Words Much Like Poetry

Andromeda, Gustave Doré Part of the collection Dues for the Repose: From Words Much Like Poetry  by Wamuhu Mwaura "   Near Joppa, guarded by a monster of the Earthshaker’s lending , I left her chained without hope—for Perseus is long dead , abandoned to oblivion by the fickle beliefs of men —  " [ Kindle Edition for instant reading. ]

when love is lost and all is frost I clamor for most only to get tossed all color is lost the fire is doused the life of a ghost has me as its host is life to me closed? while sentiment was forced I knew I had lost my wants, as always, paused all around is frigid all taste is tepid my appetites turn arid everything tastes acrid am I paying for what I did? aye, 'tis the price of my misdeed a waver from my principles solid a turn to the sordid my desire unsorted I turn decrepid I abandon all that is avid and fall into this darkness so rabid

of affection and passion I cast aside it betrays me at every turn the promise of bliss and soft embrace false and aborted always I shall then only seek to make my own way abandoned by the bosom of companion comfort I turn my loneliness to inspiration upon a writ I pour a bled heart my face set to a permanent frown my words set to a rudeless firmness my feelings shall lack sentimentality as my mind takes on an unforgiving world

Apparently, no, it wasn't (oh, and Antony, this is another tale entirely). Before the Birth of Dear D.D. and shortly after the Wrath of the Red Bird, my heart, young as it was, found its first object to desire. In the grand scheme of things, I spent little time in the pursuit of his affections. And what emotion I bore for him died an ugly death at the hands of a girl I considered a good friend when she betrayed my secret. I cannot be sure how true my reasoning is, but it seems that as human beings it is in our nature to consider those we know who have knowledge of our deepest, sometimes darkest, secrets to be our friends. Those we know who do not share in knowledge of the caged, murky parts of ourselves, we term acquaintances. At the age of ten, the word acquaintance had no meaning, to me it was merely a long, hard to spell word that adults used to describe certain people. And since I knew nothing of acquaintances, all my friends knew my one big secret. The girl who eventually betr...

I began keeping a journal in December of 1994 at the age of twelve. At some point in the first year of the faithful chronicling of my legend, I read the Diary of Anne Frank. I found myself suddenly bored with beginning each of my journal entries with the oh-so-usual Dear Diary, but I couldn't for the life of me find a "pet name" that I thought really striking. In October of 1995, I finally settled on D.D., which stands for Dear Diary. 10/24/95 Dear D.D. I feel so miserable right now. My heart aches so much for me to confess my true feelings. The torture my mind and heart (are) experiencing is almost unbearable. For so many weeks there have been few times I have cried, but I think the days of my crying every night are coming back. I am so desperate for what I want to be given to me. Many a time I have (en)visioned the things that I want. Yet every day is another disappointment. Bye! And so, she was born, this inanimate object which over the years became akin to a living en...

I can't remember the exact age that I took an interest in writing. I do remember my first self-published work though. It was entitled "Wrath of the Red Bird" and must have totaled no more than 4 loose leaf sheets of stapled-together paper. I was nine. The short-short story reflected a concept I was nearly obsessed with at that age. I was, and still am, a comic book fan. Terrible of me not to remember the name I gave my main character, a twenty-something woman who was known for her kind heart. I believe the story was thrown out a number of years ago, a victim of one of my late father's cleaning rages. Or, it's somewhere on this continent, in a room I haven't ventured into since a year before my father's death. If not there, then perhaps I left it in Kenya, buried in a box full of memories left in the safe care of my elderly grandmother. Let's, for the sake easy reference, call the main character of my first short-short story, Petra. As stated, Petra was...