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Risa Njoroge Jun 30
I looked up and there was a Greek god,
Standing behind the glass door,
My heart nearly stopped,
As he walked towards this marble desk,
I tried to speak but there were no words left,
Betrayed by my tongue is how I felt.

He looks just like Poseidon,
Standing there drenched in his own sweat,
I might need to ***** my brain back on,
Because right now we are by the water shore,
Holding hands and counting stars,
Suddenly I see life and its full of color,

My thoughts are scattered,
In me he has stirred a hurricane,
I imagine he has a beautiful name,
One fit for a god looking face,
He has me feeling like I am in a fast paced race
I might need a pacemaker if I keep up with this gaze,

My wondering mind stays on the water shore,
Kissing,dancing and commanding the sea,
In our Hawaiian shirts, flip flops and white shorts,
My big flowy hat and his three pointed trident,
My mind has hidden treasure,
A thousand thoughts of guilty pleasures!
Thank you for stopping by!
Risa Njoroge Jun 23
Sunday morning means ghost town lobbies,
No barking dogs or cracking of doors,
It’s just me; playing with my blue inked pen,
Hiding behind this glass fortress,
Trying to write away my sadness,

I like to walk through my graveyard of unfulfilled dreams,
And listen to my breaking heart that grieves in silence,
Loneliness comforts me, its stays with me,
As I walk through what was or could have been,
Beautiful Sunday morning, I should be living the dream,

Yet, mascara paints my face,
A dark shade of grey that matches what I feel,
This high-ceiling glass fortress allows me to pace,
As I try to make my way through my thought maze,  
And the strong marble desk holds my hands up to my crying face,

Life is a journey, not a race,
This summer sun shouldn’t make my heart break,
Am grateful for that that only the ghosts reside in this morning hour,
They comfort me in knowing that perhaps there is more to this place,
And smile at me when they see my true face,  
They embrace the sadness my smile tries to erase,
Just few more minutes before I have to wear a mask on my face,
Before I have to smile and lie that I am Okay!
My dear old sadness is back to comfort me!
If only, the love you once declared for me
had elicited the passion; known the depth
and possessed the longevity
of your present
hatred of me.
Risa Njoroge Jun 17
Letters are old school, but I guess so am I.
In a way, I guess that is true,
I sometimes feel like I am an old fool,
Stuck in the Motown groove,

The 21st Century is not for me,
Waiting a minute before I can hear the next song,
And when it eventually comes on it's one filled with hate,
And let’s not even talk about trying to date,

They said to leave a message after a beep,
For my old soul that means a beat,
That brought with it dance and heat,
Words and rhymes and a drumbeat,

See back in my day, a letter meant waiting on the mail man,
And not looking for blue ticks from an app I got from an online store,
It meant post stamps and asking friends to proofread,
It meant punctuating every line so that you knew without you I could not breathe,

Being in love was not just words and play,
It meant dancing in the street; we called it grooving,
Not sweet talking and lying,
The old fool in me is tired of trying,

Am not saying that you are lying,
But you are in no way trying,
To meet me in the street,
Or groove to a Motown beat,

I wish you were sending me flowers,
While you were out there spending time,
With worlds that were not even meant to be real,
My old soul needs more than one-off dines or drinking box wine!

See back in Motown, when a man loved a woman,
He could not keep his mind on anything else,
He did not put a little loving on her, or shelve her
It meant the whole street knew her, and even knew her favorite beat!

I have known only one other of your kind, the sweet-talking guy,
You have me down on my knees wondering when you are going to leave,
That is not love, I don’t know what it is,
Feels like it, but this is something else!
I went ahead ahead an fell in love, but after self searching and listening to a great friend, I realize that maybe this is not love!  
Happy reading!
Dance was the shape her body gave to music.
The first time I saw Los Angeles,
it was after midnight.
Descending from Cajon pass and
entering the chaos of light and
the formless poetry of traffic,
I thought of Ezra Pound’s line from near the end of the Cantos:
“I cannot make it cohere.”
“It” is the most important word in that sentence.
In language we can conjure wholes too big for us to comprehend.
Push hard enough, and names fade and pronouns are all we have left.
So what is this place?
#urbansprawl #citylights
Forgetting is the only clarity.*

It was a day of forgetting.
No unquiet dreams or
casual reunions with the dead
who wander the halls of sleep,
the bodies of someone else’s loss.
No ghosts in the gazebo.
No echoes in the fading light.

Exiting sleep’s empty waiting room,
She woke. Blue sky blinked into her eyes.  
The room’s climate began to clear.
There was writing on the wall.
Old fragments came to closure.
The windows slowly turned to mirrors.

She fiddled. She soared.  
She played with her ancestors’ building blocks.
She lent a myth to god.
She stood in a garden with five black stones.
She foretold an eclipse,
Burned the witch of winter,
Stepped in the same river twice.

The moment froze.
Then there it was.
The compound inviolate paradox
at the heart of things,
the answer flickering in light and shade,
to the sound of a child’s voice,
then the roaring wind.
She chuckled as it faded to a point of light
then vanished, like the picture on an old TV,
Like the moon shrinking into the alarm clock’s face.

Her breath brewed clouds above her forehead.
She sat aloof in the empty air,
Alone in the immense morning,
At rest in this inviolable disconnection,
the clear cold innocence of now.
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