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Poems By Poet David Yobby  12/19/2014 6:09:07 AM
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I'm Me

I come from the tribe
Of the tribeless
We speak in signs
For verbs condemn us to death

I come from the land
Of the landless
We till the air
For no one can claim it

I come from the past
Of the pastless
I am a newborn
With no sin to my name

I come from no-man's land
I don't know how I got there
Or when my neighbour arrived
So we have to share

My skin has no colour
My music is mute
My eyes are sightless
I can't hear
I can't think
I have no enemies
Or friends.
David Yobby



In Verse, In Prose

I write this poem,
Because the madness around me,
Might one day be too much,
For my simple self

I am under the siege,
Of plots and counter-plots,
Cold wars and enmity,
Jihads and Koran-burning pastors,
Nations revolting against,
The very leaders they elected,
Friendly faces, murderous backs,
Unkept treaties,
Feeble truces,
Too early to celebrate,
No permanent friends,
No permanent enemies

I lose myself,
In verse and in prose,
In my own little world,
With my own creations,
At least here,
My ink establishes,
My ideal fiefdom,
Where agents of change,
Are not despised, but embraced,
Where reason precedes emotion,
Where nothing is personal,
Where everything touches your heart,
Where bleeding is stopped,
Before the skin is torn

In verse, in prose,
I lose myself.
David Yobby




Look at how we live
Look at how we leave flowers to die
Look at how we're all afar
Look at how we fear
Look at all the wrongs that we let be
Look at how we turn away
We say
The storm won't last for long
We say
The sun's coming through
We say
It's going to be gone
When we turn around
And look again.
David Yobby



She Sliced My Something

Hear the women coming,
From the hills of Keroka,
And the markets of Keumbu,
Hear the cock crowing,
It is dawn,
It is dawn,
And Kerubo must ask,
Her mother for a hen,
A hen to pay for the cut,
A hen to be given to Omwaroki
the circumciser

Kerubo must be brave,
Kerubo must leave the house naked,
In the early morning chill,
The fog hides her nudity,
But the cold dew rests,
Upon the rock on which she sits,
As she waits to be cut

Her face must be serious,
She must not be afraid,
Even though Moraa bled to death last year,
She must not be afraid,
Even though her aunt holds her firmly,
She must not be afraid,
Even as Omwaroki applies the white flour
On her eight year old womanhood,
she must not wince
When the knife slices off,
Her clitoris
To transform her,
From childhood to womanhood

The women dace,
And sing erotic songs,
They know too well,
that nothing can pleasure them,
Nothing but words...

Kerubo is marched back home,
Where she must squat,
Behind the granary
Until her mother finishes cooking
For the many guests
David Yobby
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Poems By Poet David Yobby