some days are stuck Stationary  Yet in motion. Today I woke up And met up  With golden beams Of pleasant sunshine  Elegantly peeping their way Into my dark bedroom. She had gone to church To commemorate  The New Year’s Eve. Nostalgic memories  Of last night- In our tenets Was only me  And my pie Exploding fireworks In a somehow unofficial way For we did it at nine something  In the evening. We couldn’t wait until midnight Since soon  He will be drowning In an immense sea of sleep. In the compound, Moonlit, We detonated  The little fancy bomb Then it flew  In the wrong direction Like an estranged space shuttle. So it soared  In the direction of the school And I’m pretty sure That the watchman  Had his bowels boil. Soon my pie Was drifted away By a wind of sleep And I was left In the company of stars Roaming the night  Eyelids propped up Like a security light. I’m among the handful  Of night owls Whose thoughts roam...

It was a good life– With my abilities As a spacecraft, I flew Into depths so enormous Into the space Of my existence. When I was alive I had a particle That broke off me Who one time Became a stray one. Such a ruby He once and ever,  Beautified, My cataclysmic existence Before came the Petals. He was a sharp lad- A replica of me. He was my best star In the Milky Way. My thoughts of him At some point Postponed me From stretching my hand And pick a herbicide To spray the couch grass That'd colonized Mine soil. When I existed I was the first apple Among other four With whom I was picked From the same tree. Although the tree Demonized the first apple Before their eyes I still hearted them Hoping that one day They'd know Why I existed. When the volcano Of my existence Was still erupting I was a rebel– I waged war In deeds And in soul spills Against well-beaten paths To forge my own. I was a prodigal son Once pushed , f or a decade Against the wall For rebelling against ways Preprogr...

At the axis Of an invincible rose And the poetic voyager Is an onset Of soul spills That never waver. Where flagrant petals Magically merge With the wavy waters Arises a sun unbeaten By cold fires And hot ices– From their axis Comes flares of hope Amidst infernal flares. Where the blissful flagrance Of the magical rose Hugs the roar Of the raging sea Is a flux divine- A union of flames twin Of yang and ying. At their nexus Is a world sheltered In flagrant radiance. Flagrant soul spills Laden with wit, Unwavering hope And soul medicine Fuse flawlessly With those of the Crab Birthing a poetry Double-edged Like a samurai sword. Where petals meet the sea The daunting barriers That color the voyage Toward a poetic destiny Of twin flames Are snow At the onset of spring. © Sea-Crab Poetry. (Voyager of Words) A Bit of Notes Would you want to dive into a realm awash with poems like Where Petals Meet the Sea ? Poems of this rosy and flagrant nature can be unearthed from Souls   Merged. BROWS...

With the night sky as the world, and the celestials as nations, Lebanon was a star, on which I found myself. How and when I landed there, remains a mystery. I was escalating a steep mountain side, somewhere in this nation. Seeking the way from a young man who spoke Kamba, weirdness was mapped squarely before my soul. Kambas littered this Lebanese highland. Afterward, I recall not, how I parted with the young man and began seeking shelter from an elderly man. There's some home he referred me to, that I recall not. The man spoke Kamba, too. Throughout, I saw no Arab. Nor any Jew. I went on to talk to a young Kamba lady, in the land of pines. How far is Beirut. Just a hundred. A hundred what? Dinar, she said. I don't know if they use Dinar. Is the Dinar used here, really? Ah, confusing! Is this Ararat? She said yes. How far are we from where Noah's ark landed? Not so far, somewhere just yonder. But is Mount Ararat really in Lebanon? Perplexity clothed my soul. I remembered tha...

I'm hooked To profuse soul spillage And spilling my soul ink On this canvas Where I meet my world Colors every facet Of my wavy-watered being– I spill on my canvas Inks of all colours. Sometimes it feels Like the bathroom Takes an eon of my existence– Rinsing all soap From my body Housing my soul That rages with verses Seems to go sluggish, Sometimes showering With my gaze on my gadget Lying on the bed. All I want Is to save my gadget From getting water-stained– I will only wipe my hands And sometimes Care less About soap foam That clothes me. All I want Is Office Mobile. Sometimes  A shadow of oblivion Casts itself On my food that cooks. So I head to my gadget And start penning Poems that nag my soul. Poems are like souls– They nag and haunt. So my food Will be coals Far from intended. Sometimes My gadget charges in centuries At a time my soul yearns For the latest ink spilled On some canvases To which my soul is hooked. Sometimes when away From my gadget I feel like picking A pie...