Walking Through Space!



I didn’t know how to put this forward or make it clear, but here it goes. I’m going to be making some noise in this little space of mine for a little while. I’m working on a little series for the poetry fans who wonder this way, hopefully it will be for fans of any kind of written work. This is something to get me playing with style a little bit more, keep me in touch with the blogger-sphere and fellow writers, I’m calling it …

Poems for Planets!!


Don’t worry, I’m saving the creativity for the actual content, hopefully this allows me a pass on this title.

I’ll open the series on a light note, something to brighten the tone. Here I present to you my opening Haiku.



Sun Light





heavens bands of fire

Washing the earth with light.

Waiting for winter.

-The Blissful Nomad


Stay tuned for the rest of the 9 planets, feel free to play along or share the fun.




There is so much gold inside your longing to be you, this is the most precious intent. No heavy cloaks of foul feelings can dim a diamond cut by the goodness you feed your mind. The mind, so precious an instrument, when seeded with love will yield abundance. Make the mistake of welcoming thoughts with ugly features and you run the risk of stepping into an ugly world, cold and uninviting.

Its okay to be you, let the manikins muse. So often revered, this jury of your pears has played a role in stifling your sunlight. You have earned your summer, so smile and forget shame. Learn to love all that your heart conjures in its hunger for life, its thirst for love, and its wants in the throes curiosity.

I have never seen a rose recoil in shame. It blushes often, but bears its head with pride, unashamedly a rose, be a rose. Let all the goodness in you blossom and let the world return the favour. There is nothing more contagious than true happiness.

…If you have good thoughts it will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely.

Roald Dahl



Writing 101, Day 2: A Room With a View


The prompt for the day was to write a descriptive piece. I had to think of one place I would love to journey to, I’d have to go there, I’d have to share it with you, paint you a picture of this important place. I turned to nostalgia for my answer, and I wrote, what I’m hoping to be an effective portrayal, of one of my favourite weekend outings as a boy. Enjoy! 


It was a weekend, It was always a weekend when we went there. We waited until the sun was nice and round, full and clear, sitting perfectly in the sky. 

There was a long stretch of shore line. I’m not sure what you call it when a man made body of water meets land like that, but the grass was right up against the water. You could see right across to the other side if you stood at the right place. Sometimes the water went on forever, an endless sheet of dancing sunlight, dropping off into the distance. The whole thing was like a mirror, wobbling and dancing. This wasnt a river, or a great ocean, so the water had a bit of elegance I guess, because it danced a shy little dance against the warm air that swept through.

There was a large building, it was the unmovable guardian of the water side. It stood sturdy and still, it was the long standing sanctuary from the Zambian sun. I could tell it had been there for a long time. It had these cracks that traced its walls, like wrinkles on a face that has seen more than its fair share of sunsets, I’m more than sure that it had seen its fair share of setting Suns over Mindolo. It’s once white walls were faded and had clearly been kissed by the sky’s offering during the rainy season. It was an old building but it housed everything we needed, the bar, the restaurant, the old slanted pool tables that sat right in front of the dj booth.

Between the mirrors edge and the old building, there was a wide stretch of grass. It was littered with rounded wooden tables, revarnished on occasion, but sporting there age in withered edges and dented slacks. There were unevenly spaced deck chairs huddled around them, waiting for the crowds. I remember how those tables attracted the herds of folk, hooves of happy patrons clip clopping across the worn grass paths to those sun lit perches. 

I could tell people went there a lot, I could tell because of the grass. There was grass everywhere, but in places you could see it had been worn away by the frequent visits. Around the picnic tables you could see the green bleed to gold. I can imagine the little feet running around the table, as the adults sat down, drinking their cold drinks, drinks far too bitter for their youn mouths. The adults would occasionally stand to have a dance, joining the little feet in tracing another map of a joyful weekend in the blades of grass. 

There was always music in the air. From the heart of the faded white building the disk jockey would spin his afternoon magic, he kept the air filled with music that kept the spirits high, matching the tempo of the peaking sun. He had a way of making it so there was always a song that made mum and dad dance, I remember mum shuffle in her seat pursing her lips the way she did, I remember dad stifling a laugh, I remember us all laughing.

 I remember the fishing rods that dad would make up for us. Dad always brought some hooks and a reel of fishing line along with him, they might have been guitar string but dad was always resourceful like that. Past the big building and further away from the crowds, there was a place where the reeds had grown wildly against the wavering mirror. Dad would fetch us some reeds, he tied the line onto the ends and fix our hooks with his unmovable knots. He would help us bait our hooks and sat us down by the waters edge. It wasn’t very deep close to the grass, when the water was clear we could see the little fish swimming underneath the semi permeable  mirror, I liked how sometimes I could see broken pieces of the sun in it, stealing a moment from the sky to dance in the water. 

Everyone threw there sauced and seasoned meats onto to the barbiques. There  barbiques pits everywhere, each was stood next to the picnic tables. With a hiss and a subtle mist, the air came alive with a world of flavour. Dad would watch over the pit and turn the pieces of meet with an experience eye, sending another cloud of flavour in the wind to tease the other tables who had just finished there share, or were readying there food for the fire. 

We enjoyed the day until it was close to spent. Dad always liked the way the sun dipped in the water at the furthest edge. The sun dawned an orange hue, lowering itself into the water. I have watched dad look at it the same way every time. He watches very closely. He watched it until only a small corner of the sun was left peaking out of the water, the whole sky was tainted orange, the air grew cold and the loud music played on. There were less of the yoingervoices. We knew this meant it was time to go home. I always savoured those days by the water, the sun catching in the shimmering sheet, at Mindolo where we forged our memories. 


download (1)

My early call to rise rings out at the same time ever morning, 5 am. Every morning, at 5 am, I rock myself out of a shallow sleep, gather the scattered pieces of my focus and brace myself, ready to face the budding day at its root. I loathed dawn for so long, returning to it only through necessity.

I recently found hidden value and beauty in those early hours. It wasn’t the way in which the horizon bled as the sun stalked the weakening night sky. It wasn’t the tranquil air, alive with a heady mix of possibility and bird song , it was something different. It was the way it mediated my conflicting thoughts and gave my hope a backbone, the way it allowed my compass to settle to a true north, it allowed me to breath in the realisation that, like that rising sun, coming from everywhere, to embrace everything, I have to go far from comfort to pierce the blackness.

My eyes are drawn to the morning sun, with envy and curiosity. When 5 am arrives, I rise to chase a dream.



As your golden arcs dissolve the night, I wonder where you’ve been.

you trace the distance silhouettes with ribbons of foreign fire.

Fermenting the swollen shadows by imposing your rosy sheen,

as your golden arcs dissolve the night, I wonder where you’ve been.

I’ve been tested by dawns return, the burn of an auburn, keen

to unfold the day, invoke a steam to power our souls desire.

With your golden arcs dissolving night, I wonder where you’ve been,

you trace the distance silhouettes with ribbons of foreign fire.

–  Triolet

(c) Saili Katebe

Writing 101 – Day Two: A View of the Park


After summer had abandoned its lethargic rousing, it graced us with its sprightly sun and and warming embrace. It may have been a late arrival, but its fashionably late burst into fruition negated the dreary days of pitter-pattering minions of darkened nimbus. When these days came around I had my Eden to turn to, my sanctum of solace, the loom that wove all that I loved about summer into one tapestry of beauty, who could ask for more. I would head there with a book for the day,  go along with some friends, and other times I’d simply walk my thoughts through the park.

It was a good twenty minute walk to the park from where I stayed. A pretty straight forward route, dotted with a convenience stores. These  shops were perfectly situated to cater to my hunger for all manner of treats. When the heat was boastful and right, the obvious choice was a nice cold treat, the type that was affordable, sweet, cold and coloured my tongue a vast array of vivid reds, greens, blues and purples, the ever reliable ice lolly. A quick stop for supplies and off for the park, armed with a bag full of treats, my excitement would bubble in a crescendo of excitement as I grew closer and closer. A further two minutes from the shops, turn right, and there it was.

Even before I set foot into the park I could see the expanse of green grass, with accents of gold around the football goals, where excited feet rushed around as its gracious host fed there jovial canter, On the nearest edge of the grass was a small playground, the unmistakable creak of the swing set piercing through the children’s laughter. On days like these there was always children’s laughter filling the air, parents sat outside the enclosure as the children played, the stray parent or two joining the merriment. The joy was almost palpable, coursing through the place.

I always kicked my shoes off my feet when I got there. I wanted to feel the soft green right underneath me, warm and welcoming, I wanted every sense to dine on the feast of my Eden. As I walked past the tall row of trees that filed along the left hand side of the grass i could feel the crunch of leaves under the soles of my bare feet, I walk on as they whisper stories, stories of a lifetime in the canopy of their guardians. These trees stood along the edge like family, they all looked similar in one way or another, each with a uniqueness of character to them, the same resemblance that siblings bare. Under there outstretched leafy arms you could hide from the heat of the sun, if its kiss proved too passionate. The wind the rustled the leaves and tickled the skin was a temperamental one, sometimes it blew with a heated passion, other times it would tease the suns power off the skin,  cooled the beads of sweat from the brow and steadied the heat.

The shade of the trees made a perfect location for sitting down and enjoying a read or a nibble. It was always cool and  shaded, the sun would wink through the canopy every now and then , but the trees would keep me sheltered, unmoved as I reclined on its trunk, towering behind and over me, as though reading over my shoulder. The feather bodies that scurried through the leaves would accompany the summer in there joyful riffs. The scurrying squirals would dance along the branches, but they were all welcome company.

Further into the park,only a short daydreaming wonder from there green, was a large pond, alive with life. A span of tranquil libation for the travelling birds. From my observation, this pond was home to two gracious swans that nested on the nearest bank of this wavy watery mirror. A whole host of feathered folk danced in the pond, mallards and a complimentary cast of water fowl waded to and fro, bobbing there beaks into the water, occasionally a crafty bird or two would full submerge itself in the pond to emerge a few seconds later. A circus of motion on so many planes.

I would spend the best part of an afternoon there in that park. Reveling in the broad pallet of colours and sounds. The green and gold of the grass, the blue hue of the watery parquet, the pearly white feathers of the gracious swans with  those orange beaks, the colourful coats of the ducks and there entourage, the blue sky with wondering whites that sweep through it, that golden sun, that crackling brown skin of the trees and there bronzing leaves, the rusting aging goal post that persists to stay and make merry with the visitors. And the symphony, oh what a symphony that would play there.

Take me back to my Eden. I hope my sanctum will remember me and once again we can embrace one another. Maybe again I can let those blades of grass embrace my stride and share with me the excitements I’ve missed in our time apart. Let the leaves hug there branches, but please let a stray leaf or two, one of  those, eager to meet me leaves, come back down and lay with me again. Send me there so I can wave to the swans, ask them about there pond and those rowdy fowls, those acrobatic ducks in there wading and head bobbing.

That place will always live on in my memories, whenever my eyelashes cage close a blink I know i will see it again, my Eden.