Essy The Poet

I needed to heal a wound unnamed— too many in one way, or one way too many. It throbbed in silence, kept me restless, took my voice, yet begged to be heard. It curled beneath my skin, raw and red, a whisper pressed against my ribs, a bruise I could not place. Where are you, hidden ache, that deepens each time I try to soothe you? Are you in my mind, where old shadows speak? Are you in my heart, where love once cracked? Are you in the soft fold of memories I dare not unfold? Come forth, step into the light, bleed clearly, if you must— but let me see you. Let me name you. Only then can we begin to close. We are not enemies, you and I— you, wound, are a part of my becoming. So show yourself, not to haunt, but to heal. And when you're ready, we’ll breathe again as one.  By Essy The Poet Lets keep our mental health in check. 

(A Poem on FGM) I was just a girl... Kim on my back, Kicking and wailing like he knew what the day held. My dress — tugged up, My back — bare, My ears — full of his cries... But my soul? My soul was listening to something deeper. A sound... Not quite human. A wail, Ripping through the bush like a curse set free. Running feet — Not joy, Not play — But terror. I should've run. I should've screamed. But I froze... Like my grandma’s chicken sensing death in the wind. They took her. Aunt Cheru. The girl who topped the district. The one with Nairobi dreams and Jesus in her prayers. Three boys. Three shadows of men, Dragged her like a goat headed for slaughter. And she screamed — “I don’t want it!” “I hate it!” But they didn’t hear her humanity. They only heard tradition. Mum came home... Ate ugali and mursik like nothing happened. Napoleon of our village — Yet her silence was a sword that pierced deeper than any cut. I dreamed that night. Of boys chas...

We celebrate Easter in a world still wearing a crown of thorns, where Good Friday shadows stretch long across lands groaning with war's echo. Yet a chant of peace rises— fragile, fearless— like lilies pushing through stone. In Gethsemane’s hush, He stood beneath the olive trees, offering not resistance, but surrender: "This is your hour— the hour of shadows and swords, of betrayals cloaked in kisses." And evil, with hollow triumph, claimed its fleeting throne. But long before that hour, when whispers warned of Herod’s hand, He did not flee. “Go tell that fox,” He said, “Not yet. I have work— three days of it.” Days not counted in time, but in truth. Two days to unveil the face of the Father, to pierce the veils of unbelief. And the third— ah, the third— a mystery crowned in light. For evil may have its hour, but God— God has His day. And the two are never apart, for the seed must fall, must die in darkness, before it bursts into dawn. ...

Even though my heart was bleeding, Even though my feet dragged like chained iron, Even though their eyes were knives — And I dared not meet their stare — Still, I showed up. Even though the skies hung low, Heavy with shame, dripping silence, Even though my heart buckled And my mind folded its arms — Refusing to rise, refusing to reason — Still, I showed up. Even though my soul staggered At the weight of memory, Even though the door outside Crept open like a reluctant friend, Even though shadows clung to me like old scars — Still, I showed up. Because showing up Is sometimes all we have. It is the first yes, The fragile seed of courage, The broken hallelujah Whispered at midnight. The hour of nothing, The hour of everything — And still,I showed up. Sr. Esther Koros  #Show up regardless of the situation. It eventually comes to pass. 

I sit here, reading Maura's lines, Words of young hearts caught in tangled vines. A father's pride, a silent ache, A world of change I cannot fake. Fifteen, sixteen — hearts aflame, They speak of love, they speak of shame. But what do they know of love so deep? Of nights a father lies awake, can't sleep. She is my child — my heart, my song, Raised by my hands, kept from the wrong. Yet here I find her soul in flight, Writing to strangers in the night. Shanty, my star, my gentle dove, Why seek so early another's love? Did I not teach you the skies to read? The worth of patience, the strength to heed? I told you a story, not just of old, But of a heart once young, once bold. Tolot — a name from distant land, Who learned that love is more than hand in hand. It's courage to wait, to know your worth, To find your wings before love’s birth. And here you sit, my daughter, dear, Eyes wide open, heart sincere. No more secrets, I plead tonight, Let truth be ours beneath moonli...

He told me— A stout, ancient-looking simpleton, Who thought himself a man. I disagreed. In his time of vague austerities, He uttered the most foolish things, Spewing undiscerned trinkets, Manufacturing hate in my poison sacs. "Something wobbly about the left hand,"  he said, "Its sole aim—to make symmetrical, Like a drive in the misty wind." In the same way, he claimed, A woman’s insufficiency is felt,  Owing to her absence during the great admonition: "Do not touch the tree in the middle." As a leader. As a daughter. As a chief. "Ish, ish..." —a sense of discontent runs sharp When a woman leads. So I detested the stout fellow,  Not for his clout, But for the thin air feeding his thoughts, Drifting in little doses. "Shut it, stout fellow, or I will throw up." Oops. I just did . Dear Reader,  March has been generous in sending me Muses. She may still have a Muse or two, or maybe nothing more. I can never tell. This, however, is to all g...