You picked me up like the breeze
Does the dried leaf on a tree
Rushed headlong with me
Wild, heedless and free

You whirled me around in the breeze
Of your love until reality’s gravity
Overcame you and me
And I found we could not be

You held me up in the breeze
Long as you could possibly
But the inevitable, evitable inanevitable
Pull of fate would not let you stay

You were my only one-the breeze
And now some love me with great gusts of lust
Or the slow trickle of those that love for they must
Yet for just,
A moment in your happy swirl
I’d give all the world…

© kevin gachuma

I give up,so i win,
from the long drawn out
contest of wills it has been
it seems we both haggle
for want of a fair deal
and for there to be a we-
I must first lose me,
Sacrifice my pride at the altar of my being.

So I submit to victory,
to flee from the past
explorer of the future-
rather than student of history
I stand steadfast
In my quest to yield
to this free-fall feeling-
that seems to be the only thing
anchoring me.

For never has there been
so lovely an adversary
and in the terrible uncertainity we feel,
as we stand apart in this mine-filled battlefield
I see,
if I am to be a casualty
It is to be at your hand.
that and none other.

© kevin gachuma

As I watch them work and work alongside
Dark veined muscles, sinews and bright smiles
These men
My friends, my heroes, men’s men
That dare to turn dust soot and grime
into a thing of pride, into a badge of honour
monkey wrenches and spanners into a mark of valour
poverty and servitude into a form of glamour
sunburned scarred skin and calloused hands
proudly borne as their own form of armour

These men are my fathers,
These men are my heroes,
These men are my comrades in a struggle-
that only we know
These men are my teachers
They’ve Taught me to shun the shallow pleasure
of making a quick buck,
for the deep satisfaction of an honest days work
Trust patience and perseverance in place of dumb luck
Try time tested ways when the shortcuts are stuck

And they make music too,
these men, my mentors
clash of sheet metal
tap of hammer at chisel
songs of casual banter
chorused by coarse laughter
then a deep silence after
for though they sometimes joke-
they never speak out of turn.
not unless they have to

Merely casual workers?
no-more like car doctors
with black tape band-aids
sutures of welding iron
and until he comes, your car-
looks forlornly on
then he places his hand on her boot
as gently as he would-
with any lady, looks at you,
with a smile that says
“soon she’ll be good as new”

Next he opens her bonnet,
creases his brow in wonder
takes a bed and goes under
reappears soon tells you the trouble is spotted,
takes a stubby pen and pad from his pocket
makes a list of this or that doodad, part and sprocket
(plus, of course a healthy chunk of his own profit!)

He goes under her again
finally, he says your vehicles okay
“and if she’s any more trouble, come back again”
when you drive away,
leave him in the smoke and dust you stir in your wake
It is not for you the satisfied smile on his face
It is that of a man who’s finally found his place
his role though small, is his vocation, his call
and he gives it his all, with no second thought

This man is my father,
This man is my hero,
This man is my mentor,
comrade together in a struggle
that only we know.

© kevin gachuma

Please,
chain me,
and once more I will be free,
this prison has been my home,
so far all that I have known,
and I have grown,
accustomed to it’s dark cold,
and a company all of my own.

You say you have freed me-
is that so?
Then, where did you intend me
to go?
Back to anonymity,
in a society I no longer know?
At least in there I had a name,
and a number by which i was known,
and in my hunger and squalor, I wasn’t alone.

For surely what is this world,
if not a larger cell block,
whose inmates I know not,
yet as i stand and watch them walk-
past, hurried and fast,
at last I understand,
it is simply from the comfort of confinement,
to the isolation of independence,
that i have been cast.

Please,
whip me,
so that once more i may feel,
so that life
may, once more, become real,
for though i understand captivity,
the terror and suffering it means,
it is with this…this
nothingness i cannot deal
without this pain, the happiness is nil
and without these how can i know i live still?

Please,
dominate me,
yes please, oppress me,
you see, as a slave driver you define me,
for hating you helps me survive,
running from you keeps me alive,
my spirit derives it’s drive,
from my will not to succumb to your strife,
like the warrior,
fatally wounded,
one hand holding his guts together,
while with the other,
with all of his dying might,
slashing his adversaries left and right,
knowing he lives only as long as this fight,
and only when it’s over,
will he surrender to the blinding white light,
and darkness of everlasting night,

Please,
bind me and blind me,
for only what i perceive,
is my reality,
i do not long for clarity,
for through it i see only disparity,

Yes please,
imprison me,
for i prefer a misery that is certain,
to a freedom that is foreign…

© kevin gachuma

Though moulded of the same dough,
were all cast of a different mould,
most rise soft and springy as bread,
other misfits end up as biscuits instead,
yet none wants to be the thing that they were born and bred,
to be,

and it baffles me,the irony,
that though there’s time for each,
in any ordinary bakery,
bread soon tries to harden,
and winds up stale instead,
and biscuits crumble,become brittle,
soon as they try to soften,
and be bread.

© kevin gachuma