You asked if we could go out.
I agreed.
But somewhere between the dates,
you took me in.
You whispered everything I longed to hear.
I nodded.
But somewhere between the sentences,
I lost my questions.
You took me everywhere.
I followed.
But somewhere along the way,
I blinked.
You keep asking where you went wrong.
I'm listening.
But somewhere within your questions,
truth flinches.
©Hamilton Chikhala 2026
May 23
May 23, 2026 at 6:16 AM UTC
a soft click in the hole
the **** turns clockwise
then
a long creak —
hinges chant
inviting fresh air
but dust brings the rear.
©Hamilton Chikhala 2026
May 22
May 22, 2026 at 5:29 AM UTC
Nothing has changed
Just warm tones flaking off walls
Once shoulders for all.
Nothing has changed
Just a cold hearth
No crackling
Just ashes.
Nothing has changed
Just everyone.
©Hamilton Chikhala 2026
May 18
May 18, 2026 at 9:45 AM UTC
I wanted to take you to Kapirimtende,
to walk with you barefoot
on the holy sands
bathed in the waters
of Lake Malawi.
But the stretch
from Khwawa to Mwenilondo
won't let me.
A nightly pilgrim to our bed,
lying in wait for the dream
of you and me,
of our hands woven
around each other's waists
as we stroll through an avenue
of bowing palm trees.
Their fronds rustling
in the breeze
wafting inland
from the shores
of Kapirimtende.
But the stretch
from Khwawa to Mwenilondo
won't let me.
You remember yesterday
how our hands clasped,
then parted,
when the Sienta we boarded
from Uliwa to Khwawa
kept negotiating
with cunning craters
at Hara for a right to pass,
only to be bullied
into bending the rule
of keeping right.
Now you know
that the stretch
from Khwawa to Mwenilondo
won't let me.
What if we just satiate our longing here
over a piece of Kondowole?
Its steamy breath
tenderly skimming
our faces with its warmth,
as we lick Mbuvu broth
between the furrows of our fingers.
I'm sure we'll forget
that the stretch
from Khwawa to Mwenilondo
won't let us.
© Hamilton Chikhala 2026
May 12
May 12, 2026 at 7:03 AM UTC
Who do we thank
for what we have,
if not distance holding us together,
yet apart from fangs of enmity?
While we are far apart,
let's bask in this warmth,
though cold in some weathers;
we pray
we never fall for proximity.
But if doubts ever stretch their hands,
ask if they would be our isthmus,
holding us apart,
yet close enough
not to lose each other.
We are rare,
an ancient species, hanging on,
on the verge of extinction,
living lavish on the world's envious attention.
©Hamilton Chikhala 2026
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 1:54 AM UTC
A rocking chair,
a heavy chin held in palms,
enervated eyes wandering across
emptiness,
for an image
that blooms in spring.
There it is—
nothing.
Just words,
lifeless,
scattered
like ghetto dreams.
©Hamilton Chikhala 2026
Mar 31
Mar 31, 2026 at 8:47 AM UTC
We met in church
when the pastor preached from Isaiah
against corruption of desire.
I didn't pay attention,
for the currency I had was intention,
not for him,
not for his congregation,
but for her,
the one glowing beside me.
She sat on my left,
and I on her right.
It was only right
to do right:
confess,
profess
that which the pastor
preached against.
©Hamilton Chikhala 2026
Mar 29
Mar 29, 2026 at 3:00 PM UTC
Shaking knees,
bending on a cold floor,
as pressed palms intercede
upon a bare chest
for a guilty heart,
the tongue mumbles,
"It's not what you think..."
She has heard this prayer before,
whenever his seams
from waist to ankles,
once bound in covenant,
to fall
for her
fall
in worship
for another.
Lost between anger and wonder,
she opens her mouth,
but her tongue
can't tell
idolatry
from
adultery.
©Hamilton Chikhala 2026
Mar 28
Mar 28, 2026 at 4:46 AM UTC
They used to play here,
but have retreated.
They now hide,
afraid to leave
the comfort of wrinkles
in crumpled drafts.
Mar 22
Mar 22, 2026 at 5:03 AM UTC
I once saw a sage
on his way to the end.
He walked with a stiffened limp,
his staff striking forward,
then back,
probing the earth.
Each step was a trial,
his adamant feet arguing
their lost case against
ankles folded in age.
Then he stopped and wondered:
how could his tremoring palms,
always stacked
between his head and his staff,
lift a hammer
against his grandchild?
Between short breaths,
he labored to catch
distant memories;
still he recalled,
he once roamed on two,
but none
had called him
murderer.
© Hamilton Chikhala 2026
Feb 19
Feb 19, 2026 at 2:17 AM UTC