Essy The Poet

By Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros OSF  Don’t be disquieted by this quiet. The eyelids guarding the soul, kind of were tired. To the world, it seemed the being out hired.  A few windows needed closed, For better acoustics, and accoutrements too.   A few scales needed shed, and a fatty element or two. The clichés got to my nerves; Spoken with little commitment, in halves. ‘It’s okay not to be okay.’ And this was not okay.   So the run broke, pursuant of the quitter, There were songs solemn yet deep, alongside the guitar. But wasn’t it obvious? How the pursuit sought To barely acquit its demons from without? So, away with clichés and clinchers that I hear. The actual fountain is to beheld only in discrete care. Because the inner acoustics, delightful rhythmical as a nonet,    Might be dampened, by the draught from without. So don’t be disquieted by this quiet, it’s busy, consumed by the orchestra within. Oh! Such triumph in quiet.   ©25 th March 2020 07

By Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros Pride looks good on you; Don’t mistake me, I know it’s a sin. Feminine resentment, jealousy, thievery, akin. It’s not the kind in you, my fair blay,   It wouldn’t have been remarkable, I’d say. It’s the way you embrace your wounds, naming them; Old, freckled, yet dry and sly, This pride looks good on you.   Pride looks good on you;   Don’t raise your brows, craving some tattle; A litany of crookedness, in beings you choose.   It’s not the miscellany around your indictment; That ought to go as it always does, forgiven!   It’s the way you choose your woes to war. Hurting yet hurtling on, unbuoyed, uncowed. This pride looks good on you.   Pride looks good on you; Don’t be prejudiced, contemptuous of her foresight; Sharp swords of tongues, insatiable as a gossiper’s lips It’s not greed, a hybrid of discontent goals; It the way you settle not for a duke, When you can have a prince. The good book spells glory to glory

By Sr. Esther Koros OSF In memory of my late Grand ma .  At the funeral, make it soft for us, Let the casket down gently and slow Not roughly the way you drop a burning iron.     At the funeral, make it soft for us, Let fine sand caress the casket gently and slow Not huge stones and cut deep making a second kill.   At the funeral, make it soft for us, Let the sand form a fresh mound Not forcing it flat with hardened heels.   At the funeral, make it soft for us, Let the grave diggers not be merry Not as if they are preparing banana holes.   At the funeral, make it soft for us, Let the huge lamps on our throats break lose Not the hardhearted preacher asking us to be strong.   At the funeral, make it soft for us, Let our resigned hurt hearts break in bits Not the way you rush us to heal.   For I know for sure, we shall meet again. 0726179789  essyjeru@gmail.com