Friday, November 23, 2012

Letters // Barua -- November 20, 2012

MY LETTER TO YOU//Thomas Green

I am writing this letter
Sending it off to you
I still have things to say
And do not know what else to do.
You’ve left me alone
For such a long time now
Sometimes I miss you so much
But you are not around now.

So I sit down and I write.
I write this letter to you.

Life is like a roller coaster
It has high highs and precipitous lows
At times I need to talk to you
To share this ride with you as I go.
You took me on such a high ride
Our experience so strong remains mostly untold.

You gave me a love that was just beginning
A thing growing strong, with much room to grow.
Starting from near ground
We traveled together up and up to behold
the spiraling enchantment we enjoyed
Together our love uncontrolled.

Down that exciting track
Who would have pondered or could have known
You would be taken away in a flash
so sudden and yet so silent it was
I knew not where you had flown.

So I sit down and I write.
I write this letter to you.

Once I knew you were gone
I could hardly lift my head and cope
Knowing that you were no longer there
sharing this ride we had so much hope .
Now that we can no longer be together.
So sit and  I write to you this letter
Though there will be nowhere to post
For you are in God’s hands,
My dreams and memories,
In my heart you do reside the most.      

DEAR MR. JOHN DA SILVA//Amanda Leigh Lichtenstein

You are lying in intensive care right now in Nairobi.
Your granddaughter Esmeralda just called to tell me your condition.
A heart attack: Worse, then better, than worse.
Be proud of her, John, her voice was calm and green,
Scrolling through the world inside your phone
Asking for nothing but prayer.

John, I don’t pray. I’m an American Jew in Diaspora
Far from Israel and its wincing policies. I heard the Dalai Lama
Speak once in India, but I was lurching and late to his lecture.   
When Esmeralda asked for prayers, though, John, I thought of you.
I saw you in my mind’s eye, as if thinking of you made you whole again.  
I thought of you cast in projector’s hum and light, speaking

To American students with the enthusiasm of a boy scout
Detailing histories long forgotten by even those who lived it.
There are Sultans roaming your mind, John, and architects,
Princes and ambassadors, kings and queens, imams and slaves
Tailors, traders, traitors. Your mind, full of labyrinths
Memorized and stitched into history through pen and ink.

A life in postcards, paintings, stamps, and signs.
Soldier of architecture, hero of history, Believer in beauty.
Your stories unravel like giant balls of yarn tangled in darkness,
One eye sharp and glistening, the other a marble of blues.
We have to remind you to take a breath, John, to breathe
In the present as you plunge into the past.

Do you remember when I saw you in Dar es Salaam?
Hours before your show at Alliance Francais, you sat
By the doorframe in a chair, looking at your life’s work
With the criticism of an ex-lover. You loved them all,
but still they were not perfect. You knew each painting
as if they were children named after beauty and forgetting.

How you love Stone Town, its rotting facades
Hidden histories, open secrets, wounds, mosques.
And how we love you, your tireless storytelling,
Your love for a good glass of red wine, your lit-up
Obsession with life and all there is to collect, name,
Claim, understand, and teach before a life is through.

The way you photograph decay, damage, destruction.
The way you stay on the image of an old Indian dhow
And talk about it as if it were the only thing that ever mattered.
The way you know each Sultan like blood brothers
Naming them, beard by beard. The way you gather glass
By the seashore, licking its salted story with a knowing tongue.

John, these hours are upon us now, stacked in a tower of worry.
We’re sending messages straight to your frail heart now, John,
Willing it to remember its strings attached to a wider love.
Stone Town’s collapsing still without you John, but you remind us
Of its beauty, and without beauty, there is nothing but history
Stripped of meaning. You taught me that, John, you showed
Me how to decipher time’s love letters carved in wood.

Consider this letter a prayer, then, John, that you’ll wake
From the pain of this particular moment to an incredible
Bloom of thanks for all you do to keep us close to the earth
Of birth and all that tumbles forward from it. Your limp,
Your eye, your magnificent hand. Your memory, your company,
All you do to stir what’s meant to surface.

With love & gratitude,
Mji Mkongwe

LETTER TO YOU//Mustafa Sharif

This letter is for you.
But not only you
Oh! It's for all of you
Who can read it and understand what I have to say

This letter is for you
You and your group
Who came to me the last season and the season before

Who wanted to win my trust
Did you value my trust?

This letter is for you
You and your group
If you want to come
Make sure you meet the terms
Or I will never let you in in the season to come

Monday, November 12, 2012

Travel // Safari -- October 16, 2012

QUESTIONS//Gerry Bukini (ze Anonymous Poet)

A seed planted
A seed grows
Weeds uprooted
Crops nourishes
Harvest time
Food we eat
Or crops we trade
Goals reached

I wonder
What did the seed like?
What he left behind,
Or what he became?
Where he came from,
Or where he went?
Did he wish to stop somewhere?
Did he wish to go beyond that?
Is that why he left some of them behind?
Did he really want to leave them behind?
Does that mean he was strong enough,
That he overcame drought, insects and wild animals?
Why did he have to grow to be eaten or sold?
Why didn't he stop so the farmer gets all the loss?
Did he want to make the farmer happy?
If he strikes would the other seeds strike too?
Would he be alone?
I wonder
I just wonder

I wonder
Did the farmer see what the seed had to go through?
Is that what he wanted?
If the seed refused to grow what would he have done
Can he force him?
Why force him to move from seed to a crop
Who asked to move into another form?
Is it the seed or the farmer?
Who is moving?
Is it the seed or farmer?
Do they move on the same bus?
Do they share the same struggle?
Do they quarrel?
Who listens to whom?
Who controls who?
Is it the journey that they have to go together?
Or they just travel?
Is it a routine?
Does it make them happy?
I just can’t help it but wonder
I just wonder
I wonder

JOURNEY//Gerry Bukini (ze Anonymous Poet)

Pack, unpack
Park where there is no parking
Few bucks and seat on a tree bark
More bucks and have a pain free back
I know past is black
Light chases away dark
And soon I’ll be back
Now barking is what my heart is lurking
“I want to go home”

HIGHWAY ONE: A ROAD TRIP IN REVERSE // Amanda Leigh Lichtenstein

We played the I Could Live Here game
The whole way from Joshua Tree to the Redwoods,
Stopping in every quaint village, destitute town
Proclaiming with each nauseating halt:

I’ll be the bike mechanic!
You’ll be the sign language interpreter.
I’ll be the hula hoop instructor,
You’ll be the fortune teller, specializing in small children.
I’ll be the writer in that little red barn.
You’ll drag dogs from their feral nests and train them
To be good, even if it means pulling out their fangs.
We could live here.

In each place, the gas station became our gas station,
The church, our church, where we prayed for each
To love the other more, and we did.
Before too long, we were in San Francisco,
The enormous roar of ocean waves, just a painting
In our brains, hung loose on the wall of memory.
We were nearing the end of things, begged the other
To drive through the darkest parts of night, till night
Itself was a promise that could not be kept.

By the time we got to the Redwoods, we realized
None of this was ours, not even ourselves.
We posed for Moody Self-Portraits with Trees,
But one of us was nervous in nature,
The other was unnaturally quiet
And our parents were still screaming at each other
In their far-away, desperate basements.

We could have been anyone, anywhere,
But we were here, among ancient trees,
Falling out of love.

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Healing & Cures // Kupona & Matibabu -- September 19, 2012

DIE, AGNOSTC // Amanda Leigh Lichtenstein

I loved a sculptor, once.
I was clay, and took on the shape
Of desire.

My body learned to relent.
It was better than lent.
I was cured of all sin.

For the next five years,
I carried around a low-grade fever
Of sadness.

Everywhere I went,
Those with any keen sense
Could smell my sorrow.

It was all I could do
To hide that nagging lament
That bellowed on the inside.

I read poems about bullfighters.
Their wounds, their blood, their sequins
Allowing for a new sequence.

First, I would keep sinning.
And then, I would never repent.
I am all for contradictions.

The heart wants what it wants.
In a field of trees, I choose the criminal.
In a sea of green, the addict.

I visited a healing hospital in Mwera.
They told me I had devils.
Drink the word of God, they said.

We dipped God’s script in water,
Sipped on those prayers that air-lift us
Out of the Nowhere of hurt.

God is great, but not as great
As misery. Between the two,
Misery’s got the loudest wail.

If you’re feeling like this now,
You’re bound to stuff yourself sick
With poems when you’re old.

Cancer, yes, a cure. But for pure
Pain, acutely insane, exiled or broken
It may just be the shofar’s call

That wakes you from the gruelling dream.
Whole, broken, whole again,
The world round, made light.

I’ve long forgiven you all for loving me.
It’s not your fault. How sickening -- the sound
Of failure.

My apologies suffer from a limp.
It’s congenital – born with loveable fissures.
No tinctures will do, but maybe a song.

If all goes well, we’ll die in our sleep.
If all goes well, you’ll love me sooner.
If all goes well, this won’t hurt a bit.


A blind man once told me
Young lady
You’re a beautiful young lady

A deaf man once told me
Young lady
You’ve got a beautiful voice

A lame man once told me
Young lady
I’ll run to you

A mute man once told me
Young lady
I’ll sing for you

A mad man once told me
Young lady
We’re here for you

And I believed them
Oh men
See, Hear, Run, Sing, Believe

For their cure is not restoration
Restoration is never the cure
Laughter, Love, Life

SUPER TREATMENT//Mohammed Saleh Ali

Healing and curing an age old art and science
Keeping together odds and ends for a calmer finish
A process of rejuvenating what went amiss
Its success prolongs life span, its failure seizes it

Hospitals, clinics and health centers sprout all over
Doctors, nurses adn orderlies team up fire in them.
To concert surgeris is ultimate of treatment doses
In health operations, studiousness of precise actions' a must

Human Anatomy and Pathology must react well to drug prongs
Administered and managed by those with expertise
Confidence psyches recofery better in total mechanistic ways
At times slow at times fast the sick becomes well again

Alas happiness from pains, tough it was to cure one well again
Thank the medics, thank the mothers and thanks those who cared
Not forgetting the nurses and orderlies who made it possible so
I treat them all to a party for my recovery from dubious norms.


Time is the healer.
At least that is what I am told.
With time and perserverance
all paint and injury somehow subside.
But then why is it that when I stop, I do stop to think on that one loss.
Despite the mounting minutes, hours, days, years,
That same pain can stir once more within my chest.
The same tears can flow freely down my cheeks,
as if it were just now, and again, just now.
That first dagger of pain pierced my heart,
Then clutched it tight making each heartbeat
pound loud banging in my head
the only sound I can hear.
I guess that time is the healer.
Time though may not be the cure.
With time my heart suffers less and less
With time less frequent the stress
Of the love long lost, once sure.
The one that somehow left me behind
Left me without a last word
Left without a last touch,
a last embrace.
Yes time is a healer
But it is not this pain's cure.

HEALING & CURE.//Amir A. Mohamed

Words can heal,
words can kill.

Food has a healing power,
even water, fruits and flowers.

We may fall sick and live longer;
We may be stronger and die.

It's a mystery of life,
I don't know why.

We may be sick in a short time,
by healing may take time.

Healing with speed,
that is what we need.

Treatment with efficacy,
That is what we fancy.

We help the poor to seek devine blessings,
Healing is giving, caring, loving and even kissing.

Life is good health
but every soul will meet death.

Human being is subject to decay,
even monarchs must obey.

There are diseases which are hard to heal,
some are hard to cure, especially the mentally ill.

Worries can kill,
despair is the mortal seed.

Let us stop worrying and dance with life,
let us avoid nagging like a commanding wife.

We invented Yoga to cure our inner conflicts, faith healing,
discovery of medicine to cure sexual healings.

We still face formidable challenge of incurable diseases,
like AIDS, leukemia, cancer or measles

We use steam baths, acupuncture hot springs to build our spirits.

The Greeks invented the Olympics
to keep our bodies fit.

Building correct behavior and avoiding bad habits

Are we healthy?
Are we happy?

Are we emotionally strong?
Are we satisfied with life?

Do we love ourselves and love others?

Are we dying or born again?
Smiling faces can drive away our pains.


In the middle of a desert
I've made this tree grow
watered it
when there was no water
when the rain was a tale of an old dumb fellow
when the sun was a fire of the angered beast
burning bigger, strong old trees totally down
when the wind uprooted and separated,
I've stood by this tree, I've made it grow!

I cured a disease
when there was no cure
when docters laid down their tools
when prayers were gibberish
when hope replaced failure,
I cured the incurable!

It's tree, grown up, high above the sky
beautiful flowers, beautiful fruit
admired, making mouths watery
making eyes flashing, staring
but it's soil the credit's going to
for without soil there is no tree
I won't stand in your way
if you really want to go
but it's you tree
and I am soil
and it's a road to nowhere...
And I shall heal
like I never had an injury.

AFRO-DISIAC//Gerry Bukini (ze Anonymous Poet)

My Afro-disiac
Antidote to my sickness
Cure that's pure
From the time of no religion or class
That's where we started
Dirt, mud and poverty
Still we danced to the good music
From farming to kids yawning
You never left me
From drought to heavy rains
You remained colorful

My Afro-disiac
Healder of my sickness
Hearer of my requests
Fertile with your adolescent smile
Curer of my heart desire
When I am in sorrow you sing me nice songs
When I need knowledge you gave me wisdom
You gave me food for my stomach and food for thought.

My Afro-disiac
Healer of my sickness
I am entrapped
Its limbwata
Hakuna Matata
Though tumboni hakuna mabatata
Voodoo, Superstition
No Mzungu medication
Yes I love this portion
Put me in a bottle or tie me on a tree
But with you I am healed
With you I am free

My Afro-disiac
Freedom is your sound
A-free-car that's what they call you
A-free-car that all want to ride
A-free-car to take you to your dreams
A-free-car to dump all the wastes
But I promise I will always ride on you A-free-car

My Afro-disiac
You told me being A-free-I-can is what will heal me
Now I know
A-free-I-can; take care of myself
A-free-I-can; get out of this poverty
A-free-I-can; eradicated all diseases
A-free-I-can; be seen
A-free-I-can; be heard
A-free-I-can; be healed from this I-can't philosophy
I am so glad that I met you
My antidote and healer of my sickness
Cure that's pure


Pain cures
if you only allow that direction
you're looking for a healing?
think you need
                                          a doctor?
                                          more sex?
                                          better friends?
                                          nicer life?
                                                                               Let's go together in the opposite direction
                                                      you think I'm in your way?
                                                      I'm not enough?
                                         take your time
my name is healer
                                         I sometimes disguise my face

Sunday, September 16, 2012


*all photographs by Peter Bennett, 2012

THE LEARNING//Thomas Green

Our road points in many directions
With so many points it seems there is no point at all
It twists us and turns us in every direction
And intersect wherever however they fall.
This is all part of life’s learning experience
Showing us to make some sense of it all
Taking those many points going in all directions
and making us take on the sense of it all.
My teachers of my youth gave me the basics
A handle on language, math and many a thing
they taught me the history that lies beneath the surface
giving a sense of place to start , a sense of where I am and should be.
Like the big bang we started from near nothing at all
Compacted energy into infinitely tiny space too small to hold
So it explodes in all directions taking on form space and mass
A celestial cosmos of infinite variation and throes
Yet of basic construct yet too complicated to completely understand
The things that affect the outcome to be as we go
From those that have taught me the basics I did need and do grow
Come experience to teach me lessons long lasting  that stand
Circumstances sometimes seeming random and unplanned
that happen to me on this path that is life so grand
And on each step of the way of the path I do grow.
I learn that there is a beginning and also an end
To this life that we lead as a part of the planet infinite yet no
We are but a tiny spec in the universe
Unversed, reversed, gone first and arrived at last
We do end, but the way is a constant learning experience
until we must breath our last existential breath.

EDUCATE//Karlie Jo Query

Teach me
Oh teacher
Teach me

The world is open
My student

Teach me
Your ways of growing
Teach me

I will give
You’ll receive
A seed

No teacher
Do not give
A seed, I do not need

Why student
I can teach
Teach you

I want you to teach
Teach me how
Teach me the way
Because true generosity
Lies in a seed
A seed not given
But a seed grown

I will show you how
To grow the seed
To prosper and flourish

Than you teacher
For your generosity
For your teachings

Thank you student
For today, you are the teacher
For you are the true teacher


That’s the teaching of the wise
and the learning of the brave
for between wisdom and bravery there is patriotism
and patriots we are
as we’ve been taught by our man
“Love your country
more than you love your own being”
but just as we’ve been consuming this teaching
the man was assassinated!
assassinated by his associate
whose lion skin covered by beautiful white skin of a she-goat!
but time tells no lies
the lion skin will be uncovered
and the assassin will be naked, publicly displayed
You say you are free?
you are about as free
as one of those cows out there
you can move around
long as you stay inside your master’s fences!
It’s hard to make a cow see reasons
but that’s cow
she’s never meant to see reasons
one shouldn’t bother to make her smile
for she doesn’t even know
the meaning of smiling
she’s got a mind but not a thought
Very dangerous this candy-business
how can leaders of a country let themselves popped candies?
like popping candies into kids’ mouths to keep them quiet!
The world is big place
and it will call out to you
but you can’t get away from your roots
no matter how far you go.
We are crushed
don’t pretend you can’t see the crack
in a wall you thought was solid,
‘cause I reckon pretending is a habit of a fool

You can own people not minds
but in this case you can own nobody
let alone people’s minds.
Not too late
anybody can climb high
long as they’ve got something to step on
and we’ve got ourselves
and UAMSHO behind us
to take us out of TZ-manacles.

EDUCATION//Mohammed Saleh Ali (ATD, ACI-DSM, Secretary General of Zanzibar Writers Initiative)

Teaching and learning educates the young as well as the elderly
A process of acquiring information in phases produces a skill, get techniques.  

A profession, an expertise a well-cherished noble income gets tactic.
Teaching and learning broods friends and enemies alike.

This simple tale enfolds the educating of me in my infancy, in my prime
As I teach, I still learn lessons; experiences enfold teaching others the good and the bad. 

The unimaginable and the hard to understand all simplified in their own complexities
Simpleton basics in time become complex arts or sciences and perhaps high technology.

This is how I was taught through generations of learning exposing realities hard to decipher as teachings and learning making me compare myself to others for it is what the world has made education to many as we are judged and excel by the listings compiled by examination authorities that action the truth of winners and losers in the battle of academic pursuits measured by those said to be better than ones being examined -- 

Who does really knows the truth?

As anytime the list can be barred and make brains devastate in the (narrow) streets demise.
Showtime to many when prospective graduates pilfering down the drains instead of the pipelines.

Graduating with certificates, diplomas or and degrees. Now that am older I still learn in post-grad certs
to pocket, and show for a promo at job get or simply show on the wall.

Often education been a hard road, at times easy like dizzy, as we mimed in school,
yet several times a challenge to overcome and bring out solutions from formulations

I dare say I loathe this world of education where academicals intelligence of scholarly stuff wits in battles of me around books I read, yet a must if one ought have the best education, quote with notes noting, for searches into researches, where minus and plus can mean a loss unless plus doubles and multiplies for a gain that can be migrated for whatever one think is right.

Not the scientist. He has laws and principles, theories and hypothesis to place in a mundane dance of symbols on a mathematical plane.

Maybe the artists’ imagination will give us a ride, a trip often into oblivions of acclamations
I love the notes that make me laugh out laud and clear.
I love those that coin abstractions into sense full worth sensations

All make this world a better environ to bear oddities only mis-education claims outcomes like fault in defaults I dare say work or not unless you’ve some expertise.

Least I praise the teachers who once snarled me for mistakes I deciphered not any wrong
Most I praise my parents who assured my schooling was easy despite the wars and shortages as
Whatever I asked of I got from them, was delivered as I wanted.

Now I see literacy falling just as I realized many newspapers and expensive books everywhere, How?
News ideals have changed much to the worse of worldly ways less to the better of friendly days
Yesterday scholar reads the daily not of newsmen worth or celebrity but corned up folks drag and dropped on colorful pages.

I end wishing all learners and teachers happier days in Education and overcoming challenges of experiences interpolated for all to know unless educated they’d grim again and regret things to say or said, think and write. 

Thursday, June 21, 2012

Walls, Windows, Doors/Ukuta, Madirisha, Milango -- June 19, 2012

FOR NOW//Eleanor Griplas

Visitors to our small tropical paradise, often pose
The same questions time and again,
just a different accent, their curiosity is uniform
 I give well -rehearsed replies to unoriginal questions
What brought you here? Was it for love?
Why did you leave England and your career?
The answer to that one is obvious and easy…
How long have you lived on this island?
My reply to that always causes much disbelief
Why are there so many half built houses?
And who camps out in these unfinished structures?
I am embarrassed to admit, I just don’t know
Who are these families? faceless and own homeless
Living in a shell of what one day, will be transformed
Once the owner has a bit more cash, into a grand abode.
There will be tiles and turrets, gold taps, chandeliers, marble this and that
gilt edged mirrors, A/C units, wi fi, DSTV
Electrified fences with warnings like “hatari” and “ mwizi”
one day these properties will look and feel like palaces,
for now they give a crude shelter, with unpainted walls, glassless windows
They are my neighbours - I don’t, and can’t, recognise them
 we live side by side, metres apart but at opposite ends of our worlds
They have patchwork cardboard windows that can’t be seen through
I hear the children, no glass to contain their cries or laughter
On the first floor balcony they chase each other
 round and round an unfinished column, Grecian in design
On the architect’s plans, I imagine, it has stucco and fine plasterwork
But for now it’s a tower of nondo and chipped saruji
With small grubby handprints half a metre high its only decoration.
Outside there is a fountain in the garden which one day will have
water spewing from the mouth of a posing cherub
For now, the youngster’s lips are dry and starting to crack
The garden is home to chickens, banana trees, a makeshift kitchen
For now, water for the household is fetched in bright yellow gallons
filled from my garden tap next door and carried across the divide,
A youth lumbers the gallon through the naked door frame,
pushing out of the way the pieces of a misshapen corrugated iron jigsaw
this barrier serves as a flimsy deterrent from intruders
but for now there’s nothing to steal, no desirable possessions.
The Zanzibari door is on order with its traditional carving
of fish, flowers, fruit , the symbols of wealth and prosperity
but for now there’s no need for a door, not until the house is ready
and fit to be lived in… for now, its a roof over their heads – but who are they?

ON EITHER SIDE//Amanda Leigh Lichtenstein

I’m leaning against the wall I should be climbing.
They say it’s all about timing.
All walls have their other sides, a version of me
Over there, wanting to reach that version of me, over here.
Over there, it’s fair. Over there, it’s kind.
Over here, it’s fear. Over here, it’s wine.
Over there, it’s family and clocks.
Over here it’s the promise of not wearing socks.
My back is pressed to my self’s back,
Hands gripping knees,
Knees pulled up to chin.
We are the same on either side, but better.
One of us is married, speaking to her husband.
One of us is single, speaking to her pen.
One of us is restless, one of us is calm.
One of us has no idea what’s going on.
One of us is far away, one of us is close.
One of us silent, one verbose.
Just a wall between us now, built
To shut out all doubt, all birds who chirp
From a different perch. One flew over with a song,
But is it not too late to start now?
It’s dark, we’re still, there are entire lives to till.
She’s leaning against the wall she should be climbing. 


Taken all of us inside
The wall around us
No body knows, no body say
Why and how we are confined

It’s not us, not our consent
That took us here
To trade our being
And make us hopeless, helpless
Ill fated creatures

This wall around us
Made us losers, we lost
Our rights
Our dignity
Our Freedom

This wall we will climb
Through the window of freedom
We will see the door
And crawl to reach prosperity


"Les Murs" des Monde kuta, ya ulimwengu ni Changamoto kwa ajili ya watu wa kushinda
Milango tu kupunguza mafungu yake kupitia kuta na madirisha tu kama yeye peeps kuona dunia ya nje, yatainama katika entwining yake ya milele glares

Kuta, milango, madirisha, mambo ulimwenguni yenye maboma, kimsingi ya kawaida kwa majengo yote, Small au kubwa kutengeneza usanifu ukuu kwamba maumbo na aina na wabunifu kwamba kuangalia na kiburi kama miundo stoically kusimama nje ya mji wa ukingo maumbo na aina kuamua mazingira ya mijini na vijijini

Nguvu nene kuta attunes ngome za mali zilizotumika katika maamuzi yao,
Dhaifu nyembamba kuta smart up econometrics matumizi ya wadogo,
Wala anakataa kanuni ya kinga kuwa watu wote kutoa fomu na miundo kutoka kanuni ya umati wa watu na umati wa watu au umati wa watu kama wakati watu nakala miundo

Cocoons ya furaha makao, fahari ya wale ambao huduma na kuona maajabu ya mwamba aliwaangamiza katika mbao ili sahihi suala bado rahisi furaha ya mioyo ya wengi kuangalia, kukaa na admire
Kupumzika, kuwafariji mwenyewe, kufungua madirisha kwa airs cools wewe chini, kufungua milango kukimbilia katika kila upepo kubeba hivyo kuchukua huduma na kuziba ufunguzi tu kufunga mlango!

Kuta huilinda wewe kwa usalama, kulinda kutoka kwa misimu demises ulinzi, na soundproofs
siri wengi wa furaha na upendo, uhalifu chuki na adhabu, ugunduzi na uvumbuzi
lakini si katika mgodi ambapo ya faragha na usiri ni mired na kuta na wajane wazi karibu kugusa kila kupungua mitaani nyingine bums kutembea kwa namna fulani kujua nini kinaendelea katika kuta na kutosha funny kwamba utalii ushujaa kwa showcasing badala ya kubomoa kwa bora ya fashions ya sasa katika ukarabati

Yote katika yote ya kivita ni wao kuwapiga majira dexterity derailing tani ya wakazi wa gentemot a gentemot mara kwa mara wasafiri tathmini.

Pamoja na ubukuzi sauti zote Utakao wafunika kukita ngome, astute ni kuta sana wavers si, kupungua statures kama viumbe uncomforting kufanya habari wakati kujenga mpya kutoka commonness ya wale walio karibu

Milango entrances wako katika mapenzi kama Kwa Windows peep dunia ya nje kama kuta masanduku katika mtu na familia laini na uzuri coated na rangi chiseled na mchanga sprayed juu ya ukuta wa nje na rangi ya maji ya ukuta wa ndani. Au tu nyeupe nikanawa na pambazuka muda mfupi kwa monotones kusikitisha kikamilifu katika faragha

Confinements - upweke uhakika miaka katika miaka ya nje stoically ukuta anasimama,
 iwe mvua au jua na katika muda wa mwani na uwanja wa michezo fungi na mashimo mwiko mkubwa.
Solo usiku licking ndoto kuzamishwa katika nyota atrociousness, jinsi rough mlango Arabia ni kama kutoka kwa ndani?

Jinsi nzuri ni hiyo kwa nje na blends ya shaba kwa minarets spiking tunaambiwa kwa ajili ya ulinzi dhidi ya tembo nchini India sasa akageuka Kiarabu katika enclaves wa Kiswahili wa Mji Mkongwe
Baadhi ya milango ni nene kama Kiarabu ambao ujenzi yake, labda bado mengi ni nyembamba kama seremala waliopanga hivyo, bado wengi kama dhaifu kabisa kama watumwa ambao kuweka kuta miaka mingi iliyopita

Hata hivyo wakati wote kufukuzwa karibu kwa dalili zamani hawana Visa kupita katika ukuta yangu kwa ajili ya mmiliki ni mtu kijijini kwa wale yeye kukabidhiwa, kununua na kuuza kwa wakati alifanya vizuizi kati maker na mmiliki, sasa inabidi tu admire kazi mara moja kufanyika sasa Imechezwa kama urithi wa asili.

Kuta na nguvu na astute kushikilia milango sawa na madirisha na milango galore kwa changamoto kifungu kwa njia ya Binadamu wakati kunyonya alifanya ngome ya wahalifu wale akalazwa na Chama kufanywa na default ......... ambaye ni lawama?

Malezi na sheria kupitishwa ilichukuliwa shaghalabaghala maisha spans mwangalizi wa bahati na kushuhudia unlucky kupata garrisoned katika kuta bila madirisha wakati au milango ya milango grilled chuma

Ukoloni mara moja ngome, Uhuru unlocked milango, madirisha na kipato na benki amana yanakuja na fedha mengi kupitia madirisha winful sisi kupata fedha.
Hata hivyo ni wachache tu kufurahia hizi kuta ghaibu milango na madirisha kama mataifa yanaendelea ambapo watu wakaacha. Kuta, milango na madirisha miundo ya msingi ya domains mara nyingi stoic openers kwa matumaini baadhi ya. 
Lakini tovuti omboleza baadhi ya fursa hizi kwa ajili ya firewalls, mtu djupt moto nje ya kudhibiti yake, hakuna kufanya kweli kama intrusions kupita si firewalls, windows kufanywa na kufanyika vizuri, functionally kutoa tuzo katika kucheza haki.
Ustadi hujenga kudumaa furaha kwa ajili ya kona ya raundi ya virusi likizidi achilia hukua na mashambulizi katika mapenzi.

Kuta si kukua lakini madirisha unaweza slide na kufunga kufungua tena bado milango ni thickest ya ubunifu mtu alifanya katika nyanja zote, baadhi ya kusisitiza juu ya pivoting kwenda pande zote na pande zote

Kupinga wao screech au tu waziwazi si kufungua au kufunga na mapenzi ya mtu.
Katika kuta nafasi yoyote ni lazima kwa ajili ya madirisha usafi kuwekwa haki kwa kifungu na Doors kuruhusu exit na kuingia. Hivyo nafasi, usafi na kifungu ndoto wagombea binafsi 'waliozaliwa upya.
Kuta kama madirisha na milango ni lazima kwa ladha yoyote nzuri mans na anapenda.
Nchi exit na kuingia pointi ni milango Mataifa nje ya mipaka. Visa tu got kupitia vifungu kibali madirisha wanaohitaji nguvu nguvu kama ukuta wa kutokea bila ya moto ambayo parley hakuna milango au madirisha.

Firewalls kuweka mbali intruder alright, katika kompyuta kwa muda mrefu Bill Gates '

Mafanikio sisi mara nyingi kukataa maono kama kushindwa kama vidole, kama kipanya Clicks na slides pointer, kufunga au kuanza logi madirisha, fanciful entrances, zisizohitajika anapumua, stanching vyumba wakati madirisha imefungwa.

Kwa usiri sisi isipokuwa kuta nguvu na
 milango toughness
 na madirisha fursa
 kuwa muhimu kama moyo beats
 katika maisha kongwe
na marudio tiresome ya boredom maisha Guinea.

Hey watu kuweka akapiga magoti mbele yake na mimi kama mimi dhana ya ukuta, mlango na dirisha milele isiyoweza kutengwa?

HOUSE OF LOVE//Said Suleiman

When he looked at the doors
he knew they were not locked
then he was so much tempted to get in
as he got through there was no restriction,
though he was unexpected guest, he was welcomed.
When he saw walls of the house
painted red color
with decorated love-signs of matured heart
he just lost control
his heart stopped still
to match with the quiet beating
of the painted heart on the walls.
As he cruised round the house
he just knew this was his destination
Then he looked at the windows
to see the outside world
but he saw nothing
nothing to attract his eyes and heart
And so he stayed
in the house of love
feeling very happy and pleased as never before.
The owner of the house is a very beautiful young lady
who although owns such a very beautiful house
she’s never been happy living alone in such a house
till one day when the unexpected guest
knocked on her door
and made her heart stop still
to match with the quiet beating of the guest’s heart
but the matching between two hearts
was exactly the language of love
for between the host and the guest
there was no immediate exchanging of words
but the two hearts simply said “Love”
then the hearts started beating faster
to mark the beginning of the unstoppable love.
Then one day the two sat together talking;
“This house is now yours”
“No, this house is yours”
“Then this house is ours”
“Yes, this house is ours”
“The house of love”.

UNTITLED //Julia Bishop

The front door first, naturally
Will tell of travellers, seafarers
Will speak of welcome and protection
Will stand austere and promising
Will whisper of yesterday – but today
Will suggest another place – that’s here..

Inside, other doors – gracefully arched
Will be perfectly pitched and softly crowned
Will lead from cool green-lit spaces
Through bevelled pillars into silent places
Will draw the eye – forwards and beyond
Will lead the mind through – to elsewhere..

Walls without, straight, high, with Roman tiles
Blank where secrets need concealing
Open where the home wants revealing
Within they will be clean-cut, fresh and white
Will offer niches, alcoves, hidden places
Opaque, then not, then maybe  – or somewhere..

Windows narrow, slender, elegant
Will look over an endless blue, blue sea
Will open wide to step outside
Will be shaded Moorish-ly, for cool, cool breeze
Will draw in sweet breath from far away
With soften with blossoms, with jasmine -  with now.

My doors are opening, showing places to find,
Strong enough to prevent evil and keep within good.
My walls separate areas of time and space,
They bring the essential balance and control.
My windows present a gaze over a chosen world,
And are the sentinels of an open mind.

THE GREAT OUT “DOORS” // Sterling Roop

Drip, drip, drip the sounds of water seeping in. Seeping into the stove, the sleeping bags, our clothes, and our climbing gear. Seeping through the walls, the door and even the tiny window of our new found home, or jail? As the water seeps in, the four of us yearn to get out!

Three days of carrying 35 kilo packs. Miles and miles, over mountain passes, down into valleys, over a high summit. Now we are walled in by the sheer granite of a high alpine basin.

Kweli hii ni liziko?
Out! Out of our tent, out of these nylon walls! It has been two days and the rain has not let up. Our shelter is no match for the force of mother nature.

The walls of this basin are shear and jagged. Carved by the forces of time, wind, water, and ice. The very forces trapping us in these walls!  We arrived with the goal of using the North Ridge as our door, a door that only opens with a unique key. Endurance, overcoming fear, and an unending series of delicate moves over steep rock, ice and snow. But now, now we are not even allowed to use our key, cut over months of training combined with years of experience.

Tulichonga ufunguo! Ufungo huu ulichongwa na mazowezi, jasho, an nguvu!

Here we are at the door, with the keys, ready to use them.
A door to the heavens.
A door to a unique bond with friends.
A door to the thrill of endangering your life to experience something exceptional, something indescribable.
A feeling and a place that most humans would never dare experience.
A feeling of being closer to our maker, to nature, or to god. Whatever that is.


But it is not to be. Mother nature has shown her power. She is the gatekeeper and the door is to remain closed. Drip, drip, drip… another day passes, we get even wetter. Is that is possible? Everyone and everything is soaked to the bone.

Now only one door remains open to us, but one that is closed tight with stinging nettles, rushing rivers, slippery rocks. One that leads us out of the walls of this basin, home. Home to the walls of responsibility, work, our daily lives. Walls that are made by man, symmetrical and neat.  Now two days of struggle before reaching the trailhead. Two days of cold wet hiking, but two days without any walls, windows or doors.

Two days of freedom to savor the beauty of the world we live in and blessed lives we live.
Tunazo Baraka za Mungu. Uhuru ni tamu, Uhuru ndio maisha!


I had to go, just had to.
Opportunity knocking at my door!
A position in a new show in far away Spain.
Just what I had been hoping for.
 I saw myself as not fitting in
Not quite right in this U S of A
I felt a misfit of sorts  now in the city of sin.
I loved it, but was I a Las Vegas babe?
I traversed the airport leaving sin city
Slot machines even in the men’s room
To play your luck wherever you be.
Then through gate 4 I was boarding a plane
To take me across the great sea.
I looked out the windows so small
as we rolled on I lay back and let out a sigh
greater things much greater than I
unknown they awaited beyond.
I was flying ever so far, such a long way.
From tarmac in Vegas to tarmac in Spain,
I travel anxious and so expectant of what?
I was in a waking dream
In a daze unsure how things might be.
My destination? Barcelona Spain.
I did not speak hardly a Spanish word. So insane!
As I arrived in such a singular place
What I noticed first was so many armed guards.
Ak -47’s hanging on their shoulders,
at each turn as they paced.
Barcelona airport’s towering windows looked out
on a new world, Old World though it was.
From here Columbus sailed the high seas.
New to me were the sights, sounds, aromas.
Intriguing metropolis upon bright sea coasts.
A water powered time-piece so strange and intriguing
Tickled my senses, trickling waterworks sublime.
Water gushing, cascading to crank through the gears
Of a  quirky Salvador Dali design.
They welcomed me to the realm, Barcelona

She met me at the curb by the taxi rank
Just past the enormous glass enclose
Through the sliding glass doors awaiting my arrival
Was Christina, Tweet to her friends I was told.
A tall lank blonde , her hair taughtly drawn
To a ponytail slapping her ever so straight back.
Her forehead protruding like a baby doll
Round forhead like cartoon Tweetybird’s
set upon her slim neck.
That object of cat Tom,s constant cravings’
she was a brief guide to the sights into town,
An obvious resident enthralled still excited
Gingerbread houses scattered here and there, Gaudi crafted
Architecture distinctive do so abound.
Wedged Like Lego blocks were edifices of heavy weathered stone
Mostly uniform pillared buildings they were
Greek  & Roman of influence regal they be.
In Europe at last I’m here dumbfounded. “Gob Smacked.”
There was too much yet to see.
To my hotel room tiny, it felt so strange.
Scents all new to my senses,
What awaited me in this odd place?
Four walls and a widow to a
The balcony so narrow, I looked out.
A wrought iron balustrade of bulky design
below me Gran Via people promenading.
Passers-by dressed in browns and grays
they seemed so conservatively dressed.
Long coats dour colored as they go on their way
Though their chatter animated and bright
The Spanish were quite friendly soon I’d see
After I had stayed there many a night.
Unintelligible to me was the language this my first day.
so I began my first Spanish lessons so intense.
For an urgent need now swelled up deep inside.
From the door of my hotel room at La Gran Havana
To the theater was just a brief walk.
Down the stairs I went after my toast and butter breakfast
Strong coffee the taste lingers as I walk
To the Gran Via to La Scala di Barcelona
So much traffic at plaza Tetuan,
the brass trimmed doors of the Scala did there await me.
On the wall a brass box showing off a show poster
of the show now performing whereof.
Where my work is to dance, it was to be done.
A  new door was open, or so I thought
With a extravaganza at Barcelona’s Scala
But a wall I would suddenly confront.
Not one of brick or of mortar
But of scorn undeservedly won.
I was brought there to replace dear old Rupert,
A dancer, he was everyone’s friend so it seemed.
Here I was to them an arch-enemy from day one.
Though this I knew nothing of , nor wanted or caused.
Who was I to them but an American upstart
A foreigner too young, inexperienced I was.
Brought in to replace their beloved Rupert.
He was scrawny and awkward as a dancer for sure.
What fault was it mine he was rejected,
By powers that be so it were?
Not a soul in that theater to befriend me,
due to something I did not actually do.
There a wall was there placed before me
My work made unpleasant, gone awful, askew.
So I looked out the door for my solace
Friendship and comfort I needed in this new place
With but an inkling of the language I had that day one
I managed in the end to find a love to embrace.
By the stage door Amancio one night with a rose awaited
among firemen rushing about to and fro.
The theater tumbling down that day so created
Opportunity to escape my pain.
He was there by the stage door against all the odds
my fair Amancio, oh so handsome and gentle.
From  that day forward all would work well so I thought
Doors opened wide after all of the suffering.
No wall before me would defeat me,
For they had all charred and had fallen.