Tim Miner's Musings

I saw a bird fly.  Perched on a pyre with a broken wing.  With a teary eye line and a snorty beak Later  Glade effortlessly far below Pain-drained To peck at my yellow-glazed window panes. I on the inside strumming a broken guitar Humming to a lost tune To an old dusty furniture That got carried away to Heat the heath "Tis outlived its usefulness,"  My Mother retorted. I couldn't get the chords I reclined to a corner   Trying to strike an earth-record music hit The music made by rustling wind And dead leaves At which boughs dance In a baritone tone   My voice  I had broken mine A deep note. It made me sad When it flapped My hands gripped We would have roast meat A dove's blood dripping The room was warm now. I groaned on the inside. That a bird with a broken wing could fly And make melody too Was beautiful. It pained We shortly were mates I painted it It lend me a wing I...

Last Friday but two was a spectacular day. Besides it being rather too hot, dry and dusty, the day ushered in the second weekend of the first semester here in campus. The freshmen and women were just reeling from the week-long orientation program organized by the administration. Eager, enthusiastic and confused of what lay ahead of them,  in this strange place they came to pursue their academic dreams. That most of the day you find them strolling around or hurdled together at a place like grazing sheep, glued to their smartphones! Wake up this is Campus!    As a senior, i cannot fail to notice how crowded and suffocating the library feels. Note how long the Mess queues are. Note the pavements bustling with humanity. The lecture complex fills to the brim. The Serengeti, Suswa and Tsavo...the Loita hostels... (The names of these hallowed places sound like some wildlife containment areas. Anyway, never mind. So are the tenants. Shrieks! ) These kids are way too m...

The beauty of every early Morn is to run through its dew Take home sheaves of barley Owls hooting, doves coo The late worm in vain burrows When the wild bird picks it up in furrows Together with the farmer's grain seeds In the infinite blue, the full moon, cedes The hunter slings his quiver, Hot on the heels of his game Before the sun does its trick;  And erase the prey's track, Bend, crack his hunting-bow o' Make your head boil In the sweltering heat And crawl back to the house with no grain of wheat.  http://timmaina.blogspot.com 2014

Welcome Back To January Sobriety! Of Memorable Nights, Watching The Sky, Glistening Stars, They Remain. Of The Pounding Rain, Cold & Drenching, It Will Flow. Scorching Sun, The Fanning Wind Of Sweating Under The Load, The Load Of Life. The Joy Of Living. Of Convulsive Feasting, Impulsive Shopping... Staggering Inebriates, Extensive Binges, Chocking Fashioning, Snarling Terrific Trafficking. They Come, They Go. Yes, Folk-Talk, Buddies, Shared Delights, Shared Warmth. They Come, Take & Leave. Of Passionate Touches of Him/Her Lost, In The Lustful Mileage. Oh, Sweet, Sweet Melody...THE BIRDS! Blinding Fire-lights...FIREWORKS! Roistering, Lazying SLUGGARD! The Roads Once Taken; Narrow Or Wide, The Paths To Be Made Yet, Straight Or Winding, Plain Or Rugged. Your Load Awaits. Roll Up Your Sleeves, Toil, Toil, Toil! The Honiey Is Quit! The Senescent Life Roll-coaster! Get Your High Off And SOB. Yes, Sob, Sob Oh, SOBER UP! Jan Sob!  @MainaTim ©2012

Who wears the countenance of a novice,    Walks with the grace of a monk, Fiddles the violin sparingly slow    One, petting a small fluffy poodle Thinks quick like an archer but    Has a heart of an assassin. The five adjusting their brimmed brown hats    Dark shades, golden necklaces Crossed the road    Glistening diamond wrist watches Briskly past the bouncers      Tight jean trousers for their sausage-thighs At Club Lappex    Bulky, leather slide-in boots From our  balcony corner    Tipping, tapping, tripping at the table Sipping our cock-tail    Sliding a crisp currency note for the call girl We saw them toast, scan, spiked    For the whiskey glasses, in whispers Often caressing the guns tucked    Slouching on the white resin club coaches In their belts, under well-polished    Leather jackets, amplified Singing a karaoke ...

Nibbling, gnawing at Craved and starved of A touch so real, meaningful and And endearing An amorous one. Telling the other Love, if generous Would buy them glory Mansions and big wheels Bliss and posh In the city of many lights. Under the log-bridge In the moon-lit night When lips meet lips And water hissing past rocks Hands entangled in crazed passion By the lush-green of the banks. The warmth of the embrace So taut Strangling, suffocating rubber Kegels, smooches and kegel. Taking a breath away Sweeping ones feet in a sway. Stolen, humbled, weary, dehorned... Pp-phew! The alluring dream fizzles out Unexpectedly. Desole! The poor sot soul Wakes to the chilly riverine breeze Buzzing quitoes, nibbling mice At the only skin The liquor couldn't save. Soggy, soaked in grime Emptied pockets Writhing in the sewer. He calls out to God That reality just got home. Passers-by can only look Across the foot-bridge Down on the wretch Clobbered, robbed and ashamed Of the isht it fell in...

"My little Tim, can we do this now?" my lady dentist in white latex glooves implored, dangling a pair of tongs in the air. Her white labcoat buttoned halfway from the bottom-up barely hugging her hi-low African print-mesh dress. Damn, she had curves, a serious glance and a dimpled smile! Her hair well plaited and pony-tailed. I liked her still yet small voice. "Yes ma'am," grinning, i made up some bravery in my voice. I dread the thought of what she was capable of on a pain-drained wilful patient that i was. She paced across her meticulously clean and well arranged room. Pulling a drawer here, clicking some metals there, turning on a fan and sterilizing her tools of trade. Tuning the radio set, turning the tap at the sink by the wall, just turning on this and that...the rather dull morning room life changed for the better. I lay on a slightly slanted operation bed with a pulsating heart, chilled blood, stiff limbs, a bad tooth and a sweaty brow. ...

There're friends we hold dear And others in fear. Friends maybe queer But love makes us bear. The clumsy barber clamped my hair And my sons jeered at who'd be the heir They wondered whether it was all fair To give friends my wealth and fare Cried, theirs was a small share. The limping hare Store the summer food in its lair A fairy i tell the birds of air. My heir sons not here Their pleas i can't hear Where's my beer? #fry_edSheep