When do we see?

When do we see?

When you shut your eyes, what do you see?

When you focus, what do you see?

Is there a world, beyond what we see?

One that traverses space and time,

A world so broad, that when you open your eyes,

We cannot see?

So……

Does sight, limit insight?

Is sight not necessarily vision?

Why do we see more, with our eyes shut than open?

Or do we see more?

When you close your eyes, what do  you see?

Don’t you see years gone by and distant places?

Don’t you see things hoped for?

When you close eyes, don’t you see peace and love and hope?

Does sight limit dreams and visions?

When you close your eyes, do you see or not see?

At night when our eyes are closed,

We see beyond what our eyes can see,

The days gone by, the dreams of youth,

The hope, the love and peace.

And when we wake, we open our eyes,

And then we cease to see,

The many things that we could see,

When our eyes were closed

And we could not see.

LIFE

LIFE
Some say it begins the day you are born,
Others say, on the day you are gone,
Others say the day you are born again.
Is it for you and you alone?
What is life I ask, myself?
Is it a thing or state of mind?
Or is it a time that one goes through?
Enroute their way to life?

What is life, if it is not fun,
And living it as best we can?
Is it the joy of parenthood?
And giving all the best we could?
But to some it’s gone the day they’re born.
To young mothers who wish them dead.
Because they see for them ahead.
No glimmer of a life.

Just what is life I ask myself.
As soldiers go to war.
They say they are fighting to save lives,
Alas, they destroy more.
And when they return home from the war,
Their lives are gone, they live no more,
But stare in space and scream at night,
With just a sort of life.

When mothers die while giving birth,
They give us life and lose their own,
I can never understand this all.
One moment they are here.
The next they’re gone.
Some say for life, they’d sell their soul,
So with no soul, why live at all?
So what is life?
A fallacy or perhaps it’s just a parody?
Is it a beginning or an end?
Or just a cycle, with no end?
I say, what is life?
What is, life?

The Pothole

THE POTHOLE
In these hard times when food is scarce,
Mothers ration what they have.
Infants get less and as a result grow thin,
But the pothole feeds and grows.
I drove past it the other day,
Small and unimposing, but growing I must say.
For it gulped down water when the rains came,
And its appetite for stones, no one could tame.
It was a babe no more.

In these hard times when money is scarce,
Parents ration what they give.
Teenagers get little and as a result spend less
But the pothole feeds and grows.
I drove past it two days ago,
Big and expanding, and growing more.
It ate dust and stones and expanded,
It’s amazing the authorities take it for granted!
It was a teenager, oh no!

In these hard times when corruption thrives,
You got to be careful how you drive.
Funds are misappropriated and roads go to waste
As the pothole feeds and grows.
I drove past it yesterday,
It edged me off the road, I must say.
It’s grown so big and the road was gone!
And the pothole had a l family of its own!
It was a teenager, no more!

In these hard times when roads are bad,
Drivers are careful how they drive.
Roads get smaller and as a result we swerve
As the pothole grows the more
I edged off the road yet again.
For the pothole has matured and become of age!
It is a full grown adult that grins at us,
It has taken over the road alas!

The Mist

The mist
The mist is cold and majestic.
Like a mighty ruler, it shrouds the ridges in its cloak,
Heavy, confident, looking down on the plains far below,
Those who dare to visit its terrain,
Must brace themselves to face its proud and almost selfish glory
Blocking out vision but yet alluring and beckoning
Almost telling those in the valleys to climb the ridges
Mystic, cold and beckoning.
Where the mist rules, the air is fresh and clear.
The mist is both inviting and deriding,
Laughing as those who face it shiver ing
And yet beckoning with its freshness,
Like a goddess that flees a suitor,
As the sun rises, the mist takes to flight,
Slowly folding its gown about it,
It is hard to say, where she goes so fast,
As the sun reaches out to touch her,
Why is it that she who is so cold,
runs from the sun’s warm embrace?
Where does the mist hide,
when the sun like a warrior- prince comes out?
It cannot be far, for as he goes to rest for the night,
The mist gathers up her robes
And waits to shroud the ridges again,
In her aura of pride,
as she stares down the plains.

,

By the lake…

When I close my eyes and sit still, I feel the waters touch my feet.

Am  back at home by the lake,  my home by the lake and can almost hear the waters lap

As the calm waves touch the shore.

In the world that traverses space and time, I hear the children laugh.

I see them picking shells that line, the shore, that line the shore.

I stretch my hands and touch the sand and scoop it up in both my hands,

I love its wetness and let it drop and scoop up more and scoop up more.

I see the weeds bob up and down and the egrets glide and go.

Its beautiful to hear the sounds of the gentle wind and waves.

 

I  love to go and sit out there, after a hard day’s work

And relax and stare.  I do not need a transport fare.

Just shut my eyes and I am there at my home, where as a child I roamed.

And picked the shells that rushed to shore.  I can still recall the way we laughed.

As we walked along the shore.  The water on our clothes would splash,

And yet we would gather more and shells as we moved along.

It was beautiful but so long ago and today the most that I can do,

Is close my eyes and feels the waves and scoop the sand so far away.

Yet I hear the sounds and feel the waves, as though today were yesterday.

After a long a tiring day, I close my eyes and walk the shore and scoop the sand

And pick the shells near my home by the lake, near my home by the lake.

 

Remembrance

How will they remember me when I die?

As a graceful swan that glided by,

Walking gracefully back and forth,

Never appearing scruffy, for all its worth.

Or as a gazelle so swift and fast

Moving on quickly beyond the past.

 

How will they remember me when I die?

As a blood sucking orge that tore and mauled,

Tearing with words and digs and spite,

Never seeing anything as good or right,

Or as a crocodile so big and vicious

Always grinning but deeply malicious!

 

How will they remember me when I die?

As a faithful dog that loved and served.

Bearing the long hours all alone,

Toiling to protect  loved ones on its own

Or a lioness so majestic and loyal

Always hardworking but appearing royal!

 

How will they remember me when I die?

As  an ant that   is little but works so hard.

And when angered can be real mad.

Bearing much more than its little frame.

Working its way up to fame.

What ever  it is that I am remembered for

I hope it is for values that are good and much more.

 

Christine Semambo Sempebwa. January 2011

The Storm

It s a cold dark night , in a lonely house, on the hill so far away.

I am all alone and the lights are dim and outside the tall trees sway.

As the strong wind howls and the tall trees bow,

I  want to be calm but know not how

For the shadows seem to take on life

It seems it will be a night of strife.

 

It’s a windy night, in a damp dark house , with a river flowing by.

I am not so brave and I hear some steps that are walking slowly by .

As the river swells and the waters roar,

I want to scream but so oh, no.

For the shadows are truly now alive

Indeed it will be a night of strife.

 

It’s a deep dark night, the lights are out, as the storm takes o’er the night.

I am now so scared, I can hear my heart as it beats so loud and fast,

As the dark grows thick and the noise is deep,

I want to pray but fail, oh no,

For my legs are stiff and the darkness deep

It seems I will not have much sleep.

 

It’s a cold grey night in an old damp house, as the storm recedes and goes.

I am still alone, I am stiff and cold, as I ponder the storm that was.

As the wind grows calm and the river slows,

I feel so tired and want to sleep.

My eyes are heavy and I can hardly peep.

I t seems like years since I last did sleep.

 

It’s a light blue sky, outside an old, old house, on a hill so far way.

I write the last line as I yawn and nod

My story of the storm is told.