Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash

Time kept seasons conclude. Summer springs
A brightening then its sulfurous noontides wins,
Wash away tardily like a repenting Midas.
He says, ‘Here’s a gift, out of my touch idol,
A late summer bloom like switching off polite,
Fluorescent lights to see stars―light giving way to light;
Like holding oceans weightless and without
Drowning in the small aperture of the eyes allowed.
The grapes ripen purple and hemorrhage red wine,
Just as to where eyes can’t find what they search, resign
To the keen-edged hands and calling voice to find;
So it’s not over and done even after death’s pride.
It’s a turn in season, the shadows informing volunteered
Where the light leads…


Photo by Louis Smit on Unsplash

Protuberant human body lifted vertically in length
By a pulse and graceful aggression for breath,
Movement and purpose of an individuated psyche.
A homebody with the earth as home―slightly
Recumbent on its axis. To take up the responsibility
Or to give up the responsibility for oneself. Vividly,
Both are predictors of suffering. The latter astonishing sum,
More suicidal and often coupled with blithe sardonicism
At how idiotic cactus blooms in areas of discontents―
Not seen or desired, how the wind servile-bends
The cornfield or grassland to its whimsical flight
Without protests, and however long you dare to live,
Life ultimately betrays you to death. Here lies an ordeal,
An argued truth in part
―the…


Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash

Prosaic lament at the tempo of an ocean aloud.
Washing in, washing out, frothy at the mouth―
Turbulence predicted, and exiled time after time,
Onto a muddy body that dreams of the sublime
Hammocked on small hours’ vapors we grasp,
Often, on the hypnotic swaying of seagrass―
Ill-disposed cons attempting to steal a breath
Away. If unsuccessful, a single housefly affair
Spooks instead, with crisscrossing high buzzes,
Rampant pokes, which topple the dream in rushes
Upside down, led startled at the precipice, despond,
And all the weight mustered on fingers holding on

To the ledge, holding onto an almost betraying…


Photo by the blowup on Unsplash

A head of ironic humor. A cranium of hidden hemispheres
Random sequencing egrets to the right, telling fibs,
And out to the left fledged on a wing and a wing.
A flight of continual white lightning in sync
To keeping-up eyes. Perceptible of themselves high,
Should these egrets be caged behind closed eyes―
How cramped, they’d have to fold a long neck,
A leg, and a leg into an egg yolk in effect―
A paragon for how a storm rushes in convoked
To usher benign weather; instead, they poke
Each other’s eye for an eye, out on a rebellious hinge
Of croaking gnaws. So when the light finally falls in,
They’d still…


Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Bubblegum wide-eyed dreamers
Painting the sun June and a swirly lollipop.
Sticky sweet full of grammatical boo-boos letters,
Red heart-shaped sign-offs
And see you the soonest.

But where do darlings go?
The first of firsts. The last of firsts.

Summer comes and, ‘I’m moving away.’
Up-sets us far away, sunbeam-borne away,
A fall away.
Unpinned by google maps―
Those soul-rupturing, toasty brown eyes
Easing my frown lines―it’s now was.
Damn! I’m spent of wishes to call you darling again.

Do you keep count of the lost summers between us?
The dimmed sun that ushered you off once.
Does your bucket list now…


Photo by Meagan Collins on Unsplash

The mulish discipline of the uncaged sun freedoms.
A hazardous might of possible lugubrious fevers.
If dreamed, it sings like tinnitus and round a carousel
You go gaily, brightly you go round and about again
Until it turns nightmarish: on the back
Of every rocking horse, it’s you enacted
At varying stages of life. A peal of blithe laughter pierce
And zooms past trailing with echoes, a careworn horse
In tow―statuary grief which quickly exasperates eyed,
The now hoary and tired you ready to quit the ride.

Wake up! It’s a nightingale on a pulpit, deathless
And with a new hosanna…


Photo by Cherry Laithang on Unsplash

Postmodern sages will awake from the blood-beat plows
Of the better fools’ veins, bravely willing to sprout
Free-spirited into the open-air yet ancestrally rooted,
They remember their history and learn from its bruises.

The harvesters of universal metaphors on how to cry,
To grieve, to dry tears, then sowers of these seeds’ sigh
For full moon’s torch lit eyes to lift again.
All this, outside the desert of a blank page
Miraged by dictatorial lines. …


Photo by NordWood Themes on Unsplash

Homicidal denial. The trimming of one’s vision
Within the boundaries it can only stretch to driven
As far as the arrow of Pharisaic morality curves
To its halt of isms that badge the mind to rigid nerves;
No flying thing hovers above that disquiet frame
For there’s no one to venerate their seeing claim
Of the unseen, the mapping of the mapless skies;
The self flew away too, wailing out of sight highs,
Where light creases the dark like a misshapen portal. …


Photo by thom masat on Unsplash

The woken up dreamer. The swerving bright and viscous
Colors disrupted in their slow and hypnotic motion’s ambition.
Legs angle one hundred and eighty degrees steady,
Lifted taller. Fingers cave into fists if necessary,
Or open into palms with the expectation to attract
The empathy you’ve inspired, there’s little under that
To contend into a disappointment before death’s rinse
Strolls in to dissolve the borderlines of our skin
And its scars, the big wound trimmed down to bones
And teeth, such weights lifted as simple as dust-loams.

To walk on water, freeze it first. To be baptized,
Be OK to drown…


Photo by alexandros Giannakakis on Unsplash

The second coming is a cycle of waking up probe
Until you don’t, of reaching to an innate hope,
Of winging on its astonishing workabilities in sum;
A daily glide of turning our faces to the unwearied sun
Pushing it down the rimming horizon of our eyes
While darkness stretches out, hush murmuring wise
With your heart, which flows out old rumors of verbs
Of new schemes exciting the puppeteer nerves
To create visions of drinking the sun until transfigured
To grow all that nectars, mocha, or licorice root giggled
For sweet tea, to bask in the white-sand, ocean-blue,
Palm-green lit weather, while somnambulistic love ooh
Brims and spills as titillating samba―rushing…

Wanjiku Wanjiru

should my words collide with your heart in a dance of chance, my noble deed is complete. thank you for stopping by. call me Wanj ! © 🌻💕🌼

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