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...

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 go...

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 

 Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros  Life can be beautiful if the painting is done rightly. I paint mine in black; The colour of me, the golden skin.   I paint mine in purple; The woman in me, Oprah power.   I paint mine in red; The fire in me, that spells, ‘unstoppable.’   I paint mine in white; The women I love, my two mothers.   It’s an easy fathom, learning me; Just watch this painting                                                                                              ...

By Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros  The world is limiting in ways innumerable, A woman won’t do things because she is veritably improbable.   But the limitation mmhh! Stops outside my door. You should see, in the fertility of my dreams, How limitless I get, I break the banks and flood the world. I speak freedom to my soul, only in my dream. Woman dreams….   In my dreams I have seen heaven, Didn’t need keys, didn’t need to knock doors. Didn’t need introductions and protocols What’s the need for doors and security and check ins? I only floated fleetingly, feeding my soul,   Junks and junks of hope fulfilled; streets of gold in Jesus’ enclave. Paradise is what it is, only in my dreams. Woman dreams….   In my dreams I met my icons, There was Oprah saying ‘hello’ and Chimamanda rewriting history, Pope Francis spelling heaven, Beyond glances, went the encounter, trampling on impossibilities. Cravings and aching have since been dulled....

Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros OSF Dear Boss, Be kind to us because we have crossed seven hills just to meet you. Your PA, the one who owns your diary, Asked for a token, disguised bribery, We had to sell a goat, just to see you.   Be kind to us because we have crossed seven hills just to meet you. Your PA, the one who operates your accounts for money   Creeps into my sister’s privacy calling her honey She had to get pregnant so we could see you.   Be kind to us because we have crossed seven hills just to meet you. Your PA, the one who checks your mail box Read our letters halfway before dumping in a box We had to camp at your door, just to see you.   Be kind to us because we have crossed seven hills just to meet you. Your PA, the one who answers your calls Ignores my Dad’s call, you know he still falls? We had to pay a doctor for his epilepsy, just to see you.   Be kind to us because we have crossed seven hills just to meet ...

By Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros OSF   I can swear I always thought my nape resembled my sister’s. It was the way the teacher rubbed grime off her dark neck. To prove a point. Her nape was so dark, darker than shiny tar. The darkness too was proof of dirt. Rubbed until it bled. If she showered enough, her nape would be fairer, said he. My sister showered and scrapped and soaked her nape, until it seemed scarped.   Until it got calloused and pimpled and jaggy. I started to hide my neck deep inside the collars folds. Until it was thought a disability. The tortoise, I was named. A new symptom too emerged with the withdrawal, nuchal rigidity. My sister now has children, brilliant, beaming and golden dark. Their napes pure and uncropped, I itch to touch. Now grown, I realize how black and dark are no measure of dirt. But I am so sad, the teacher died in ignorance, may be heaven will teach him. © December 2020