wild thoughts.

we meet at the equator-in the jungle

and wetness 

of primitivism 
up and down it goes

i want to lie 

down, deep, within

and mumble
a prayer-back and forth

to the esteemed 

gods of the ceiling

for your insatiable 
trek in this

wilderness of

lotus flowers 

and papyrus reeds. 



the moon
is faced IMG_5384
to the earth
only on one side

everything is a reflection

so much of the
ocean is a reflection
of you
and only ten
percent of the ocean
has been discovered

i only need to look at the moon
and see another side of you.


wame muse gwafila 2017

hope and rain.

things should
reveal themselves
for what they are
there’s too much
of the unknown
be the mountain
there’s a crack
in everything
that’s how the light
gets in
also, how the water
freshly squeezed
out of an active cave
but know it will rain some time.

muse 2017

between the sheets.

between these sheets

that crumple noisily

we make love


moan in onomatopoeia

chant to the cieling gods in alliteration

vivid in metaphor

until we come in

chinese ink

on these blank sheets.


wame muse gwafila|| 2017



sometimes i want to hold your hand
knowing it’s not just your hand
i am holding but
a steer through tempest weather,
jumping a puddle,
finding balance while i’m winded from a joke,
dancing to the wavelengths of our mind,
crying from excitement and sometimes excruciating pain
like giving birth to the hopes
the dreams the wishes the future
of holding your hand again and again
or to just hold your hand
because you needed someone to
because walking is damn near impossible
because we both want to feel that we truly exist
in this magic where holding your hand
is life itself
where holding your hand
is all the tenses a verb can possibly adorn itself
where holding your hand
is unison
where holding your hand
is love itself.

wame muse gwafila 2017

another day.


some nights, like tonight, the narrations of the night make it to me by way of questions. sometimes i want to ask them out loud. sometimes i want to ask someone and the solid mass, a strong line draws itself like a flat line on a cardiac telemetry attached to a dead body. solid. loud. almost like a black hole. present. measurable maybe. circling. im not a woman of science nor am i that spiritual to believe all the time. they say knowing God is a blessing. they say rain is a blessing. sometimes i wear my raincoat out into the rain. come back and hang it by the door along with God so i can curl up in my blankets of melancholy and disbelief. who hasn’t dared to believe, hope and be proven otherwise? who has been doubtful and been proven otherwise? again, im not a woman of science nor am i at the epitome of my spirituality. so on this night, i cradle in this bed of nightmares-only because i believe nightmares to be reality and dreams to be aloof and cloudy, it’s them you should fear. and i ponder on the questions of life against a backdrop of wind, stillness, dogs barking in the distance, oddly enough-cocks crowing, cars sparsely going to and fro, a neighbors radio playing, the creak of a slightly open door perfecting its ballon maybe, i don’t know and this voice inside of my head that is coming into the nightmare that nature isn’t for or against us. yet i question that with a short question, anomalies? how about miracles?
i let the night belong to itself. the dogs to bark for whatever reason. i allow the wind to come and go. the stars to smile. the cars to drive by knowing fully well
“ours not to reason why
ours but to do and die.”*
i hope, still, for sunshine, knowing fully well, in my country, it burns you raw. i hope for tomorrow because dying is easy and living is hard. yet and almost always i will say, give me another day and i’ll still fight.


*Alfred Lord Tennyson|| the charge of the light brigade|| 1854

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