PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

When I was a child

   a part of my soul felt numb.

I used to hate sunny days

   and before bedtime

   I sometimes petitioned God for nightmares

   “Pretty, pretty please…”                                   

(Of course, this did not stop me

   from burying myself deep under the covers

   and crying out for—"D A D !"  

   when they did

      indeed

   come calling)

The bland has always been much more terrifying to me

   than actual monsters.

Like those soulless conversations that happen

   in newly constructed buildings

      on the outskirts of towns

   the kind that serve as temporary churches

      smelling vaguely of fresh paint and sealant

         entirely devoid of warmth or charm

      and on Sundays

      full of people

      all gulping down sawdust.

A sunny day on a pikipiki in Khwisero

   for example

   turned out to be a very different kind of beast

   from the sunny days I knew back home.

There

   the midday sun buzzed with a special sort of fly

   the sort which seems drawn only to that pungent and indescribable scent

   of human suffering.

There

   a man laughed

   motioning towards the collapsed, termite-ravaged structure at his right—

         I almost laughed with him

         so vibrant and warm was the sound that bubbled out of him

   —but as he laughed

         his eyes darted nervously between my face

         and the crumbled heap

         where his babies once slept...

            (where the mama of Patrick Otwoma's babies had gone

             I never knew

             or worse

             perhaps I have forgotten)

   and in the silence that followed—

         the silence that echoed with the lowing of long-gone cows

         now only a memory stolen away by a midnight cheat

   —in that silence

      Patrick shrugged his shoulders

         having finished expelling the mysterious

            round

               full-bodied noise

         which apparently served as some raw

               oozing sort of recognition

            of the tragic culmination

            of his life’s work.

Resonate grief

   hiding behind resilience

      it left his heart

      and clung directly to the seconds surrounding the moment.

It sunk into them

   shaking violently

   desperately

   and I swear

   I could almost feel a crack in his soul rattling manically...

There was something in his eyes

   or perhaps something in the guttural rasp

   of such a young man’s cough

   that whispered:

   "Patrick Otwoma is not okay."

Upon reflection

   it may be something akin

   to stumbling unwittingly into someone else’s nightmare.

This must be how they feel

   the many unconscious characters we call into our darkest dreams

      who

         unmoved

            watch us wrestle a hundred different invisible demons.

We all know the feeling.

We all know the dream.

The one where you open your mouth to scream

   to shout

   to speak

   but no sound emerges

      or perhaps only a stifled whisper that no one hears.

   as if the lungs are empty

      and no amount of force can expulse that desperate inner panic

         out

            and away
   but

      well
         I suppose it is natural

            that a certain amount of playing in the proverbial mud may be necessary

            to developing an adequate awareness of the absurdity

               in which we all swim

            at least enough to push past the veil

            that muffles the screams of the damned.

And well

   it seems that certain veils

   have grown especially heavy

      tired even

   of holding the illusion of all the things we thought would bring us peace.

Whatever the truth of the matter may be

   it seems clear enough

   that certain kinds of abundance

   have made for a very fine game

   of hide and seek.

Perhaps this is why so many find themselves drawn

   to the corners of life where the darkness is yet crude enough

      that it struggles to find places to hide
   where it has not yet learned to seep into the cracks of freshly paved sidewalks in gated communities

      or the dry dimples of forced smiles.
 

Because, yes

   naivety can blind as much as bitterness

   but, what clarity it can offer

      (rather nearsighted though it may be)

   remains unsullied by the distraction of daytime monsters

      the kind which do not bother to conceal themselves

      the kind which make their den deep in the swollen bellies of starving children

      or lurk behind broken doors

         where musky smells and husky grunts seep out to the street in rotting puddles of rank misery.

These kinds of monsters do not fuss much with disguises

   and so
   perhaps I simply did not like the way my childhood sun tried to erase all of suburbia’s shadows.

Perhaps it was prudent

   to feel a certain ominous apprehension towards the darkness hidden in perfectly ordered kitchens  

      where eating is a chore...

   to fear clocks ticking loudly in quiet houses

      where the television sits uncharacteristically silent

      and the couches are always wrapped in plastic.

   to fear the cardboard exteriors of supposed paradise

      all painted some dirty variation of a pastel flavor

      as if the picket-fenced lie

      of an Edward Scissorhands era

      has gone as stale as a decade-old box of gourmet pastries.

You may find me melodramatic

   naïve

   even ungrateful

   ...but then again

      maybe there is more to it

      than the dark and spoiled fascinations

      of a loved and sheltered child.

Perhaps some part of me recognized

   even then

   how horrible that which lurks in the dullness of life could be.

Hunger and disease

   pain and cruelty

   these things are, indeed, more terrifying

   but

      conceivably

   only because they inhabit a world

      where life is still worth enough

      to fear ruining.