Mugambi Ibere EDU

20/11/2025

Shout out to my newest followers! Excited to have you onboard! Mukaru Signs, Nelson Antiampo Palomar, Jenny Chika Okafor

20/11/2025

Big shout out to my newest top fans! 💎 Julie Engerman, Unusual Bolu Gold, Sergio Quintanilla, John Knope, Awo Dagadu Frank, Peter Nyanga, Nelson Medina

Drop a comment to welcome them to our community, fans

18/11/2025

“LIFE TIP: Smile at your problems. They hate that.” 😎

18/11/2025

The Unseen Frost: A Poet Forged in Fire, Not Snow.

Forget the gentle old man America imagined. Robert Frost was a human hurricane: a man who carved breathtaking beauty out of a life defined by sheer heartbreak.

His verses felt peaceful, but his reality was a warzone. He grew up dirt poor, anxious, and brilliant. At 11, his father drank himself to death. At 20, he buried his first child. Frost’s entire existence was a brutal tug-of-war between creating art and collapsing under pressure.

He failed at everything first: farming, teaching, editing newspapers. By 38, broke and desperate, he gambled everything, moving his family to a tiny English cottage. That roll of the dice changed history.

There, in that quiet village, he wrote masterpieces like “The Road Not Taken” and “Mending Wall.” His poems looked like charming countryside scenes, but they were razor blades wrapped in velvet—hiding loneliness, brutal indecision, and the violence of choice. He found survival in every line.

Tragedy was his constant companion. He lost two more children. His beloved wife grew frail and depressed. One son died by su***de. Frost poured every ounce of that pain onto the page.

That’s why his famous woods feel so real—they weren't quaint scenery; they were a sanctuary. He didn’t write about nature to escape humanity; he wrote about it to figure out how to forgive himself, and the world.

And at 86, at JFK’s inauguration, blinded by the sun and shaking with age, he couldn't read his new poem. He didn't panic. He lifted his head and recited “The Gift Outright” from a memory forged in a lifetime of survival, turning potential disaster into pure, raw history.

Robert Frost wasn’t the soft poet of snowy woods. He was a warrior who stitched philosophy to grief.

He didn't write about peace. He wrote about the courage it takes to keep putting one foot in front of the other when the only sound left is your own heartbeat against the cold, unforgiving world.

18/11/2025

Strength is not a virtue you acquire. It is a phenomenon that reveals itself only when existence applies pressure in places you did not know could bear weight. Hardship becomes the sculptor that carves away the illusions you once mistook for identity, and every trial becomes an invitation to meet the hidden architecture of your own consciousness. The world does not shape you. It merely exposes how you have been shaping yourself all along. The true battlefield is inward, where your responses quietly rewrite the trajectory of your life long before any outward victory is visible.

Life unfolds as an intricate dialogue between your perception and the world’s indifference, and mastery emerges the moment you realize that every choice is a brushstroke on the canvas of your becoming. To act with intention is to treat each moment as both laboratory and altar. The mind that pauses, observes, and then chooses with precision is not merely thinking. It is engaging in a form of inner engineering, rerouting neural pathways, recalibrating emotional patterns, and teaching the soul to speak a language deeper than impulse. What looks like patience from the outside is inwardly the sharpening of a blade.

Purpose begins as a whisper in the depths of your being, and once acknowledged, it demands a loyalty that transcends comfort. Doubt and fear may appear as guardians, yet they are only reflections of unfinished arguments within you. When the internal landscape becomes peaceful, external turmoil loses its authority. Abundance is not a possession. It is a way of interpreting the world. The thoughts you feed become the atmosphere of your inner universe, and from that atmosphere, your reality condenses. Change the climate within and the weather of your life transforms.

Growth originates in discomfort because the self you are shedding resists its own extinction. Pain is not an enemy. It is a doorway that refuses to open without your full presence. Every scar is a map of where consciousness expanded under pressure. Every challenge is a conversation with the version of you that is waiting to exist. Ask the question that opens every locked room within: what truth is this experience trying to reveal? Reflection turns memory into intelligence. Intelligence becomes vision. Vision becomes destiny. As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he. As you think, you are already emerging.

Katie Kamara
[Image: Freepik]

17/11/2025

UNKNOWN has always met me at the crossroads—quietly, powerfully, without demand. I revere her as I do any goddess or god I honor: with respect, not dependence. She is not my deity, but a guide who walks beside me when the path splits. Her torches don’t lead—they illuminate. And when I stand between worlds, she reminds me: I already carry the key. I especially like to honor her on Moonday, the day of the moon, when her light feels closest. Winnie Odinga

16/11/2025

Nameless
I wish I could tell you just how complicated we are

How we try, in vain, to simplify ourselves

Into shapes that fit

Into the spaces held -

With quivering hands,

In quivering hearts -

Into makeshift squares and rectangles

By those who also don't want to feel alone

But we are shapes without names

And when we can no longer hold,

When curves and edges begin to writhe and bulge

Know this:

You are not broken

And I am not bent

We just didn't know what to call ourselves

Only that wholeness can feel like it consumes too much space

When all you want is to be called by any name

So long it is whispered and not shouted


JT Caine © 11/14/2025

All Rights Reserved

16/11/2025