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 touched its fea

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 many. I mean, I

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