O’, dark sky… (bonus)
In a field with no life but the red of earth,
Sits he, with thoughts heavier than the gathering clouds.
Younglings exercise their lungs, their feet, their muscles;
They exercise their mastery of meteorology, their terrific speeds.
Strong winds blow, “You shall bow,”: they command,
And branches listen, and they sway this way and that;
They hiss among themselves, and rattle off their dead.
The birds in their nests call out, call out to their families;
Their late-comers flap and flap across the sky in flocks.
The wind appears to threaten the sky too; o’, look!
The sky seems to be falling, falling; but is it falling,
Or are eyes just drunken in the chaos of nature?
He, with a sad heart, and a mind so packed, looks, thinking…
The sky, once a beautiful blue, now looks a terrifying dark;
It is pregant with rain and rage will soon pour down—a storm.
He looks over at the trees; such submission! They do not even try…
Why would they? They get water, they get air, they get life;
Just stretch a little, it can feel like exercise, it can be healthy…
Just stretch a little more, even when some do not make it through.
He looks at the children—their tums and heads must burn now;
They will ask for food, then rest and they will get them free…
How beautiful was it to be a child! To be innocent and cared for;
Watching over self was never easy, not with a mind as heavy—
You could slip in the bathroom or break your neck in bed;
Anything could go wrong, even in your hands, with your hands.
A droplet smashes on his head and he touches the wetness.
He rubs two fingers and looks up to the sky; more drops fall,
Some on his face, some into his mouth—he does not mind.
He gets up and walks back to his crib, letting the rain
Wash off some of his weight—it always did, it always did…
The weather man at 7 will report in feigned excitement
Of the failed storm and the brief, generous, showers.
They did not know anything—storms came, alright;
Massive hurricanes, with no names but ill intentions
They wreaked in his withins, havoc with no measure.
He is tired putting things back up, his soul included;
He knows the hugest storms do not just walk away.
A discussion is coming up; see you!
Follow me for post updates 🙂
Benson Langat is a poet, fiction writer, and freelancer. A dreamer, he realizes a world of possibilities through stories and explores life in poetry. Benie is a dad and lives in Nairobi, Kenya.