I once was told to hoot
while standing on one foot

So I pulled out my old flute
and shook it in a frenzy
to clear it of all the soot

Hurry up before I shoot
barked the man in the green boots
waving a threatening finger
with a gun pointing to an open boot

I closed my eyes, to shut out all the light
with my hands gripping tight
and my whole body trembling with fright
I braced myself and blew with all my might

I heard a burst of laughter
as my heart raced faster
I raised my head like to a master
wondering at the loud pearls of cackles
like those coming from a jester

come on, lets leave this clown
smirked the leader with a frown
the dust rose up as it was blown
by the receding convoy
and I lowered my eyes to keep them down

I crawled to a nearby paddle
and peered into the deep
like one coming out of a dark hurdle

I burst out in laughter
Not too different from that of a jester
as I beheld my reflection

As black as a tar baby
with two brown eyes peeking through
what looked like slits of white milk

Oh my dear old flute
you with all your clogged soot
a song poured out of my mouth
as I danced joyfully on one foot

I pranced off into the sunset
in a cloud of black soot
ever so grateful as I blew my old flute
that when it mattered the most
it proved to be such a hoot

By Solomon W. Jagwe | © All Rights Reserved

I met love
it buoyed me up
High up in the heavens above
I shared the wind with Eagles
Played among the fluffy clouds
I felt as light as the sea Gulls
I witnessed white roses pop out of their buds

My blood bubbled with joy
the gentle caress of the breeze
inflamed my heart

Oh Love, My request I made
You could pump me up, if thou dost please
and you could cast me down
If that be thy wish,
But I pray, and this I earnestly do

That thou leave me not empty
After thy taunting visit
Oh Love, Kiss me not
and leave me thus hanging.

By Solomon W. Jagwe | © All Rights Reserved

You have made Me
With what instrument I do not Know
You have molded me
The miracle that is me,
Intricately designed with infinite love
A texture of care and tenderness
With a plan so subtle and yet
So appealing and awesome

What makes me go
I have sought to know
The Makers countenance
I have longed to behold
That chuckle of delight
At the finish of my design
I have desired to hear.
But desire as I might
Denied Me you have
Of the ability to see, touch, smell,
Hear, Hear?
Others say they have
Of thine voice beheld,
Baritone or Bass, I cannot say

Only One thing have you granted,
And this I know, Dearest Maker,
To be thine grandest delight
Simply and yet Bindingly
That I may believe in You
To acknowledge You as my Creator
And to trust You to repair
All my cracks
Whenever I Fail or Fall.

By Solomon W. Jagwe | © All Rights Reserved

FENCES IN NEED OF MENDING

Fences all around
A captive in the middle
Shackled, tied and bound
Her life has become a riddle

Her sunken cheeks once supple and round
Scarred by years of biting a bridle
Limbs that hurt when they touch the ground
Speak of tales of one once busy but now is idle

A voice once happy and sound
Now raspy like a broken fiddle
Despair and anger surround
The outlet that once was her window

A fortress where hope could be found
Reverberates with Cries reaching a crescendo
Remove this terror and pain that has become a mound
So her song can resound, and never again to be called a widow

By Solomon W. Jagwe | © All Rights Reserved

I watched as a gray streaking hare
hopped and leaped into the air with a flair
only to land smack right in the middle of a snare
blinded by the intense glare of a blinding flare

was the hare in a scare that was rare?

wiggling this way and that way but going no where
it lay quiet and still with its belly laid bare

a hunter stopped to stare
at this forlorn creature so tight and gasping for air

bending down he cut the jaws that made a pair
freeing the hare from the steel grip of terror

I looked closely to see what kind of fella
would offer a hand as an umbrella
to a creature that by all accounts fair and square
should have ended up in the back of his trailer

Hutu or Tutsi? Rwandise, was the gentle counter
When I ventured to ask if it was an error
I am neither one nor the other

He pointed to his gray hair and then to the freed hare
My eyes quickly adjusted in a bid to compare
and In an instant, I saw the damage and the repair
and a tear rolled down as it washed away my despair

For there before me stood two echos with time to spare
reverberating with a message so simple and lacking in flair
the swift kicks of a free wheeling hare
and yet as timeless and winding as the white strands of hair
of a kind and loving hunter fella
that I met in the back of a rusty and dusty trailer

By Solomon W. Jagwe | © All Rights Reserved