KCSE MOCK POEMS

Read the poems below. To get KCSE questions and answers for free for the poems click the link (Icon) below

THAT OTHER LIFE

(By Everett M Standa)

      I have only faint memories

      Memories of those days when all our joyful moment

      In happiness, sorrow and dreams

      Were so synchronized

      That we were in spirit and flesh

      One soul;

      I have only faint memories

      When we saw each other’s image everywhere;

      The friends, the relatives,

      The gift of flowers, clothes and treats,

      The evening walks where we praised each other,

      Like little children in love;

      I remember the dreams about children

      The friendly neighbors and relatives

      The money, the farms and cows

      All were the pleasures ahead in mind

      Wishing for the day of final union

      When the dreams will come true

      On that day final union

      We promised each other pleasures and care

      And everything good under the sun

      As a daily reminder that you and me were one forever.

My grandmother                

 by Elizabeth Jennings

She kept an antique shop-or it kept her.

Among Apostle spoons and Bristol glasses,

The faded silks, the heavy furniture,

She watched her own reflection in the brass

Salvers and silver bowls, as if to prove

Polish was all, there was no need for love.

And I remember how I once refused

To go out with her, since I was afraid.

It was perhaps a wish not to be used

Like antique objects .Though she never said

That she was hurt, I still could feel the guilt

Of that refusal, guessing how she felt.

Later, too frail to keep a shop, she put

All her best things in one long, narrow room.

The place smelt old, of things too long kept shut,

The smell of absences where shadows come

That can’t be polished. There was nothing then

To give her own reflection back again.

And when she died I felt no grief at all,

Only the guilt of what I once refused.

I walked into her room among the tall

Sideboards and cupboards-things she never used

But needed: and no finger-marks were there,

Only the new dust falling through the air.

Riding Chinese Machines

By Liyou Mesfin Libsekal

There are beasts in this city
they creak and they crank
and groan from first dawn
when their African-tongued masters wake
to guide them lax and human-handed
through the late rush
when they‘re handled down and un-animated
still as we sleep, towering or bowing
always heavy

We pour cement through the cities
towns, through the wild
onwards, outwards
like fingers of eager hands
stretched across the earth
dug in

The lions investigate
and buried marvel rumbles
squeezed for progress

“Sympathy”

I know what the caged bird feels, alas! When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass And the river flows like a stream of grass; When the first bird sings and the first bud opes, And the faint perfume from its petals steals – I know what the caged bird feels! I know why the caged bird beats its wing Till its blood is red on the cruel bars; For he must fly back to his perch and cling When he rather would be on the branch a –swing; And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars And they pulse again with a keener sting – I know why he beats his wing! I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore, When he beats his bars and would be free; It is not a song of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core, But a plea, that upward to heaven he fings – I know why the caged bird sings!        (Adapted from the poem by Laurence Donbar in ‘American Negro Poetry’ edited by ArnaBomtemps. New York: Hill and Waug 1974)

“FAMINE”

            The owner of yam peels his yam in the house’s:

            A neighbour knocks at the door

            The owner of yam throws his yam in the bedroom:

            The neighbour says, “I just heard

            A sound, ‘kerekere’, that is why I came,”

            The owner of the yam replies,

            “That was nothing, I was sharpening two knives.”

            The neighbour says again, “I still heard

            Something like ‘bi’ sound behind the door.”

            The owner of the yam says,

            “I merely tried my door with a mallet.”

            The neighbour says again,

            “What about his huge fie burning on your hearth?”

            The fellow replies,

            “I am merely warming water for my bath.”

            The neighbour persist,

            “Why is your skin all white, when this is not the Harmattan season?’

            The fellow is ready with his reply,

            I was rolling on the floor when I heard the death of Agadapidi.”

            Then the neighbour says, “Peace be with you.”

            The owner of the yam start shut,

            “There cannot be peace

            Unless the owner of food is allowed to eat his own food!”

Building the Nation

Henry Barlow

      Today I did my share

      In building the nation

      I drove a permanent Secretary

      To an important urgent function

      In fact a luncheon at the Vic.

      The menu reflected its importance

      Cold Bell beer with small talk,

      Then friend chicken with niceties

      Wine to fill the hollowness of the laughs

      Ice-cream to cover the stereotype jokes

      Coffee to keep the PS awake on return journey.

      I drove the Permanent Sectretary back.

      He yawned many times in the back of the car

      Did you have any lunch friend?

      I replied looking straight ahead

      And secretly smiling at his belated concern

      That i had not, but was smiling!

      Upon which he said with a seriousness

      That amused more than annoyed me,

      Mwananchi, I too had none!

      I attended to matters of state

      Highly delicate diplomatic duties you know,

      And friend, it goes against my grain,

      Causes me stomach ulcers and wind.

      Ah, he continued, yawning again,

      The pains we suffer in buiding the nation!

      So the PS had ulcers too!

      My ulcers I think are equally painful

      Only they are caused by hunger,

      Not sumptuous lunches!

      So two nation builders

      Arrived home this evening

      With terrible stomach pains

      The result of building the nation -

      - Different ways.

Read the oral piece below and answer the questions that follow

Blood iron and trumpets

Blood iron and trumpets

Forward we march

(others fall on the way)

Blood iron and trumpets

We shall hack kill and cure

Blood iron and trumpets

Singers of the datsun blue

Forward we drive breaking the records

Blood iron and trumpets

Let bullets find their targets and the earth be softened

Blood iron and trumpets

Let the dogs of war rejoice

And the carrion birds feed

We are reducing population sexplosion

Blood iron and trumpets

The uniformed machines are around

Put on your helmet iron and rest

Blood iron and trumpets

Only through fire can be baptized to mean business

So once again

Blood iron and trumpets

We shall always march along

Blood iron and trumpets

Blood iron and trumpets

Blood alone

SECOND OLYMPUS

      From the rostrum they declaimed

      On martyrs and men of high ideals

      Whom they sent out

      Benevorent despots to an unwilling race

      Straining at the yoke

      Bull dozers trampling on virgin ground

      In blatant violation

      They trampled down all that was strange

      And filled the void

      With half digested alien thoughts

      They left a trail of red

      Whatever their feet had passed

      Oh, they did themselves fine

      And struttled about the place

      Self proclaimed demi- gods

      From a counterfeit Olympus

      One day they hurled down thunder bolts

      On toiling race of earthworms

      They might have rained own pebbles

      To pelt the brats to death

      But that was beneath them

      They kept up the illusion

      That they were fighting foes

      Killing in the name of high ideals

      At the inquest they told the world

      The worms were becoming pests

      Moreover, they said

      They did not like wriggly things

      Strange prejudice for gods.

Advise to my son

(Peter Meinke)

The trick is, to live your days

as if each one may be your last

(for they go fast, and young men lose their lives

in strange and unimaginable ways)

but at the same time, plan long range

(for they go slow : if you survive

the shattered windshield and burning shell

you will arrive

at our approximation here below

or heaven or hell)

To be specific, between the poeny and the rose

plant squash and spinach, turnips and tomatoes;

beauty in nectar

and nectar, in desert saves

but the stomach craves stronger sustenance

than the homed vine.

therefore, marry a pretty girl

after seeing her mother;

speak truth to one man,

work with another;

and always, serve bread with your wine.

But son,

Always serve wine

THE VILLAGE WELL.

By Henry Barlow

      By this well,

      Where fresh waters still quietly whisper

      As when I

      First accompanied Mother and filled my baby gourd,

      By this well,                                                                                                           5

      Where many an evening its clean water cleaned me;

      The silent Well

      Dreaded haunt of the long haired Musambwa,

      Who basked,

      In the mid-day sun reclining on the rock

      Where I now sit                                                                                                     10

      Welling up with many poignant memories.

      This spot,

      Which was rung with the purity of a child laughter;

      This spot,

      Where eye spoke secretly to responding eye;

      This spot,

      Where hearts pounded madly in many a breast;

      By this well,

      Over-hung by leafy branches of sheltering trees

      I first noticed her.                                                                                                  20

      I saw her in the cool of a red , red evening.

      I saw her

      As if I had not seen her in a thousand times before.

      By this well                                                                                                                        25

      My eyes asked for love, and my heart went mad.

      I stuttered

      And murmured my first words of love

      And cupped,

      With my hands, the intoxication that were her breasts                                           30

      In this well

      In the clear waters of this whispering well,

      The silent moon

      Witnessed with a smile our inviolate vows,

      The kisses                                                                                                              35

      That left us weak and breathless

      It is dark

      It is dark by the well that still whispers

      It is darker.

      It is utter darkness in the heart that bleeds                                                             40

      By this well.                                                                                              

      Where magic has evaporated but memories linger.

      Of damp death

      The rotting foliage reeks

      And branches

      Are grotesque talons of hungry vultures?                                                              45

      For she is dead

      The one I first loved by this well.

THE NECKLACE

      From a distance I watched,

      Fearful of inching any further,

      A cold sweat trickled rivulets,

      Making me shiver at noon.

      Undaring to approach the form.

      It was over in minutes,

      The necessities of execution availed,

      The firestone tyre,

      Petrol in blackened tin,

      And ignites in numerous hands

      Each participant ready and anxious,

      To set the man a flame.

      As the smouldering form blackened,

      Smell of sizzling flesh filling in the air,

      Piercing the nostrils,

      And choking me breathless,

      I watched in wonder,

      Witness to an unwritten law.

      As the crowd dispersed,

      The haggling and bargaining resumed,

      Buying, selling and cheating,

      As men in uniform arrived,

      Bering away the charred remains.

CIVIL WAR

(David Mugwika)

      In this land

      Graveyards have no markers

      For blood flows freely

      Into the gutter

      Where corpses abide

      In restless sleep

      In this land

      Kinship is long dead

      And the insiders prevail

      A neighbours hand

      In darkness hidden

      Stripes yet another victim’s light

     

      In this land

      The wind blows across the neglected fields

      Promising yet another spectacle

      Of hollowed eyes and pinched skins

      Trudging and falling to the unyielding trains

      Of self-destruction

      In the air

      The whiter dove

      Flutter with change

      And perhaps

      It would be better if this symbol of peace

      Were established in the souls of the people

      In this land

POETRY

      Two ample women, somewhat past their primes

      (the man between lost in his Daily Times)

      Discuss their friends for all the world to hear

      Some seats away a gallant says,”My dear”

      to a strange girl who glares at him.Uncowed

      he prattles on, oblivious of the crowd

      On every side there’s animated talk

      On the state, on love-down to the price of pork

      Some stare through windows, hating all the noise,

      Stern faced, like masters angry with their boys

      The fop uneasy with the tramp beside

      Fidgets and sighs and shifts from side to side

     

      A bus stop now

      Sighs and farewells, legs and baskets

      Jostle in greatest confusion

      The queen without stampedes and rushes

      to increase the babel within

      “Way please! ”get in!”Abi na Wetin”

      “Ouch you’ve hurt my toe!”

      Time up! The conductor presses “Go”

      The hubbub continues. “What does he care?”

      The more the noisier, but the richer the fare!

I build walls

I build walls

Walls that protect,

Walls that shield,

Walls, that say I shall not yield

Or reveal

Who I am and how I feel.

I build walls

Walls that hide,

Walls that cover what is inside,

Walls that stare or smile or look away,

Silent lies

Walls that even block my eyes

From the tears I might have cried.

I build walls.

Walls that never let me

Truly touch

Those that I love so very much.

Walls meant to be fortresses

Are prisons after all.

THE SMILING ORPHAN

                                    By Grace Birabwa Isharaza

      And when she passed away,
They came,

      Kinsmen came,

      Friends came.

      Everybody came to mourn her.

      Hospitalized for five months
The Ward was her world
Fellow patients her compatriots

      The meagre hospital supply-her diet

      When she was dying

      Her son was on Official Duty
The State demanded his Services.
Her only daughter, uneducated,
Sat by her

      Crying, praying, waiting for an answer
From God far above

      Wishing, she spoke the language
Figures in white-coats do understand.
They matched, the figures did

      Stiff, numb and deaf, to the cries and wishes
Of her dying mother.

      As she was dying

      Friends and kinsmen TALKED of her

      How good, how helpful: a very practical woman.

      None reached her: they were too busy, there was no money,
Who would look after their homes?

      Was it so crucial their presence?

      But when she passed away, they came,
Kinsmen came, friends hired cars to come,
Neighbours gathered to mourn her,

      They ought to be there for the funeral

      So they swore.

      The mourners shrieked out cries

      As they arrived in the busy compound of the dead.
Memories of loved ones no more

      Stimulated tears of many.

      They cried dutiful tears for the deceased
Now stretching their hands all over to help.
The daughter looked at them

      With dry eyes, quiet, blank.

      The mourners pinched each other
Shocked by the stone-heartedness
Of the orphaned.

      She sat: watching the tears soak their garments
Or in the soil around them; wasted.

      That night, she went to her love,

      In the freshly made emergency grass hut,

And let loose all ties of the Conventional Dress she wore
Submitting to the Great Power, she whispered:

      'Now .....

      You and I must know Now ....
Tomorrow you might never understand

            Unable to lick my tears            ·

      And there was light

      In the darkness of the hut
While outside

      The mourners cried
Louder than the Orphan.

Public Butchery.

Jagjit Singh

      Some people fear death,

      others must face it before a crowd

      specially invited

      to witness the ceremony to their last breath

      Coups have succeeded elsewhere

      and heads have rolled,

      and blood has flown,

      quite indiscriminately

      But oh! Condemned conspirators,

      your fate is martyred while you watch,

      heads and hearts held high,

      dead defiance lurking still

      in eyeballs bathed in sweat.

      as the judge performs the abortion

      for your baby hatched in haste,

      before the mother was fully pregnant.

      Once you were greeted

      and treated

      as VIPs.

      Now there is a blank silence

      as a crowd watches

      four hooded ministers

      hanging in the air

Reference 

2015 KCSE MOCK PAPERS