Essy The Poet

  The raging subtlety propels her into fierce audacity, Cognizant of the Master’s semblance, seasoned agony. Whose countenance was subdued in blood and sweat, Never losing sight of the price, many a soul to save, ever sweet. And so, the pilgrim, as sure as unfailing hope, Walked the path less travelled, scanty in pop.   If you should see the pilgrim, her posture slanted sideways, Her feet, with a staggering beauty, bound by duty always, You might consider a new shoe, in your spontaneity. You might consider a quick lift to lessen the lethargy. You might consider new beads for the rosary, less sweaty. But the pilgrim seeks not the comfort of novelty.   The pilgrim desires to overcome the vice of flesh, To embrace the sharp thorn of discomfiting mess. Honed by unrelenting thirst, drenched in sweaty grittiness. Purified under the scorching sun, hushed by thoughts of unworthiness Raised in union with things above, mortified of transgression. Hastening and scurrying, to be rid ...

  Selective Amnesia This one happens to the best of us.   A painful kind of procrastination  The one that costs you your destination  I am headed right to get to the left  And somehow, I don't think it hefty  The whisking away of time in painful anticipation  The deceitful ken that tells you to await a celebration  Or some sort of special occasion,  Before let off, a deep seated confession.  That time, the perfect interlude to interject Never really comes; or maybe it Coles disguised So it's appearance is thwarted  With symptoms of better days, such a guise.  Then you end up dead and buried  Still wearied with a load you spite So, my fellow pilgrim, be not a wondering hermit  But an enthused pilgrim in a light habit  Barely laden Because you confess every so often.  Aware that no perfect interlude comes at all.  Unless you creat one  See you in paradise, fellow pilgrim.  Such a voice of h...

  I keep pondering the endless nightmare— The daily exhortation of patriotism and national values, The colorful flag we were taught to die defending. The books we read that shunned graft, That kept us awake through the cold night drafts. The echoes of liter-less cities, And the cries for huduma and heshima Above every other virtue. Was it a lie? Because I grew up one day, Feet eager to practice those solemn lessons on display. My peers and I— High in morals, Longing for truth over lies, Social justice over selfish caprice, Honest service over whimsical promises, Good governance over abuse of office, Equity over discrimination. Soon, I had to unlearn what I had learnt. This disquieting discovery sent my adrenaline restless— And I took to the streets, Seeking justice as a matter of duty. If my words on socials could not solve this, I’d upset the streets until they heard me. But deaf are they— With swollen bellies, full to the ears, And egos bloated to the brim—hubris at its best! The...

I married a gambler. It wasn’t easy— The gambler. Busied by tricks, Around the aviatrix.  He spent his nights at the casino, His days lost in loan apps. I barely caught a glimpse of him, But I paid the debt. Day in, day out— We sold and sold and sold, Chasing a dream buried in losses. Trying to catch up with the debt, Yet the gambler always found a way To spend what little we had left. You don’t want to meet the gambler, But let me tell you— The grumbler is the most charming prince around. The most convincing soul I’ve ever known, And yet, he came grumbled and gambled and unchilled— Leaving us humbled, with nothing. My dear Gambler husband, What’s left for you to gamble, But this house, Now just a hollow cave? Oh, my gambler husband— If only you’d stop the gambling, And come back. We could start over. Because I still love the light in your eyes. I never wanted this to end. I love you, My Gambler # Easy 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...

  I spoke of metamorphosis once before, A change from within, a path to restore. But now I see a different tide, Sweeping through the halls with pride. Penelope, once my student bright, Now fills my heart with silent fright. A freshman lost in love’s embrace, Trapped by passion’s fleeting grace. She swore she’d die if left alone, Her heart was his, her soul was owned. Yet love soon twisted, turned, and swayed, And with time, the dream decayed. A ringless vow, a whispered plea, A secret pact none came to see. Motherhood knocked, she turned away, And sent the shadowed guest astray. With her third wave, she shed her past, A reckless soul, unbound, unmasked. Lavish men with wealth untold, Draped in diamonds, drowned in gold. Big cars, big dreams, a lavish spree, The world her stage, her spirit free. Books and studies cast aside, For fleeting joy and sinful pride. Then time raced forth with no delay, The final wave was on its way. Desperate hands sought grades once more, While morals cr...

Pictures taken from the internet Tame my soul, you tried— Tame my spirit too, Tame me to your small cage, But my spirit flies free.   Tame me, you tried— Tame the books, tame the rooms, Tame me, you will try again. The world was worried I might suffocate it with glee.   Eve was named and burdened with sin. Jocasta had a name yet was bound to fate. And Aristotle—ah, his words endure, But she, silent, erased— Yet how did they procreate?   They erased my name, Pushed me to the margins of the Holy Book. But behold Mary Magdalene— Two millennia, yet still she speaks her truth.   They erased my name, So, I lived behind a pseudonym— Yet behold T.S. Eliot, behold Karen Blixen. And then there is me, Subdued in deceit, Taught to despise my own reflection, To make my own nemesis.   Fellow woman, You are strong, you are witty, you are formidable. Choose today— To lift, not break, to stand, not silence.   See how the world mocks women still, How Kawira was cast aside, H...

I call her the beast of burden, there is a hue of hope! A conniving of nature, to torture, no stop. Redundant as history, a familiar story One that restrains them, from soaring up the storey. Hey beast of burden, a hue of hope awaits! Coz I tell you what? The future is female.   Think of the odds you have beaten… The years of voicelessness when you wouldn’t vote, The years of breathlessness when you got beaten into submission The years of uncouthness, when your sexuality was mutilated. The years of illiteracy, when you earned your accolades in the kitchen. The years of homelessness when land belonged to men. Hey woman, aren't you tough! Hey, Damsel, The twilight is here A Cheerful dawn To haunt, to hold, to hone! Because the future is female! .   Don’t tire just yet, Damsel! You still got some repulsiveness to beat! Beat the titles; be the pilot not a female pilot Be the rapper, not a female rapper Be the doctor, not a female doctor. Be the social capital, not the enemy of eac...

Have you seen the one whom my heart loves? Song 3:3 Resonated by the Mary of Magdala at the wake of Resurrection. Recall the devastation, the frustration, the wonderment? Of a woman in love and loss all at once, the confusion? He soon passed away and was no more; though I looked for him, he could not be found. Psalm 37:36 Here goes the tone of pain.   Designate was the voice that called, Mary! John 20:16 Intimate and consummate was the trill, so merry! The voice pitched in hope, cleared the guise. Does it happen that the deceased are rekindled? She sought for a corpse to accord a decent burial, But HE comes whole, victorious and alive! The pain turned victory!   Feminine audacity, she’s the first herald. Announcing the Good news! “He’s risen!” The sinner forgiven much, loves much. Luke 7:47 Many a person will promise love. But when a woman loves, she loves to bits. Crowned apostle, sweet little pebble. Found Him whom her heart loved. ...

My Lord gazes profoundly, a hue of tenderness,           Usually our glances penetrate each other, I deeply gulp.  But this day, shame dwarfs my uncanniness, So that I come reluctant as a dirge I come anyways Lord, lame as me.  I might be filthy, swarmed in grit,  I might be distraught, burdened with regret, I might be violent, me judging me.  For not breaking the bad, but could I ? I come anyways Lord, lame as me.  Didn't you promise, where sin increases, Your grace does too, your highness? Rm 5:20 You have the means to unlock these chains, And free the sinner, burdened by pain.   So I come anyways Lord, lame as me.  For to whom else shall I go? You have the message of eternal life. Jn 6:68  Sr. Esther Koros OSF 0726179789   

  Dear Muse Your telepathic self has bewitched my mojo, again! So that calories don’t burn around efforts about you. So, songs echo differently cajoled by thoughts of you. So, the wind blows with a swagger about you. So that your voice echoes long after a call. Squeeze me through your days. Lull me through you nights. Charm me through your laughter. Better still, Visit my nest sometimes. Every time, All the time. Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros OSF  Give yourself a pat on the back sometimes.