Friday, December 13, 2013

the single Mother

"a Woman is ishmael's bane. gives up Her whole for the one eager to consume half; a name. a single Mother surrenders not Her story but mane. an identity that serves as a trail of guidance with each strand of hair marking water's grave. just as a tree reveals the part where dirt regenerates, Her steps show what crumbs of bread gave. starved animals lacking a land to graze. the asset bakers choose given a blaze. emptying dirt of its grains. kilned and paved grounds showcasing how afraid these loggers are if Her seed awakes. conscious of these facts She keeps the secrets of planters without a hearty plow agape. wide open readings of minds without a Mother's drape. dead beat fathers with a lineage of bricks seeking the one who, in the presence of wild animals, remains brave. She's the hunter gathering weeds for the sake of a tree offering fruits in children with an abundance of what eternally remains sane. memory in forgettable terms so as those hasty to plow are deficient of words such as save. reference points stored in intricate rhythmic storage bins that confused even their sage. fear of the Woman, yes, the single Mother dictates time by telling men virgin to manhood when they must shave. sacred grounds filled with follicles of growth guiding cowardly barbers through a whole field of Her history without seeing Her maze. the half that She keeps closest to Her bosom as a brace. first fruits put on a permanent daze. they stare at these words and see an empty tray hence their greed passes over without charting Her harvest, which she offers to the one that sees Her whole being and surrenders his braze."

mitishamba ~ jointed points of triskaidekaphobia
"green years"

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

culture heist

"artifacts. facts of art. self identity in fact. an emotional thought expressed with tact. complete pieces of a random existence painting a mosaic intact. images, portrait; earths. Mothers congregating to experience one birth. the womb that is the ocean filled to its girth. traits akin birds. light-hearted interactions with air, its heir, as it inherits the listening hand of weather. a feather. flock. fish of a scale school together. aligned semesters make for residence in quarters; a block. living communication forms. hair. droppings of salt. locks. caged birds freed to euphoric thoughts. saturated particles using storms to walk. spice lanes. droughts. grounds preserved for a farmer that knows the significance of every single rain drop. sweat glands. orifice of growth. doubling as signals of hard-work. holding ninety nine jobs but caretaking a beach ain't one. men of hills forced to build on sand. the gloating expression of past brutes in need of a hand.
earth's carvers begged to lead in their escape from land. pirates in search of a pole fearing the green brier patch. as though its a sin to show beasts a home to hatch. pyramids that mark the underwater location of the sun. so fish give thanks. ishmael receiving Her dunged thatch. knowing the source of gravity to be water, they give hills their clothes. whales depositing their future on higher grounds as they heed a farmer's woes. warned of sand creatures on a seed heist. sifting their ways on land fabricating life. three seconds of memory enough to sum their worth; ice. melting faces of false darkness lacking pride. this lion's roar tells of the full story rather than resort to the need for a knife. splitting lines hair envy reveal how narrow follicles can equate to the need for one to read this sentence twice. sweat glands. consider this farmer having recovered his lands. the pride of Her jungle summed as ______.
fish of no scale drawing blanks."

mitishamba ~ hairy compilations
"the sky is green for a reason"

image worth words thanks to

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

attention bait

"an animal of love. smelling urine. organs of prisms. orgasms. information unloaded through the waters that lie inside. truth-marks of an existence of a previous solution. unheard questions answered. 'i was here'. magnets trapped. defecating living organisms unforced. fluids measuring the moods of every one of my moments. how often its spewed. i study rhythm. instincts caught. silent words. the labor of making a Mother. the keeper of sound. crunching barbs. point taken. recipient of garb. undressing a herd. my work extends beyond tasting what's Hers. food and loving are a sequence. just as naming children. being a man constitutes assembling all of two cents, and make Her one. testis making sound akin hands brought together to clap. frugal taps.  traveling lengths deep inside Her mind to find a heart. a Woman knows the origin, a man transports. if the journey is retrospective, salt. why look back at what a name is, when already that path has been dubbed. door shut. validity of individuals living on concrete unable to also build dug huts. a name; the enclosed hatch. a Mother's idea of multiplications solving a sum. so i acknowledge mine, and move forward to write. some sum slums scum, mine mines minds. love. loving. deep strokes of my identity coming. smelling urine. offering all of my senses to Her worth. i, mitishamba, do solemnly swear. on solomon's wear, i will dress in the presence of Her mental virgins unafraid of his indecision on a mare. my Woman eternally aware of what a caged bird bears. a kingdom of love released through a canal cultivated with care. mitishamba, in Woman i trust and as proof, Her roots still walk bare."


"clothed in green"

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

black, anew

"i'm not black. i'm a man of the soil. identity intact. ribs caging a heart free of toil. last name comes first. Mother, i know you are following. watching every tread on these words. footsteps threading the needles of grass. on; Your mark. death sets off as the presence of a living tree's path. so as You read this, know that these scribbles of mitishamba have always been for You to clear and grub. as a farmer of storied dirt, i plow nouns. so Your harvest will for ever be spoken in verb. the fullness of Your land speaks loud. timely actions make Your speed sound. light on Your feet, You bear a bounce. first name heart. You saw me in your strides and identified Your sturdiest in print, thumb. the last to attend to grabbing because balance is its thirst. listening hand. the axis of centering thought similar to what an ear does. hearing cut, so my being is filled with ideas stuck. frozen time akin money utilized to mirror articles of seance psalms. my Mother at work, facing kilns with a confident strut. protecting me, the one and only Ishmael,with Miti in my Shamba so as the blind only see the gorilla and not farm."

mitishamba ~ the conscious canal
"birthed green"

Thursday, October 17, 2013

family economics

"the present societal nucleus being a dollar, those that do not abide are force-fed one-a-day. an overdose of synthetic vitamins ensues. a solution intended to saturate creativity and in turn diffuse any progress that keeps generations in tune. social rhythms placed on bars where every note must have its identity struck with prints as marks of what an individual must infuse. put their soul in a queue. in line to forcefully accept nature's art as cotton kilned rather than letting one digest its hue. its the fear of green as the occupier of a dominant pew. the real farmer seated in a shade with animals as cues. a complete family that can live off its stool. dung huts full of wisdom on prudence. frugal. feudal. or the open hearts of closed minds. aware of the limitation hyenas at a fork on a road find. porcupines?! not quite. a thorny border of roses letting concrete unwind. its the heavy load that cements greed as spine. finally held back by protective flowery plants that poke fun at how rocks bind. broken cisterns with poor numerical retention in a house built of walls, but missing thatch. the shade that keeps count of what nature wants. opaqueness from the nucleus and nothing as porous as sand. a cell lacking an organic nucleus remains parched. predicaments of pillars built with a disconnect from dirt. all the while, this prudent soul writes. self preserved in art as complicated as a dollar yet openly taking swipes. these are backhand compliments towards those that regurgitate where their words have already been wiped. they are weeds, removed from the blueprints of a meticulous farmer migrating earth's scribes. missions openly aired, none scary. missionary pairs turned pulmonary. only allowing Her garden to exhale impurities through the fastest exhaust system while digestion remains mandatory. constantly absorbing light. as poised as a tree's hide. it accepts the challenge of the sun to keep its secrets as it reaches out. a plant traveling with its treasure intact. family matters of what it means to have each member with self reliant tact."

"from the green tribe"

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

a grave

"no choice, thought, emotion, or action can prevent one from a grave. tranquil state. scepter, an anvil spate. its where every seed planted prequels shrine. markings of the work of a woman's advice. an accumulation of memory in one piece. i consider it where the waters in Her plants meet the presence of gravity in peace."

mitishamba ~ what precedes thought?!
"breathe, a green idea"

Friday, October 11, 2013

a mitishamba tongue

"a language employed to hire those dispersed and robbed of tongues as though their Mother's speaks in voids. to myself, She is the tree of thought, the fruits of words spoken echoing inside every painful groin. an abyss of many a men, this production line of everything diverse oddly cultivates inversely with one loin. as though its the white man's soil. but really, all the trees in the farm are of Her children's toils. the levers of playground exploits. beams from truncated trunks kilned inside the pivot of a see saw; a pyramid She deploys. using the friction of water to streamline sound as eager loggers seek out the planter of what enslavement truly means to boys. curious is to their george. a child king?! a mere translation of what a nomad can't seed. one name for fowls. studious herders without a flock, taking bows. faint paintings of people who refuse to openly accept the conquered conscious of weak grounds. forced to mirror everything outdoor yet fear the night so force it light as though it fears a dawn. one drops. they pose fear as a place where darkness must appear in order for the sequence of repetitive ambiguity to gain form. i write. molding the hole where the roots take the lead in venturing into earth, as leaves fold. yes. dirt still mocks the weak imitation of a hard working plant. its ceiling reflected from the foundation up. moving as far as the tip of its branch. water collected to reach highest heights. further than a cloud doubting its weight on nine so number ten bites. a tree letting air digest how powerful one can be, once given three parts to divide. let that snow melt. mitishamba is a language of belts. my green cultivation is done on Her water's bed. liquid congregating to reach the furthest distance on one leg. thought defined as emotions pegged. a turtle without a shell. bravery encased. the base of my protective sword curved out of Her tongue."

mitishamba ~ mdomo mmoja ni mtofaa, tatu, ulimi wa duara.
"air rests on green"

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

in Woman I trust

"not that i have to explain i go ahead and do it anyway. my work bears no image other than all the stories thrust on my psyche as a child's way of sowing, and comparing it to what i see readers of the same books reap. i wonder in writing, are we creators of ourselves through stories or do stories create who we are?! i'm driven by the knowledge that the first story told is by a female. the mother. and its first form of communication is emotion, or rather, feel. the story is told through the stillness and roughness of the waters we first wade. maybe its an explanation of why the moon moods all of water. staying current, but bear with me as i digress. as consumers of our environment, a child born of a mother, a celestial being, will absorb all of what its host does. as does gravity with fluid, it keeps it tethered to a center. a seed hangs on every rhythm on the umbilical cord as it serves as the image of all actions through life's first musical string communicating temper. sound moves as a rhythm. i am my Mother's son. so in the silence of our first communication, i write. write about all of what i have collected as teachings or lessons with the loudest sound. coming from a place where my learning was limited to the faintest signals, the womb, i equal in measure all of Her actions of a calculus full of open bounds. the physics that filters sound to create a brew of thoughts. noise collected to drown inanimate word since what i must utter is the right pitch to match Her emotional paths. let me ingress. the words i write here at make up the unifying randomness of my existence. eerily so, ours. those robbed of a shade yet blessed with cover. it is as though we are of the same Mother."


"struck a green cord"

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

dung huts

"thanks be to the plant that gives an animal purpose. giving its leaves freedom to determine their destiny on how they should exit as carcass. omnivorous beings playing hunters. gathering facts about how soil determines its coffers. they are the artists of wood who offer conniving carnivores options on what to do with a tree's hide. its supple sap sampled only by carvers' desires. sculptors of the contours of water as it gains form in form of dye. water conquers light just as dreams conquer the night with refracted memories of our communication with the sun's ire. green pigmentation on a leaf show how the artery and veins of a body is full of life's artistry. i see my skin and hand prints on a leaf's pattern as flattery.
a product that moves the furthest distant as its own existence can take its seed alive or dead through digestive systems of earthen tapestry. the foundation of what is treasure. shelter. living quarters built with rings as walls. ceramic tethers. clay pots used to give back to dirt as it cooks using the blessings of burnt turf, not for separating broths. a unified bowl with roofs thatched. going natural. a household built with the ground up. this is my dung hut. ghosts busted as the shining thing i've chosen for my build is the door no one can shut.
compounds of scum summed as slum means trees have little to fear as its home is well taken care of in every gut. Lazarus, the natural king. subjecting His kingdom to Her royal sphinx. the pride of a jungle with self-cultivated ink. animals penning everything in depths as deep as water can think. water thinks?! yes, these are fragmented moments of a breathing fish. the belly's beast. dormant scenes of a dark berry's valley echoing what whales are seeing. the higher the pitch, the fuller the well. lower sounds exude pride while the higher tone break glass' knell. barriers that mirror water giving off false depth perceptions on how space must exist, with bounds that swell. a tree only expands as far as water can tell. this is my dung hut. feces building what the mouth can't stomach or strut. mitishamba writing for Her to start living as what her nose and mouth must trust."

"speaking of green!"

the leaf and Dinka pic are thanks to and robert lankenau for being witness

Sunday, September 15, 2013

storytelling the lasting spirit....the preservation of a soul. moments shared in the absence of one's existence. its the thread that needles society......

"mitishamba is i, ishmael, observing how the real story of crossing a river is not the water, but the stepping stones. sort of like ants and their society, the names others continually use as tread for their paths, yet lack the gratitude of even planting an ant hill on the other side of the banks. it speaks of those that utter, yet lack sound. i write in observation of silence. the fat Lady that sings is suffering. unable to exhale Her beauty as all of Her mind's language is caged. so i use this tongue to exhaust. shit. that just means tired. since i know if i spoke of what i think, the person reading this at this point is listening. a writer is a silent speaker. meaning the only person capable of hearing me knows how to literally consume words. so my literature is on blades of grass as i know how they speak loudest with the lowest sound. revealing how those that graze from the same field of thought turn into greedy animals and thus milk herds. followers of anything that does not consume from its grounds, they await for what a servant of dirt produces in blind urge.........."

......preview of how my thoughts travel as i tell stories of storytellers lacking stories yet......

mitishamba glossary:
tree - lineage; connecting two to one; soil's vengeance to air

a bird's morning song is being piped by a hundred and forty notes of absent earths in each tweet, abandoned records, while a tree attempts to provide a branch for its resting place..... @mtishamba

mitishamba  ~ my perception, once upon a time, someone thought a tree grew on air because the branches mirror the roots.
"the green floating toilet"

Thursday, September 12, 2013

war without women and children

the battle of a conscious vs an unconscious heart ~ mother vs child, my father's war.

"i once was a child.
also with a Mother.
i was armed to the tooth with a future as a brother.
my arsenal brought grief with the brew of time as i separated from the two safety nets of my birth.
mother and child.
a brother turning wild.
left to lead the destiny of my jungle as my Mother only marveled at my wise.
egged on to carry Her bark, or rather shells, casings of evidence battled in drive-by courts.
residence in the bloody pivot that holds fort.
protecting lethal legal bars that see saws from loggers eager to perform splits.
dismember beams of a tree's trunk to isolate the source of water from wind.
they are the close relatives of firing squads prepping walls for kilns.
you see in this wild world, being blind is sightly to others.
given eyes, a Woman's clock, a child's paths are conscious.
driven guises impair the unconscious road paved with dreams, making grown children want to play watches.
keeping time on every beginning and ending shot fired, but not taking into account where the lead torches.
listening to a fruit full of fictional pulp as it poses, 'you wanna play blind man? then go walk with the shepherd'.
lost children follow footsteps molding dirt which imprints dead beats into their half-grown hearts.
they become hyenas stuck at the fork of a forested path.
spots on the hide of a greedy animal in the midst of sheep virgin to heat-needed sheering, turns it tethered.
sheep now free to be nomads executing harvests oblivious of whose heart among them is tender.
raw, green, evergreen, emotions on the sleeves of a Mother who's leadership is abdicated to a seed scorns all levers.
so she swings Her sword of names carved on a farmer's playground for planting scepters.
measuring sticks of what carrots mean when Her shelled ones scatter.
left stranded but growing in accordance to the book of wills, chapters, and verses bound by Her granulated lectures.
Her sword limits graduated rulers full of emotions from going overboard on a ship fortified with numerical censors.
a calculus to challenge the constant follower of fertile soil and its green shrapnel from stepping outside its boxed, geometric ebb.
solice in the know of a tree only grows in a circular web.
like mane on skin, a conscious organ that sheds.
as does any mind that doesn't give life debt.
a warring hyena being given a small view of what a lion dens; cenotaphs which mark the open place where the idea of dirt being conquered by an iron peg, decks.
names in thousands meeting an endless end.
carbon blood of tied fears lacks the unifying ingredient of decay.
not soil, the lusty stone that is diamond instead.
trapping light rather than through chlorophyll, expend.
the element that absorbs the air's tongue left by those that rest on the same pride of a roaring sound-bed.
a loud vacuum of word catering to Her silent screams as they are the first sign of the introduction of ears to death.
the fulcrum of balance works to sustain growth even while concrete hangs on its roses' shield of thorn.
made ready to defend the liberty to rest a soul in  the pieces of what gravity makes one, observant ~ the server of orb."

culture ~ 'be honest'
mitishamba ~ 'children grow to wage wars while preserving future fighters as violence cements the image of what path life should take. life's destination is a name. mine, ishmael. fully grown, mitishamba. made through the violence of dirt's peace.'

".....every little thing, you run gone to the station. not telling the officers anything bur really making public mischief. if you know that, lion story, never run straight. three sides to lion story......." culture #josephhill

Mitishamba ~ talking to the Woman of green
"for green, dig deep."

Friday, August 16, 2013

reading is the only cost of living, ya?! this is free.

"what to write what to write.....'i write for the thoughts that never got a second chance and the thoughts that never got a chance or a second.' ugh! no, no, this one! 'peace of mind is what i crave, and pray for. praying for the day my thoughts won't prey on my life and send me to the grave. my body depreciates by the day as my conscious eats away at the little motivation i might have, to move on. so i can't move. now i'm stagnated by the reality of my present state of being and my thoughts won't allow me to think of a better tomorrow because they keep reminding me of my state of being. and what's present in my state of being are empty pockets, and an uncertainty of when change will come. or whether the coming changes will fill these empty pockets, and clear my mind. because clearly i mind having pockets that are filled with emptiness. or being forced to empty my empty pockets for the so-called cost of living that costs the living, a fortune. and then someone boasts that we are fortunate to be living. as if living in itself brings about fortune to the living. and as i live, i can't help but realize how unfortunate i am to just be living. burdened by my thoughts of there's more to life than just breathing. there's more to life than just waking up and going to work and the next day repeat it. and the next day repeat it. an the next repeat it. and the next day?  i want more. and the more that i live the more i want more out of the life that i lead. come on life, let me live! allow me to enjoy the beautiful feeling of peace of mind. or at least be at ease for the time being because being without peace in my mind is killing my whole being. sort of ironic that i'm not only supposed to be fortunate, but also, living.'"

mitishamba ~ peace of art breathing
"i only bow to Her green"

Thursday, August 15, 2013

going Natural

"She arrives.
the amount of knots on Her head leave plenty surprised.
shocked and awed at Her radiance, an empress on the rise whose presence shines only while engaging rebels without disguise.
reality reads of lines aligning Her identity's strands with the source of Her roots or rather, where a fruit dies.
soil must be holding gravity accountable.
or a tree is making water portable.
it could also mean that parity is a must for anything round to remain at par, stable.
arable bedrock with no sand or dust or even dandruff.
its shoots remain round, brown, and spiral.
the pace of forming is related to its farmers' spinal.
a spring texture having a clear indication of internal artwork.
as if soil wanted to keep the reward of a seed to itself, but in a tussle, gives in to the father.
a gentle grower who's in a constant battle with barbers.
loggers deaf to dirt's communication with its kid.
a tree's gratitude in its winds.
hair like wool because earth's memories can't fit straightened strings.
naps galore since, what's a forest without weeds?!
skin shows dirt's fertility green.

She survives.

the amass of clots in Her legs reveal a heave of a ride. chocked hands carve radial distances cropped in circles to press each portrait of those that took her for a temptress who abides. receded blood breeds toughened veins parlaying Her integrity stance amid course routes attempting to unwrap Her hide. Her boys' bust being exploited is a staple. both feet taken by cables. 'twas the engine that could read in the night that carries Her bound load, 'abandoned child on board', drunk on fables. i table writers-block, the weapon in Ishmael's words daring any addition to one sun. probability exists as written proof for a dual, plural, living earths columned to a final. yet space still serves one surface as its master of combing every little observant or as i call it, a soul whose sight is spiral. scripts and texts sculpting bare intimations stirred up by my little darling's heart taps. passive is to coy what waiting is to a story read on a reed busing informed herders. Her mettle alone brings about dance even when somber. losses of sheep can't damper Her continuation of wit. a palm's breeze breeds aptitude complete. protective air strikes fools desiring land's melodies blunted or treated as dim for all to see. tongues galore as after all, do waves not steer only where land hills?! the train that hauls Her child whole, indemnity for protecting its plants from being split."            

Israel Vibration
'there is no end'

" keep it up jah children, living up to your roots, 'cause every tree stay up, by its roots...."

IN Woman I Trust.

Mitishamba ~ hair is the body's plant.
"the green gardener"

Friday, August 9, 2013

when I was seventeen, I wrote.....

"still a common threading the needle" Mitishamba ~ idendefy young

"I work magic with my pen. I write of now and then.
With that I can help ten. With influence it will double.
My pen has then helped double ten out of trouble."

"Good things come to those who wait
How long do I have to wait?
Patience is a virtue
What will it bring me?
Ask and you shall receive
I can ask for anything?
Be careful for what you wish for
A wish can kill me?
The good die young
That is why I can't wait"

"I say not what I think, I think not what I say, a fool is what I am"

"A true soldier battles not with weapons
But with words so wise
provoking the inner cells of a mind
If often this is done
A true soldier, you are one"

How presently I feel
Maya Wegerif

"......both brother and sister let us remember our names so as to remember our way. Because praying to our ancestors is the same as saying God runs through our veins." Maya Wegerif.

IN Woman I Trust.

"for the lady in green"

Thursday, August 8, 2013

Holy Grains, Magna Cartels

"H G M C. Hope Grape Makes Crumbs. In Liberty's grip gripes a slave and slave master's kid lost in the lights lighting its ways while brick-walking through a jungle of grunts. It lacks foresight, deforests in heed of insecure men fronting as farmers but are simply a herded bunch. Directions are a record in Liberty's grasp, the stable woman that doesn't participate in speed rather, movements of water making her turtle each dream - art class shrugged. Shaking off capitalized paths that broaden starts, turning finished lines into narrowed tracks recording every last verse crunched. Tardy arrivals means the turtle's eye lashing is the last brush that alters the painting of the tip of a pyramid into an hour glass, parched. Granule storage bins make rabbit senses hyperactive and turn into a flurry of activities as if urgency made planting and seasons match. The perched bird watches these comedic routines recorded as passageways but only lead to obsolete stilts that a shelled animal picks up as its harvest cane in the nick of heat, weather graphed. Dried grains protected from being emptied by those of a haste to prose, reproductive tales, so these stanzas are that plug for the sturdy lady's bird catch. Guarded harvests starves thieves revealing cravings of some somewhat odd things such as an adoption of identities written on a graveyard's thumbs. The ruler of all things equal, she drinks from the only cup that gives up its half so as plants can bear fruit free to maneuver through cracks and see what all grounds have to offer when given her drums.

Mitishamba ~ she keeps her sand glassed in sleeves
"deserted green garden"

Tuesday, July 30, 2013

"from a farmer to a criminal?! Khat in Kenya!"

"Wakulima wenzangu, tulia, calm the heart. Planters with no farm will always use cloaks to dig dirt. The way Mitishamba in a sentence sees it, it's a law meant to turn stable families and future competition into present things to hurt. Or hunt. Turn your fields into grounds of war on plants - cloaked reasons for their kids to show guts. Set up shop. Clean up house. Plowing through 'illegal' trees that make your blessings seem cursed. Jealousy in theory, failed actions written in glory, the blueprint of grains' sprouts is followed eloquently by a harvester with a sheath while a sword plucks. A matador of sorts, oblivious of whether soil views what drips on its face as an animal at work or wanting shed blood. You see, a tree, is its son, and if sacrifices on land must be made with double edges then your blade, my dear farmer, has yet to strike back. After all, facts are thoughts and if dreams lead nights then your steps thus far have left daylight marks on enough leaves, let alone trunks. Rings full of information stored in barks that protect all your efforts against loggers who make you feel wooed with costumed notes filled with fairies and tales of big bucks. The bet is to turn you victim, but take heart in the future thanks to positive seeds penned daily painting an involved nation articulating in unison a building block of things such as mkulima, being young. Leave them calling it khat, silent K's just fight for space in a mouth full of Miraa!"

Mitishamba ~ mwana arthi
"Green plants"
special thanks to for the second to last statement.

Sunday, July 28, 2013

Facing a book ~ Opines

In woman I trust, defend, and desire.

Keari Mitishamba
September 27, 2012 at 11:35am via mobile · 
  • "Birds of prey, my birds just pray and let strays perch on a dead nest where eggs get walls sprayed. Left its mind alone and who enters?! Therefore she is but being herself has another trying to define her ways. Work harder coz humpty n his wails won't change her speech from day. Night gowns and windows dressed looks like wearing light armor has its advantages since cotton mandates they weigh. Scales of thought with snakes on one boat so that nothing infront has a say?! I spit now and order enzymes to digest the following of the one that doesn't have any direction on land as earth sways." Mitishamba...bird weights.

Keari Mitishamba
June 8, 2012 at 9:44am via mobile · 
  • "In a world full of humans....some are used to names others....a jungle. Let reality ring....from the hills of Utopia to the plains of Zealand ring.....from moorhouse to the streets unpaved with roots as speed bumps ring.....from those that own humans because of their weak hearts and are now about to face the reality that awaits them and their dealers ring.....from my thoughts that I utter with the knowledge of Leo's toungue.....ring. Let reality ring....the dream became a reality for all to see but even then they refuse to accept basic facts of a master's key notes....ring. Ring until the evil that is their minds is no more and turns to the dust that we all see earth...ring. Sand dunes for memories saved from those who's memory they tried to erase using their triangulated seas in trade...ring. From the dead's sea I scroll for nothing more than seein them burn for their sins and hurt ring. Let reality ring because they abuse freedom in every act that they perform with malice and hate...ring." Mitishamba.....freedom to speak should have led you to address me as an equal but still undress me with your weak souls so I blind you...bling!!

Keari Mitishamba
November 8, 2012 at 10:53pm via mobile · 
  • "Speak now because forever promises a hold on peace in bits and not fullness as piecing anything together means you haven't yet created something complete. I repeat. Peace now speaks to the ever present hold on whatever piece of full views on any bits that have yet to be filled but come together to be seen fit. Confused?! Take a dip and dive into the concious mind of the one that can create fetes with fragments of tips like the mind works on shreds of calls that wants its own seams stitched. Torn and rough but as rugged as grits with a mixture of corn where husking leaves some words exposed but still most seeds unseen like its using sun screens. Blind stares to Rays blowin Charlise but no haze as clear thoughts compound to functions that intergrate no limits so the sum of my pieces equal exponent speech." Mitishamba ~ Yea! I calculust.

Keari Mitishamba
March 21, 2012 at 10:13am via mobile · 
  • Deepened words that flood thoughts....its just my weekend verbs. Many Phelps the deep end world...only to drown from lack of a detailed mind whose thinking...hurts....So I buy them vowels & get uuu's and aaaa's wit mouth moving like Nemo but lost in the waves of my emotionless touts.

How presently I feel

Maya Wegerif

".......which journal has recorded our histories inside and who is the author?! Bring Bantu Biko back to us and undo those old tongues because these ones are telling us to hush.........."

"Green arts"

Monday, July 22, 2013

Bantu tongue knotting ~ N worded

"N is a Z in motion pictured during capitalism's exploits of letters used by boys on course to man exploring heel. In shoe-talk, glass slipper meet your more desirable counterpart, sleeve. Designed outcomes to stall another's steps during migration reeks of a mind-ego cultivated as glass laps while in heat. She gets easily lost in the woods succumbing to an eagerness to have her slithers multiply as steed. Snakes on a boat! Snakes on a boat!  I know how a silent K can tell of tales of Knowledge of now, the present, while using violence to cure past needs once generations Knead. Molded images face fire, as ceramic outcomes must be kilned for the production of scolding bricks providing a path for a lost kid. Led by prodigal steers, a planter with no farm is quick to whip and slow to seed with priorities meant to limit the germination of any competing skill. Curtailed stilts stunts walks where body-doubles are mixed in to adopt an identity using only one drops, knowing their woman is always quick to dig in. Soiled tents are left uncovered through suggestions of splits. Enter this mocking bird with pride aware that my love's the only one that gets the whole of what is on the inside, hence the first to learn how to wear her expressions on the heel. Booty doubles as I watch her struts amid pirated ships carrying enough junk truncated to fit among flat trunks, to make fair, even her intellect is hid. Earth's woman churns seas turning death valleys into life hills. Since her cover is oft discarded as a mere redundancy of the sun's rays, her tongues capture reflections of any sound performed with zeal. Heart speech as the only word that leaves art free. The root of a tree with tell tale signs of poetry's divine recordings of the only Queen, to conquer Kings."

Queen IAfrika 
'Rasta nuh chat Rasta'

" not look good fi hav locs pon yo head and you a pray fi another man dead....."

Mitishamba ~ In Woman I trust
"Green Voices"  

Saturday, July 13, 2013

11 11 11 ~ Pacifist Time

Rest in the pieces of what gravity makes us - observants.

"Watched the neighbor hood himself as the eye of the whole, for neighbors to look impressed. Were suggestions for any with a gun to be first to show interest?! Or was it a mention of 'many of them are thugs so we need to get one' george, with curiosity as his address?! Monkey seen doing things similar to walking means pursuit of happiness gleans on formerly balanced beams, presently with scales as heavy as skin, body's heaviest organ while heart now rests. Given the trigger says its God's will, thinking for watchmen is a dreadful thing as all final decisions made always exist between two beings and 911 is operated in accordance with the existence of police who would have come and helped george kill the cat, but I digress" Ishmael Mitishamba ~ The Heart has a conscious, residence?!

Comments on an online article full of hateful rebuttals on #trayvonsoul

Blood Ties

"Intertwined lines meant to straighten splines forming a ladder of memory, akin dNA strands with rungs for I to walk on as they are sturdy pulleys that lever my rise. Multiples of three prime at five where additions of what identifies with self can be equally split and the first to audition is ten, sense?! I have doubts, as you mind. But faithfully speaking, stealing imagination en mass isn't as easy as once sought, gents. A Grinch has clout, your Constant in strive. In desperate search of a path to follow you remain in a lost stride since there are no parallels between then and now, only time. Heart beats, maybe, but my art beats laymen since my blood runs as deep as the roots of the Nile whose fluids mirror the flow of arterial routes, sublime. Ventricles oxygenating morons carbonated in alternation by my real dreamers' watch, spine. From a hole but still went different directions, I staid the same, tranquil state, scepter, an anvil spate where every seed planted prequels shrine. Valor galore I will myself suppose in conclusion of what the words of a formerly scarce book thrust up life's canal as birth to evolution, surmised. Surprise! Better yet, define crime, since spreading synthetic broods is its aim, my arms, scribes. Artillery hemoglobin inked on colored plates lest swimmers clot analogous to water meeting dam where Calypso rises to push dutch findings aside. Classifying my single unit into parts will never break its thumbs, which have eyes looking more at instructing my seats than your rides. Boots clop, abused clocks, docked as wooden blocks cast to net any bark covering rings of information on a tree's hide. Aged sets of dirt's breaths that only my love gets that when the captain hooks, he gets neither the beat nor the drum, just guides. Broken gps systems in distress bliss says give it a rest but this tethered nomad on my shadow is continuously studying my birds nest, eyeing what it sees thus wish its animal had wings, eventually goes ire. Mad Men land in muddy streams rowing boats with stolen strings of tying together life in knots as does this Bantu tongue, tried and true, tested in brute, goons of past blown away like chaff as they traversed naming themselves kings in a jungle of my Queens' Prides."

From a hole to a Hill, Joseph
'Humble African'

"Bloody Green!!"      

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

the Wealthy Saint

"If money is the root of all evil then I'm a saint. So the green paint on my hands is just a placebo of wrongdoing. Not used for the purpose its intended but used to create a purpose and I intend to stop pretending that I'm evil coz shiiiit, I pay rent. And with that payment comes another payment followed by another payment that cleans my slate and every account that bares my name thus making my sainthood, permanent. Not being possessed by the the green devil has qualified me to become a devout member of the church of broke, not-a-dollar saints. This church has a lot of members who believe the same green devil can be their savior. So they embark on the behavior of saving up green and spending up green so they can paint pictures of being surrounded with green but really what's around them is nil, zilch, zero, or better yet, a placebo." 

"I own Green don't own me"

Monday, July 8, 2013

I don't Like That

"Smiling manned as though paralyzed from a spinal injury that leaves one stuck on the same features wishing any moment meant drunk from commercialized whisky because of one word, like. If you've gotten past my first sentence, this is me in my essence, a poetic maniac with a phobia for repeated works, yikes!! So as I encounter words, which alone amount to sound, I'm intrigued at the motivations of those that venture into the path of rhyme, which in fact involves only dykes. No, not the ones that will eventually be splitting a child, I'm talking of preventative measures while regurgitating sound similar to the way sea does sand, but this is life. You see, if the effort to seal a heart sums up to mere associations that require, no, demand every other letter incorporated in script contain 'like' as an inscription of profound forts of acquired now, then all I have is syke! Colloquial surprises to complete a garden of verbiage that paints pictures of literal blunders portraying sentences absent of quality thread, only like. Urgh! I recycled like so here's an extra point aimed at driving home the idea that though poetic, it justifies no path given following automates secondary status akin weeds in a tree's farm where every word I plant is a fig, unlike pine."

Mitishamba ~ Nothing against you pine, you stalk.
"Green Figure"

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

the One drops

"Class rules dictate advances through supposed chances posing as proven courses of outlining what is socially norm. Lead by past brutes' diction which reads of a haste to prose while silently suffering from an addiction of profiling one source. It simply shows career students who went about things crassly considering it pride but rather abused a jungle in books while calling it their home. Vast grooves turn pages so my love knew to strand statements in any cleavage involving masked views that reveal drafts made of planters lacking a farm. Plunder a land of its soil and leave tethered nomads as employees circling a tree's shadow in search of fountains of joy, yet squander storms. Restricted movement encounters coal which alone provides challenges in avoiding friction while utilizing rungs made of mud, ignorant of how brittle ceramic toils affirm wooden carvings a sturdier form. A tree defined by more than what is on the surface and when the rule classifies everything that surfaces, it misses the whole of life's mark - air is dirt in a tree's tone."

"Ishmael, the green embryo"

Monday, July 1, 2013

Sura ya Kitabu ~ The Book's Face Covered

What's on your mind.......

June 5 via mobile
"Sins of a tethered nomad with no borders. Roaming a tree's shadow in circles going everywhere that tree bothers. A destination that never falters, obeying the commands of movement but as stationary as the ocean's waters. Embelished routers accruing direction covering distances a day offers. Without time, its authors, consumed with self-reflection as though germination confers. Subjects to discussion thus speech is in concert with a slave confined to pollination like bees buzzing around some flowers that envy the loafer in lotus. Old ways of producing new things that within a few days this nomad has wings and gives the tree its name, commiting a mortal sin - own grass." Mitishamba ~ Roam, man, path.etic order.

What's on your mind.....

April 18 via mobile
Had to give a spirited response on the path of hip hop/rap given Ricky Ross rape rhymes: Most rap these days has nothing to fight for so they choose women. Every mindless body is throwing jabs at our most precious resource, a woman, a black woman at that and still demand that she remains unblemished?! Sad........ "Deeply saddening how many commit such verbal offenses while expecting reason in return. No wonder you get the angry black woman. She's mad. Mad at how her lover sees her. By any deemed earth but the tone of every one of his sound comes with a broken and beat drum. Her strength still churns. This I love and see in her a seasoned veteran in being firm. Having such useless support has bound her to individual thought. Independent walks and if its matters of self preservation she became a father since even in his presence he is absent a lot."...I'm Mitishamba ~ and angry.

How presently I feel?!

Lutan Fyah
'Crystal Clear'

"....just set the rule and the people will follow, broad is the road to get pain and sorrow...."

Mitishamba ~ Hadi Kumi na Tatu
"Ngozi Majani"

Monday, June 24, 2013

Opine on Dark Girls

response to dangerousNEGRO's request for insight on OWN's...

'Dark Girls'

"For my dark berry's seeds. Buried deep in the earth lies a dormant picture unseen that portray scenes in colors that can breathe. An aroma lacking scented schemes where a family's planning still revolves around one's skin. Determined the dermis represents dummies so findings are used for confining my love into name-sets, a continuous ancestral strip. Called Smith yet constructed nil, if the shoe fit without wearing it then someone is using your feet. I know the vice grips many into thinking running toward sheen forgetting that not all oil meets my dark one's canvas as ink". Mitishamba, the dark berry went East.

Saturday, June 22, 2013


My sentences are menaces to your innocence
with the more minutes spent questioning the messages
rather than embracing it.
Captured moments turned into rhythmic storage bins
fermenting emotions seen
but actively hidden through obvious means.
Prevention is better than a curator since
my records draw from actual comments' seeds
translated into an imagination for a historian's read.
Consider this the lighthearted me
known through the reflection of measured things
stretching into anyone's existence carrying the heaviest zeal.

Mitishamba ~ Splitting lines hair envy.
"kudhani ni majani"

Thursday, June 20, 2013

Game of Seven ~ I Man

"Finale demands a command of emotion not fact. Expanded plays and exhibits that have a conclusion from the start. Perishable finds rot, making even this sentence stale as soon as one sees what's truly between these knots. Known acts amplified shrink the longer air exposes its presence within its parts. This is where reading amid dots leaves many cringing as lines fail to come up therefore experiencing six firsts. Tangled hearts clot in the presence of thought turning acquired knowledge into an unnecessary angel incapable of shouldering the blame for this smart. The amount of effort given to this point points to a certain dedication in this sport where words play court for anything conscious of a stat. It's therefore difficult to imagine a journey if you can't talk of walks taken until records tire minds that keep track. Paths of dreams pave facts, leading one to take an emotion serious thus command peace even if calm bounces in and out as though bored met a thumb tack. Sort of like a targeted theme with the intent of penetrating screens providing a shield when the double edge swings back. The execution of what is already split provides a platform to unite with what was original in tact. Skills on display express still diagrams of excess and ovular sketches whose seeds' stump stand unique even in a forest of trees uncut."  

#6theat, 7up!

Mitishamba ~ Hadi Kumi na Tatu
"Majani majini, leta arthi."

Monday, June 17, 2013

Sura ya Kitabu ~ The Book's Face Covered

What's on your Mind.......

June 2, 2010

"Perception works where reality lacks and the
reality is, I'll have to perceive someone to be real. And for real. 
Because if I start to question what I'm perceiving, then this reality 
will cease from where its already lacking. So in order to experience the reality that someone else controls, I have adopted this perspective that negates what is 
not and perceives what is, and is true." ~ Ishmael Mitishamba

What's on your Mind.......

August 31, 2010

I find peace of mind in knowing, not ignoring. Because in knowing that you are lying, I can more easily say peace to you from my mind and even more easily ignore your bullshit because I'm mindful of my peace and I know it. ~ A Mitishamba moment. 

What's on your Mind.......

October 6, 2011
I spent half my life trying to prepare for the next half of my life and just found out that nothing prepares you for half a is living full and throwing away half the things others put on your life to make it half and not full....I was just a just know half so I'm full.

How presently I feel?!

Ab Soul like
'Turn Me Up'

"....for me is more difficult to be simple that it is to be complex...."

Mitishamba ~ Hadi Kumi na Tatu
"Ngozi Majani"

Saturday, June 15, 2013

Press Wine ~ KuMiti Shamba

"Put it like this, like that didn't mean they were put here to do things. Undoing sings that sung of proverbs from a man with caged ink. Aged speech turned into fresh water, gulped in bulk to measure the feeble heart of a man that only thinks. Therefore I am, but who's to say every human must have the same seat. Barefoot I run after bandits like the Colt of Camano I.sland on both sides of the same beach. Quite a distant reach as dates means carbon arrives after a man breathes. Or many men breathing shows how easy it is for a woman to alter the direction of dogs that once called her bitch. That's the stench of green pastures from a stationary Grinch. Agreeing with the past time but pastor what makes one want to be everyone's shrink. Lectures in mink coated in codes that makes every merchant want to read. Economics of foals, horses made to compete bet soon many will see why blue grass amounts to nature's mystic. Running with tins canned for lacking a heart and scared from the start to pave their own charts that even on water, they couldn't get away from their millions of years worth of Pyramid schemes. A flag ships, I flood ships with tormenting thoughts that reality always fails to meet. Rasta faith is in seeing as in losing my golden locks only means I got blinded by that animal loving bitch. Drink some porridge, bear hug a tree and once in a while call me King coz my dreams speak for themselves even when I'm asleep. Wake up hos, Winter is over. We are now entering the organizations of spring, the gangster's disciples who brought you triskaidekaphobia, fcuk twelve monkeys, I walk with the 13th. No footsteps for me coz there's enough structures of concrete that can speak now on behalf of an actual tree. Intelligent, nah, nature designs as monkeys recline since they know after Midnight, that's 7 midgets with no mustard seed. Bastard kids lacking a father who masters thieves that presently sits further from the top of what started as the pursuit of an never-ending theme. Park is outside, I coast inside wallowing in the mixture of Jurassic and pressed wine that show Godzilla running the streets commanding the creators of actual time with no image for Pantomimes. Its called the bitter and true taste of fermented rhymes."

Mitishamba ~ Hadi Kumi na Tatu.
"Green Composts."

Friday, June 14, 2013

MtiEyeing ~ KuMiti Shamba.

"The smallness of your mind wants me to dumb shit down so your heart can comprehend how I come up with complicated shit to fit my style without breaking stride. No hiccups in my swag because if I ever changed then maybe just my under pants, after the synthetic strings of alcohol infested women whose fruits bulge like loom turning hanes, but never white. Those are shit stained with humpty dumpty's excrement on their face so now if you ask me who I'd break a leg for I'll say get your own hips then hop on out of here since yours have circled the block, used up, and are just plain tired. Tried and truly glorifying hole that has tires rolled up with folds of fat, no wonder the eye is weight watching wondering how to get by with all these mammoths defying science. Heavy weights because your moves are biased so as I check and mate with your supposed queens with no ass, I ask that you watch my donkeys while they cart the one with both eyes."

Mitishamba ~ Hadi Kumi na Tatu.

Mother's land tongue ~ 1000+ lingo = true freedom of speech

"Lugha ya nambari ni kama unga au bahari kwa vile yote uchukua umbo wowote au pahali. Msanii wa nafasi anathibitisha sanaa iwe na malengo kamili, kasoro ni arthi. Msimamo nafsi uondoa majengo yaliyokosa sababu vile vile hesabu - methali. Kuunda neno ni jibu la kitabu bila meno lakini kubweka kinaweza hata kunena kinasema sine inashikilia meno - kihesabu asili, hii ni asali.    .............................................................."

(to be malizwad. any true poet of the soil, alias afrikan, is free to to add to this never-ending poem #shairimilele, in their mother's liberty, aka, tongue).

to continue.....construct a sentence in your lingo that would have the same sound as how you've read this poem. the subject of this poem is the construction of speech so sticking to the subject is just that - speak.

Mitishamba ~ Mtiifu Shambani
"Lugha ya Majani"