The Maker: MicroNovella

And then the child, barely two, gave his mother a mud toy far littler than he, and less cuddly. She paused to savor the magic of that fleeting moment, which she had never had. And quickly got him out of the path of a dusty wind just arrived from nowhere. Ruffling all the hung shukas and swaying the lean trees.

He seemed puzzled by the hidden force which could raise as much dust as he saw swirling in the afternoon air, making the trees hum. Dusting hair. Making the eyes water. 

After, he wanted to mirror the wind's might, to see how far the soil could go out of his hands and into the air. And it didn't really go.

When the wind was truly gone and the dust settled he asked mama in uneven words who it was that made her too, as he could see her, there before him. And if he could have the maker to play with and make things out of the same mud of the earth with. 

Out of the pebbles he could throw in every which direction in quick succession, he wanted her to have three. But drowsiness crept in before she could answer. And took over. He fell asleep before her hands could reach them pebbles, in his mama's lap. 

Whereupon he floated, free, without fear, and saw many, many things he wanted to show mama. He called and called, but she couldn't hear his sleep talk. She didn't see his finger point to any of the things he wanted her eyes to turn to. He was invisible in his flight. 

When he woke up he had no words to put any of those things into.

Poiema

No year returns,
If ever,
Just as it was.

And no year is the reincarnation:
Of nor another -- 
Nor the other.
Nor the selfsame.

There's never a promise:
That it shall be, as it was. 
What (ever) we imagine 
 It, a wannabe, to have been.

What (ever) we imagined it'd b.

Nor do we ever walk,
As (if) it were, full-back(ward),
Our heels leading the way,
Anyhow,
Toward heaven's gate.
Over there in
Naivasha.

Or some place else: Giza's Orion p'raps.

Toward the very same Ness.

No year ever returns
Ever, ev'n as we do
The very same old things.
Nay, the same difference.

What we wanted so badly to
End returns, only 
In the famed manner of another,
Moon.

No year returns to meet tomorrow's wind.
V-winged. Stealthy. 
Shrouded in visible irony and 
Smart-boy alloys.

The wind 
Which
Has no driver in the scheme of things
And rides
Alone. Headless. Chicken. Dead meat. 

It alone is (in) its own horse-power(s).

It alone (in) its lock, stock and barrel.

Chief.

The wind rides alone
Toward its past lives.
Where ever it left 'em.
A cat's, ahead of Time,
Nine.

And won't find 'em!
And no year returns to witness
The very same wind
Fall.
The very same December!

All dose years we wanted
So badly to end.
Return only under
De usual guises.
Of ill-winds plowing,
And fortunes falling,
And reality convoluted,
Farther behind the curve.
To the right.

Faster. Fainter. Painter. Farther. Father!

There are no winds
Between here and forever.
Only sunsets misread as
Gale force. Tsunami.
Working class.
As a million dead-ends.

Dividends --
We couldn't take along
For the ride,
If we so very badly wanted.
So so badly.

As a Sandstorm: Haiku

Silk & strawberry.
As I saw a fallen wind.
Upon Ganymede.





[March 3, 2015]

Obliquity: Haiku

Lo! Low & lower
Hanging fruit of the valley.
Cold wind springs, clockwise.

Red Sunset: Haiku

Waiting for something.
Hour-glass filled, emptied, filled.
I saw the wind fall.

Naked Wind: Haiku

Child's a little older.
The wind has no abode O.
Comes and goes at will.

Gusty Aft in Aiah: Haiku

What de wind hath wrought!
Dose, were Ms. Dosaiah's tins.
Wen Xi lived 'ere.

A Ghost Harmattan in Nairobi City

Yesterday afternoon I "updated" this piece on my Twitter page.

Just thought I should post it here in order to share it with my blog visitors. So, here:

A palpable temp drop, dwntwn, this mid-aft. A ghost harmattan, sort-of, grips da city. A romp of dry leaves, which -- let them romp

Incidentally, one of this morning's papers reports that a strong wind blew a small plane off the runway and into the trees yesterday afternoon [killing a 70-year-old lady, seriously injuring the pilot, and attracting a band of looters], as it tried to land at Malindi, Kenya. I don't know if there was a connection with the winds experienced in Nairobi.

What connection there was was in what we noted and what surprised us when we got home last night. There had been rain in our part of town (while there had been not a drop in downtown Nairobi). Yet what was remarkable about the afternoon wasn't the rain there but the strong winds that had accompanied it.

So, it seems, the ghost harmattan was more widespread that I'd originally thought.