This trumpeter of nothingness, employed
To keep our reason dull and null and void.
This man of wind and froth and flux will sell
The wares of any who reward him well.
Praising whatever he is paid to praise,
He hunts for ever-newer, smarter ways
To make the gilt seen gold; the shoddy, silk;
To cheat us legally; to bluff and bilk
By methods which no jury can prevent
Because the law's not broken, only bent.

This mind for hire, this mental *******
Can tell the half-lie hardest to refute;
Knows how to hide an inconvenient fact
And when to leave a doubtful claim unbacked;
Manipulates the truth but not too much,
And if his patter needs the Human Touch,
Skillfully artless, artlessly naive,
Wears his convenient heart upon his sleeve.

He uses words that once were strong and fine,
Primal as sun and moon and bread and wine,
True, honourable, honoured, clear and keen,
And leaves them shabby, worn, diminished, mean.
He takes ideas and trains them to engage
In the long little wars big combines wage...
He keeps his logic loose, his feelings flimsy;
Turns eloquence to cant and wit to whimsy;
Trims language till it fits his clients, pattern
And style's a glossy **** or limping slattern.

He studies our defences, finds the cracks
And where the wall is weak or worn, attacks.
lie finds the fear that's deep, the wound that's tender,
And mastered, outmanouevered, we surrender.
We who have tried to choose accept his choice
And tired succumb to his untiring voice.
The dripping tap makes even granite soften
We trust the brand-name we have heard so often
And join the queue of sheep that flock to buy;
We fools who know our folly, you and I.

Montgomery! true, the common lot
  Of mortals lies in Lethe’s wave;
Yet some shall never be forgot,
  Some shall exist beyond the grave.

“Unknown the region of his birth,”
  The hero rolls the tide of war;
Yet not unknown his martial worth,
  Which glares a meteor from afar.

His joy or grief, his weal or woe,
  Perchance may ’scape the page of fame;
Yet nations, now unborn, will know
  The record of his deathless name.

The Patriot’s and the Poet’s frame
  Must share the common tomb of all:
Their glory will not sleep the same;
  ‘That’ will arise, though Empires fall.

The lustre of a Beauty’s eye
  Assumes the ghastly stare of death;
The fair, the brave, the good must die,
  And sink the yawning grave beneath.

Once more, the speaking eye revives,
  Still beaming through the lover’s strain;
For Petrarch’s Laura still survives:
  She died, but ne’er will die again.

The rolling seasons pass away,
  And Time, untiring, waves his wing;
Whilst honour’s laurels ne’er decay,
  But bloom in fresh, unfading spring.

All, all must sleep in grim repose,
  Collected in the silent tomb;
The old, the young, with friends and foes,
  Fest’ring alike in shrouds, consume.

The mouldering marble lasts its day,
  Yet falls at length an useless fane;
To Ruin’s ruthless fangs a prey,
  The wrecks of pillar’d Pride remain.

What, though the sculpture be destroy’d,
  From dark Oblivion meant to guard;
A bright renown shall be enjoy’d,
  By those, whose virtues claim reward.

Then do not say the common lot
  Of all lies deep in Lethe’s wave;
Some few who ne’er will be forgot
  Shall burst the ******* of the grave.

A vast unfeeling sordid breath,
That scalds my naked doubt
Grazing the space unfilled.
Lost in the waves
The summer an oppressive embrace,
Infecting this town.
And I am alone from here.
The stagnant tsunami,
Creeps up from the depths
Untiring in its attempts to overwhelm me.
But I'm already so tired,
Bone-weary.
I give up on my fight to the heat,
To the eternal god that glares
So balefully from beneath heavy clouds.
Have done with me now.
Leave me to the tide.
To the uncaring winds
Anywhere beyond the sweat of bodies
And incessant hate
Of the sun.-

Like the untiring sun, who sets every evening
   but still rises up every morning
Like the blooming flowers, who end up withered,
   but still blossom beautifully everytime
Like the bird chakor, who unrequitedly loves moon
    knowing it can never reach him
I will not give up loving you, though you may never love me back

All the words that I utter,
  And all the words that I write,
Must spread out their wings untiring,
  And never rest in their flight,
Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,
  And sing to you in the night,
Beyond where the waters are moving,
  Storm-darken'd or starry bright.

That was the day she broke down the fence
to fly towards her secret sky,
to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment.

To move further with sheer confidence;
was certain to leave her nightmares behind,
she was untiring and keen.

Finally the time has come to reclaim her life.

the gardener

skipping to a solemn beat
swaying down the row
crouching down, and watching seeing everyone grow
crying silent tears
and nurturing all,
all except one

untiring, yet wondering when life will be done
gardener gardener
you’ve helped me grow
showing me how change is good
“like this, like so”
gardener gardener
when will you sprout
when all your little seedlings are watered, grown and out?
it may be too late
you’ve missed your chance at your ideal fate
collecting all your dreams,
and shoving them into a crate
for now winter has come,
and you’ll have to wait.

-l.r

Dreams fly high
in the sky of wishes
driven by the winds
of our will
which, untiring, blow
and push you everywhere
tied to the thread of hope
which, strong, does not break
but they are papiermaché kites
and the tears
of those who surrender
are enough
to make them fall down
until the sun of the new day,
if we ever want to see it,
will dry those tears
giving them back to the sky.

27.6.’13

If only I were a painting,
indestructible and charming.
Then, and only then,
would my fairness be untiring.

For Beauty, on the surface,
is oh-so-overrated-
for what does Beauty value
but mirrors, silver-plated?

As proven with so many souls,
Beauty is skin deep:
hollow eyes and empty smiles,
no substance for one’s keep.

And so, my dear admirer,
please keep this thought in mind:
I value Wit and Character
In lieu of polished shine.

While I thank for your kind words,
If, in truth, you are commending:
keep in mind, I’m but a surface.
Please, don’t touch the painting.

Death perched on a rotten fence clothed in Autumn colored quills
in the ancient pens that storied him in the colors of the fields
in the costume of a Cooper's Hawk slowly laid his eyes of stone
on me. Neither could I move nor stay an arm's reach
great and awful silence he commands living things gone
still as death itself is still. And this he deigned to show me
did not flinch fierce and fearless marked me with his eyes
of stone. This - a muscular stretch of wings untiring. This -
the sharp sure weaponry of death. This - endless curiosity
searching seeking sanctuaries never locked hides thrown open
shadows laid to rest. And this - an intellect uncaring cold
science mocked congeniality of birds societies lost
to appetite ceased by fear. Or is it better angels
gave the knowledge of prey to such as these what I
will not admit:
Hawks carry us away.
We will not return.

I aspire for the ambition of a mother:
lifelong and untiring.
Ambition to realise her passion:
providing
serving
loving
learning
teaching
and persisting all hours
with no reflection on reward
but for the pleasure of the pursuit
of her God-given trust
- and so to serve royals
and her King
with contentment.
Then uniting with Him after a life well lived,
with lives better lived for knowing her.

Tick, tick, tick, they move steady with untiring feet
They break and they loot, and they plunder and shoot, and they March on the tick by tick
They step with every beat, through shower and Frost and heat
And they'll make you a part of an un beating heart as they March on the tick and repeat.
A river of troops, they sweep
Their canons break full and deep
And one moment you cry and in the next you're dry and you're washed away into the heap.
They wash all memories vain
Or on books they're best retained
But still a few soul are brave and bold,
For a while longer they fight and keep their hold
Blows from the present numerous they sustain, and blows more from this river cold.
I've read and heard of thy master's tales
Of their beanstalk rising and angel fails
But as long you stand this marching band
Of flesh and blood will they still prevail
And not be residents of a fantasy land.
So let your defenders shout in vain
Let them die in thousands for every awe it gains
For blessed are those who submerge than break
And blessed we more to see you make,
This losing battle.

There's something in the face of a man
Who has spent his life doing
Not what was required of him,
Nor what he loved,
But what he felt forced to do
By some inexorable pressure inside his head and chest
That would splash him on the walls
If he did not bow to its will and power.

There is something that writers might call Beauty,
If they had to put a word to it,
But Beauty is present from the cradle,
Or it is a sudden bloom as a man matures.
It is handsomeness. It is a standard, accepted value.
No, there is a hardness around the eyes
Of a man who is determined to be
What he must be, or else die.
His eyes are not beautiful.

There is something attractive, though,
Something that must be watched -
Like a solar eclipse -
Because it is rare and pleasant
And unpleasant too.

There is something there that will not be ignored,
Planted firmly as if to say, "This is the face
Of not a person,
But a personality.
This is not a man,
This is the constant, untiring, unflinching
Action of a man."

It is a thing that shouts "I must!"
And at the same time echoes the pleasure of doing,
The joy of not straining under that maxim,
But thriving - it is enough to tide him over
When he is helpless and hopeless and old.
There is something in his face
That has done what it set out to do,
And everything else is just time ticking by
Until it can be done again.

The clock is ticking out a ceaseless pattern;
It is heedless to the entreaties of man.
I hear the monotonous rhythm;
Its schedule will be kept.

Minus a minute, minus a day,
How soon before our lives have ticked away?
Sans mercy, sans compassion,
The clock is relentless, untiring in its fashion.

Each moment timeless,
Every second a treasure,
To fight against nature is a pointless endeavour;
Spend the remaining years wiser than the wise.

The clock has rendered your days to a number;
But despair not, and live them before eternal slumber.

Busy catching each report, we are
glued to a fascination. Though, it is
more than that.

It is life and love taken.

Audio visual enhancements trigger
remote and widespread accord.

Fellow feeling vibrates and all tune
in to Paris. Who could help being
absorbed in bandaging blue ruin?
I want to hear the song playing
when shots rang out and life was
postponed, cut short.

I want to hear that song finish.
Survival depends on seeing,
hearing this song performed to fin. From where it was shot riven
Friday, November 13, 2015, it is
vital to have it play out, again.

Paris, I have danced with you.
Your artists, lovers, chefs have
dipped me in your graciousness.

I owe you promise of return.

Untiring are we who share your
passion for life. You gave us a
lady holding a torch of liberty.
She wants you to look past this
time of darkness, into her light.
She still holds up that noble idea.

Her arm is indefatigable.

Here in a sleepy hamlet
in the shadow of Top Hill
amid barren aridity
I am hiding.
A runaway
from my family, friends,
familiar faces,
and also
from myself!
Why I call them friends?
My family
who cares coz I earn,
friends
all fair weather,
familiar faces
that breed only contempt,
and the most deadly myself,
the untiring aspirer
in home, office, deals,
the macabre face on the mirror,
sartorially correct
refined manners
polished etiquette
but inside a greedy *****
ever ready to sell his soul
at the sight of a penny!
Here no one can find me
and I’ve to work hard
to turn my inside out
carry it atop Top Hill
for the sun to bake
the rains to wash
and the moon to bathe
my reincarnate!

"He wanted to know about the sycamore tree and seemed to understand exactly what I meant when I told about the whole being greater than the sum of its parts. “It's that way with people, too,” he said, “only with people it's sometimes that the whole is less than the sum of the parts."
- Wendelin Van Draanen, Flipped

Look at me with those hopeful eyes
with the belief that we can make it through lows and highs
walk again with me, you and your untiring feet
you made the past months more complete
let's cross some more bridge together
stay when one needs the other

Lend me your hands and your arms
and I will gladly accept to ease my qualms
For I've learned that hands will just be hands
and arms will just be arms
but they become so much more
especially when comfort and solace are in store

I have not searched but I have found
someone standing on the same ground
Thank you for breaking the trope
and for helping me breathe a brand new hope

Even if there were a lot of people who were far less
In the short time we've spent together,
I can say you are one of the few who are far more...
you are greater than the sum of your parts
you are one beautiful whole

the farthest branch
assures us there is life
the farthest branch.
where chatter swells in sight of gold

where raccoons see clouds, but no sun
the moon reflects
lifeless, controlling planes & folds foreign
even if so
his reach would only meet his grasp.
but it can not be this way
the clouds move & swell
protecting us from ourselves
from bizarre nebulas & unknown entities
harbingers of death originating
from our silky cigarettes & lean machines
inside the heavens, golden & blue
beyond the heavens
degree of souls,
all souls ask the same questions
why this way?
if you loved me,
it would not be
further into God's home,
words from his deep rivers & far roads,
if you loved me, together we'd stand
the cobwebs live behind shadows
placing my hand near sight
i see divine everlasting life.
how can it be so?
i do not move mountains
my blood does not course from me sweet as wine
i am here as the jaguar
as night.
untouched by morning's warmth
unseen by our sun's eye,
who stays eternal enemies
yet always in my heart, my sleep
alone he sits
far away.
telling us forever,
untiring,
if only you loved me


the copper straightens itself holding mountains together,
shiny veins
the trees speak in the language of survival,
cells

They travel a million miles
Untiring,relentless,seeking;

From somewhere deeper
From here farther
From there higher
They come.

In whispers,they  thunder
Some kind of echoes, some music
That make Kings and Queens
Go on their knees.

They travel, these words:
'I love you!'

sometimes i am a
relentless, untiring, wave that
ebbs and flows to the
shore, back and
forth, back and
forth.

but today i am
transforming and
evaporating from the
sea to the sky, yes, i
have surrendered and
turned myself into
a possessive sun.

kindness and
love are now my
rays that  i won't let
you kiss and have
anymore for
i am tired, tired, tired,

of going back
and forth, back
and forth without
receiving what i
always give.

Wilted jasmines look like popcorns
… that wasn’t very poetic, right?
I was just watching the bushes sway outside my window.
There is no wind today
Just the hot air breathing
I have turned on the A.C. and the fan grumbles quietly

I feel as if my heart is in my stomach
Huh.
**** it,
I really am forcing it out today..
Whatever
I rested my palm on my stomach
As Faizan’s strange playlist chattered nonsense
Outside the blanket shroud I had built
Around myself
And I could feel the beat
The rhythm
Like a drum or a gong
I don’t know why it matters to me
Maybe because I feet as if nothing else does
Right now
I know that sounds exactly like something
A sentimental teenager would say

I don’t know
I want to talk to myself
A heart-to-heart
I want to ask that *****
What is going on
What is wrong
What the **** is wrong, girly!?
I want to hear her ramble on about stuff
Be bored of her talk, but feel kind of happy
That I’m the one she’s confiding in
I wanna give her a hug
To show I don’t have words good enough for comfort
Which I probably do
But am too lazy to fish them out my gooey head
(Besides
I think the poor **** needs a hug)

I wanna zone out and nod along to her words
Just so she can let it out for once
But that *****’s a *****
She acts tough and all smart
But she’s a sappy preteen girl inside
I say,
“Yo, Ayesha, you can cry, you know—”
And she goes,
“Yeah, I know.”
A flip of that inexistent hair
That she long ago butchered
And, bam, she gone.
She tells me
"Yo, Ayesha, you can cry too, you know?"
"I know" I tell her.
I don’t know what to do
So I lie around
Feeling this stupid ***** dance in my stomach
In my wrists
In my temples
I run my fingers down my neck,
Feeling for the echoes of the gong
That keeps talking, talking, talking
Untiring
As if calling me to my people
gathering us together for a battle
that is yet to be fought
yet to be fought—
yet to be ******* fought

And, hey, my
Money plant doesn’t even look rich
That *****—
(Hey, I got a rhyme!)

Contains my favourite verses
With A Certain contented emotions
My red ink re -instates my devotion

A few alphabets I utter
Some I frame with a Metaphor
Untiring
Undenying
Feelings I mutter

I do not want to rest
I want to continue my quest
I want to write to my best
Like a soft feather
I want to be a part of a wing
And wrap each precious feeling around my finger like a ring .
-Anju

The first time, at the age of four,
when I first peeked under my tongue
after brushing my teeth,
I got scared.
Frightened by the ugliness of it.
All the ruptured rivers of my veins and vessels,
the indefinite patterns of colonization of my cells;
a naked mannequin of the story I held inside.

It was as if someone had peeled the skin
off my tongue at my birth
and now all the prisoners were striving to escape.
It was as if someone had abducted the blanket
away, when I was sleeping
and now the monster under the bed was clawing its way out
asking if I needed a friend.

Scared that I would damage the fragile wires,
I carefully laid my tongue back in her cradle,
hoping that someday, the skin would be back.
That she had only walked around the corner of the alley
and she would be back.
That the vacancy in my heart did not mean she was gone,
she had only gone to the mall to grab some sweets
and she would be back.

Each day, I would steal a peep,
in belief that I might find her there.
Though foolish of me, sure, it was to hope.
Smart of me it was to stay away from despair.

I still get scared when I glance under my tongue.
But not because of the ugliness, no.
The darkness.
The darkness that, I know, flows beneath those streams.
The darkness that, I fear, resides behind my skin,
licking, biting and swallowing the hollow of my being.

I still shut my mouth as quick as I can,
sending my tongue back to sleep,
but not because I am afraid to cause damage, no.
The destruction.
The chaos.
All the words that hide inside my enigmatic brain.
All the demons that lurk around the shadows of my heart.

The beasts and ogres that I once crafted
out of the ashes of my soul.
They skulk in the void of my chest,
their laughs echoing around the abyss
where once cherished my being.
They drink and dance, and gamble away all my life.
They joke and sing, and rob me of all my hope.

I still check the cave in my mouth,
day after day.
Not in hope of arrival of spring, no,
but in helplessness of my desperate desire.
In temptation to split open a vessel,
and watch all the nothingness,
flow out of my mouth into the inviting sink.
In temptation to ravage the last barrier into pieces
and feel all my creations drain out of my body.

In temptation to see the corpse of my soul
sail away with the tides of my untiring blood.

--to be free.

Dear reader
I am here wondering
Have you for once taken time?
Taken time to think of yourself?
Do you know that you are perfect?
You make me happy!
Your face
Eyes
Good nose
Well shaped mouth
Thank God,you are perfect like Him!
Imagine all you think,talk and eventually write
Touch me
I find myself laughing.
They have impact,
Some get me off guard
And always make me conscious
I sometimes think they were meant for me
Some writing,come when I am desperate for them
Some bring my past alive
Some strengthens my heart and vision
They make me see the perfectness in you
So my wish
Write unending
I will read untiring
...
Faithfully yours
kfjnr
Kirui Frank Junior

I love you
I love you
I ******* love you
You make me so angry

But this is a poem about you
And what makes you wonderful
The way your voice changes
And how you eat my cold nose

From the way you hold me tightly and take away my breath
To the way you claim me as your property and put your hand on my chest

You hold your ground
Like an unmoving, untiring tree
Straight from the earth
All the way to your own stars

My energy fights to beat yours
It always has been a competition
Who can love the other more?

In a dusty room, dark, in your heart’s blindspot, right there, behind the fold...

there sits

The untiring, my untying, a flame, fatal, that preys, pierces, pulls and dances down...

down, go down, then see the smoldering and  flowered flame... a fire that passes into once humbled hearts, stuttering till it shoots, straight to a shop work and sunken soul, it presses, presses, push into paste, now all to ash... with ash it chokes, with ash that never ask if it may that blind you... I cough when I remember your scent, choking... choking, choking, bound and blue by all those that dare not defend, those that dare to pretend that they could haunt like you,

haunted damnation  , when I dare to dream that diurnal oasis daydream...

daydream illusions, illusory in that final form, fill up the day, flicker flame, flicker unfaded forever more, moreover may we emerge, emerge again, each day resilient, always arisen, rising again and again unbroken; unbroken and unbound as the spherical shadow sits against an aged and golden summer sky...

hold, held now, the grip, that grip, a grip of a million thoughts, the grip of a gaggle of lunatics; the lunacy of those madmen screaming, maniacal men with their long claws...

“Come now”, I pull, pull away, scratched but unsullied, away with my tense and tethered thoughts, thoughts of a woman; where is she?

“oh woman, woman of pure and pallid beauty; tell me of tomorrow, pretend to portend, promise me it is there burning so still inside you”...

still, still I stood, stood inside that stillness, so sullen and so clear eyed in the realization that, I would eye a thousand faces just to see you...

you, you stole, stole the thunder, and laughed at lightning, with your hips held down, writhing when I witnessed, witnessed and watched you with a holy cutting cold glance, insisting i ”hurt you in a good way”, pleading for more, in the sacramental haze of an eternal disorder...

now willow, wisp, widen, wake and open my once violent, violet, and envied eyes... because I, I was empty, emptied and forever falling, into the gravity of you, you and your irises aflame pulling me hard like 10,000 planets, each with 10,000 suns, sparked when I saw you stroll so serpentine in red *******...

pull, pull back now drawn, drawn in and dripped like warm candle wax... down, down, do it, dance away like those storied flames, for martyrs mind not the Solomon sacrifice of the final flame’s immolation ...

naive, naive as the spring, naive as children caught in an illusory and smokey future... the churlish, chided, child’s lament, lamenting now those souls, our souls, souls sewn cold, souls once so elusive...

trapped in a vacuum

a souls will burn until extinguished... go, gone, gone, unable to burn, to blast a fire, for in a furnace, a furnace gone cold, it’s where we are found **forever jealous of the once animated, deoxygenated unheated and hateful heart

the sun rises up behind me,
casting longer shadows on the pavement
for me to chase,
a new day,
a new image,
a superhero form done by Picasso or Van Gogh,
everything there, but perception slightly off,
proportions differ,
but i see something there
that is new -
untiring, sure,
cadence strong and confident,
in a way i have never known before.
who i've been is still there -
it is my cover,
my secret identity,
the private face of a public superhuman.
all i need is the uniform.

Catching the hard, red cricket ball
I rub it on my trousers, spin it in my hand
and reaching backwards throw it at her.

Hard and accurate the ball
divested of a reason rotates through the air,
catching the sun upon its body, gathering
impetus until the eye is mesmerized.

It happened far too quickly:
the untiring accuracy of my throw
that never would have hit a wicket
folded against her with a gentle noise.

She winced, her hand upon her *****, tried to smile
and started crying like a girl;
and picking up the ball I threw it furiously down the field
and found myself in tears.

You must have confidence being assurance
You should also have untiring endurance
But the whole idea is being convincing with influence
You must be a direct coach
Being able to communicate and not choke
Every motivating speech must have an agenda to the audience you seek
The bottom line is not be weak
The platform must have a curriculum
It’s what to say and how to say it in inspiration
Positive words in getting the motivating experience across
Being knowledgeable having a concrete enforce
However, being a strong motivator in having a target that hits
The subject matter must be materials that fit
The lectures should be encouragement and not quit
The idea is motivation being the Take Charge approach
“Motivate to attract within”
There comes a new outlook of begin
Motivation comes in getting the audience into participation
You will get a response of information
So you see motivating is not hard after all
Yet it’s being the platform coach being the call
Motivation establishes in encouragement for all
Now some in the audience you won’t reach in motivate
It will be because some in the audience can’t relate
But enforce its never too late
That’s a true motivator
It’s the information provider
Later it will be the audience being the decider.

... too many places,

... too many faces,

... too many hours,

... untiring days,

maybe too soon.

or tomorrow!


Oh! - just waiting for ~

to dance and waltz

in a right place, and in a right time.

They need a firm love
Not a weak love
Not a shy love
Not 'sorry, love'
But a firm, dependable,
over and above, sacrificial love
That'll never deprive them of
what they need the most of
- a untiring labour of love
from someone who gets up
and turns up to daily put up
with an occasional child-like
shove.