You can't buy Love but you can heavily pay for it they say; Tim Wideman is at it again with a love letter: " A LOVER'S WISH" Every mans' night

WARNING/DISCLAIMER:
This is an original work of Art and has only been published by 2Hrs Before. All rights reserved. This poem is published at TWO HOURS BEFORE and all rights held by the AUTHOR. Reproduction; in whole or part is STRICTLY PROHIBITED. Two Hours Before is a Registered Trademark. This poem can only be reproduced with written consent from the Author or Two Hours Before.

"A LOVER'S WISH"


A LOVER'S WISH

I want to be the night’s darkness
That hugs you closer than I ever will,
Caressing you in a velvety feathery touch,
The inky blackness that fills your every pore,
The soft nothingness that feels your every curve,
Your every breath, every flutter, and every sigh.

I envy the dreams that fill your night
And flood your mind with blissful thoughts
Flattering, daring, telling worries to take a walk
Floating within your mind without a care but your happiness
Rolling back the hands of time in happy memories,
Touching your future before your morrow comes.

I wish to be the golden ray of a brand new sun
And bring a joyous sparkle to your big round eyes
The virgin touch on your ebony temple,
To brushe your lips with a morning kiss,
Kiss the dimples in your chubby cheeks,
And draw out your smile and the angel in you.

Let me be the glare of a blazing noon
To melt your heart and will away,
And burn on your soul my blessed name,
I shall wilt your fears and cares away
And make a shadow for your blessed feet
While you walk watch your step, while you run, break your stamp.

I want to be the red hot blood within your veins
So I’ll know your every crook and every nerve
Know what you tickles and what you ails,
When I touch the fountain of your sacred love,
And rush the breath and width of your being
To keep your heartbeat alive and make you tick.

I wish to be the evening’s breeze,
Fresh and cool to feel your skin tingle,
From my lazy touch on your rounded hips
And savour your scent when your skirts flutter
Running unseen fingers and ruffling your hair
Unseen, carefree, dancing, whistling our love song.

I want to be the dawn that breaks your day
The shadow, at noon to ever kiss your blessed feet
If only I would be the sunset; paint you a beautiful ending
Or the night to hold your dreams, so you’d ever cherish me.
I wish to be this and I want to be that
But I am only me, my love, and you love me for who I am.

AUTHOR: TIM WIDEMAN WAINANINA @2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

MWANGI S. MUTHIORA
EXCECUTIVE DIRECTOR
Two Hours Before
fafdays@gmail.com
+254 725 385 654

DO YOU HAVE AN EVENT/ OCCASSION YOU WOULD LIKE THIS AUTHOR TO GRACE? WRITE BACK TO US ON THE CONTACTS ABOVE AND WE ARE JUST A CLICK AWAY FROM ENTERTAINING YOUR GUESTS. TWO HOURS BEFORE........WE ARE ALWAYS AHEAD. DREAM IT AND WE SHALL MAKE IT BECOME

A FEW DAYS AGO, WE CELEBRATED "MASHUJAA DAY" IN KENYA. BIG NAMES WERE MENTIONED.........AND THE TRUE HEROES WERE FORGOTTEN........!

A JACK OF ALL


My name is Broom
I sweep your trash and your children’s filth,
Mop your vomit on the polished marble
And your wife’s piss on the waxed wood
Where you lay yester night, belching from bloat,
Pregnant with drink and foreign smoke.

My name is Carwash,
Your limo is clean and the hood all waxed
The black jaguar is, the pink Ferrari is revving!
Julia daughter must speed off to school!
And Jimmy boy must rush that tender.
Mama, your Benz in a minute! One more snore!

My name is Chauffer,
To this gossip meeting and that women’s workshop
She needs to learn how to tend her own husband
And that from a bachelorette and a serial divorcee
“Do as I say not as I do but if you must, do as I do!”
The women laugh, high fives, and money flies.

My name is Cook,
Oh midday it is! How soon! Where’s my breakfast?
Wait, the cat is meowing, the bulldog needs bone
Madam is calling, gossip luncheon is due
The workers are cursing, their lunch is overdue!
Utensils need scrubbing and the lamb needs chopping.

My name is Shambaboy
The lawn needs mowing and these weeds, oh my!
The kennel needs cleaning and the bitch must bathe
This sty is stinking but the cows need milking
Where is my breakfast? Oh it’s evening already!
The Boss is hooting but the sprinkler needs moving!


My name is Yaya
School is over; Julia’s boy needs picking
Feeding and changing, a child’s child, this one!
Homework then supper, lullaby or bed time fables?
Mama is screaming, Yaya, my back needs scratching!
And Julia is snapping “iron the nappies, will you?”

My name is Watchman,
The night has began but my day never ended
Mind the gate! Its Friday again, VIP dinner!
Roast lamb or boiled pork, champagne or ginger tea?
A bite of air for me will do, as I yawn and hope
When the VIPs leave, for a half chewed bone. If I am lucky.


AUTHOR: TIM WIDEMAN WAINANINA @2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

MWANGI S. MUTHIORA
EXCECUTIVE DIRECTOR
Two Hours Before
fafdays@gmail.com
+254 725 385 654

DO YOU HAVE AN EVENT/ OCCASSION YOU WOULD LIKE THIS AUTHOR TO GRACE? WRITE BACK TO US ON THE CONTACTS ABOVE AND WE ARE JUST A CLICK AWAY FROM ENTERTAINING YOUR GUESTS. TWO HOURS BEFORE........WE ARE ALWAYS AHEAD. DREAM IT AND WE SHALL MAKE IT BECOME

"A MOTHER'S CRY"

Why do you cry, and startle the women,
Why does your shrill cry split the silence so!
And drown the ululation of these mothers
Who have come to hold your mother’s hand
And usher you to your second life
While your father roams the city, searching
Searching for a drink and searching for women?

Why are you so ungrateful, child,
Why do you bite my nipple and scratch my hands
These hands that hold and feed you
These hands that clothe and dress you
While your father roams the streets, working
Working the drink and working the women?

Ah! Child, are your eyes too small or the light too blinding
Do you not see the glint of the circumciser’s knife
As he cuts you and gives you a name
The name of your father’s clan
While your father roams the fields, gathering
Gathering a drink and gathering women?

Are your ears still too wet, too small perhaps,
Do you not hear the drums, hands clap and feet thumping
The soloist’s climax and the chorus of your kinsmen
Praising your mother and your father’s clan
While your father roams the country, dancing
Dancing with drink and drunken women?

Why do you kick like a restless donkey,
And clench your fist tightly like one holding a stone
Are your fists not too small to clasp, your muscle too supple to throw?
Will you also hit me and kick me
While your father roams the earth, hitting,
Hitting on drink and hitting on women?

Why do you cry and shame me, child,
Will you not grow tall, and strong
And hold my back when my spine is gone
When these limbs grow old and shaky
Will you not guide me to my death bed
While your father roams the earth, dying
Dying with drink and dying of women?

Author: Tim Wideman Wainaina

MWANGI S. MUTHIORA
EXCECUTIVE DIRECTOR
Two Hours Before
fafdays@gmail.com
+254 725 385 654

DO YOU HAVE AN EVENT/ OCCASSION YOU WOULD LIKE THIS AUTHOR TO GRACE? WRITE BACK TO US ON THE CONTACTS ABOVE AND WE ARE JUST A CLICK AWAY FROM ENTERTAINING YOUR GUESTS. TWO HOURS BEFORE........WE ARE ALWAYS AHEAD. DREAM IT AND WE SHALL MAKE IT BECOME

They are our own Sisters, Brothers, Sons & Daughters.....Only that fate has pushed them to the darkest corners of this life. STREET CHILDREN

Its a hardly discussed topic- Plight of Street Families, across the world. In Nairobi, there are over 50,000 street children living in deprolable conditions. A staggering 300,000 more living around the country. With such fugures, the number of children addicted to glue has the potential to be astronomically high.

It is easy to forget children; they won’t raise a militia, they won’t vote you out of office, they won’t affect general productivity if they die their small deaths in their filthy slums. This is what happens when families cannot cope and governments cannot or will not react; society accepts that children and their potential are allowed to wither away, drugged, abused, uneducated, unloved and forgotten.

In the following poem "The Street Laughter" Timothy Wideman Wainaina captures the imagination and plight of a street child who is not only lamenting but in a personal crisis trying to find his/her place in the society. Though I have never meet Tim Wideman, his poetry style captured my attention as you will find in the poem. Due to the humor and metaphor soo evident in the poem, I have changed its title from "Who Am I?" to " Street Laughter" with the authors permission.

Commentary by: MWANGI S. MUTHIORA.



THE STREET LAUGHTER
Am I the child of man,
That my uncircumcised shoulders
Should bear the burden of a man
My tender heart crucified
By endless quests for love?


Am I the child of woman,
That though still a virgin
My body has become a hive
Where drones hum and fuss
And only steal my honey?

Am I the child of beast,
That rogue dogs claw at me
And bark in hateful affection
While we grope for a stale piece
Discarded by a bloated glutton?

Am I the child of jungle
That the sun prides in roasting my back,
And morning frost in chewing my limbs,
As the rains pounds my bare head
And launders these tatters that gird my loins?

Am I the child of all
That you spit and curse and hit me
When I beg for a coin for a plate
Or a penny for a bottle at the cobbler’s
And kill me with the look of an eye?

Am I the child of none
That none should love me,
And ever wonder who bore this shame
This being with neither home nor kin
Whom am I?

(This is the lamentation –in monologue- of an unwanted child trying to find a place in a society in which he/she finds himself/herself out of place, uncared for, harassed and abused). All rights reserved to Author: Tomothy Wideman Wainaina.
You can reach him on: widemann5@gmail.com or his blog at Wideman World

Copyright Timothy Kiarii Wainaina 2010.(Wideman)

This is just another example of what crushing poverty will do to the priorities of a family, a government and a society. While Kenya is not the poorest African countries, there are too many in these countries who live in garbage dumps, slums with open sewers running outside their doors, huddle in doorways or out on the muddy sidewalks. In light of this, abandoning children to their fate on the streets of the city may seem like a necessary option for families stretched too thin; but how can this option be tolerated by the society at large? How is an 11-year old girl prostituting herself for the glue, it will take to forget, her hunger and cold not considered a priority for any government?
Commentary by: MWANGI S. MUTHIORA.

MWANGI S. MUTHIORA
EXCECUTIVE DIRECTOR
Two Hours Before
fafdays@gmail.com
+254 725 385 654

DO YOU HAVE AN EVENT/ OCCASSION YOU WOULD LIKE THIS AUTHOR TO GRACE? WRITE BACK TO US ON THE CONTACTS ABOVE AND WE ARE JUST A CLICK AWAY FROM ENTERTAINING YOUR GUESTS. TWO HOURS BEFORE........WE ARE ALWAYS AHEAD. DREAM IT AND WE SHALL MAKE IT BECOME