Mad Master

I steal because
wether I steal or not,
You will still say that I have stolen.

I lie because
wether I lie or not,
You will still say that I have lied.

I don’t claim
to be intelligent or stupid,
For it doesn’t matter,
What you thinketh of me.

I have learnt to land
where arrows don’t get me.
I have learnt to fly
where barbs don’t touch me.

In my silence,
I call the shots.
In my muteness,
I run the show.
I am the power behind the throne.
You walk naked in your court,
While your subjects laugh with mirth at your wicked nakedness.
But I have learnt to keep quiet.
For even if I told you the truth,
You would still not give a hoot.
Why bother?

I will bid my time,
And eat in silence,
And when I’ve had enough,
I will quietly melt into the darkness like a stranger’s breath,
Never to be seen again in your court my mad master.

© Ayoub Mzee 2012


Black Chroma

What ails you black hue?

For wherever a mortal sets foot forth,

You never cease to blight her path with a devastating precision.

You are an apparition, a mist in a gist of a single moment.

You’re an enigma who brutally refuses a description,

And your appellation is not easy to comprehend.

You are the dark angel,

Shimmering and simmering in your laconic chromatic black.


Colour black you are some mystery in which you cloak yourself in,

And peeling the layers of lies off you is a Herculean task.

You’re a silhouette of beings in darkness,

And whom you effortlessly sip life from mercilessly.

Yet in your mystery, you’re regal, and we bow in awe.

You inspire fear and intrigue.

Your wearer is a marked man. Your host is a marked woman.

For the black art and occult consult you.

You’re Gothic, chasing the shadows of life masked in a death promise.


You sing a dire dirge in a funeral,

And mourners must mourn in black.

Subdued in dark somber tones and moods,

The living are stifled of their right to leave or live.

The things you hide in your darkness are momentous.

In your unwarranted ornate fiesta of doom, we are but helpless jetsams

Of your unkind gesture in mocking dear life.

You beckon with a languid hand,

A flight to oblivion..


In the stillness of the night, you and the willing darkness

Engage in an obscene dance of intimate lovers,

Whose heart’s contents and dark desires they are familiar with.

In the night, they play lucid games of deceit and the owl is the umpire in this empire.

In the darkness, witches, thieves, murderers, villains and vampires find refuge,

She embraces them in an earnest hug of sure death.

The moon is a shy nymph, undecided lass bearing the gift of dark light

Who lie, conquered by the long shadows of tempests.

Oh Black hue, your symbolism is rich.

What hails you black hue?

© Ayoub Mzee 2012

The Unspoken Word

Long after
the conversation
is long dead,
Long after the
embers of the fire
have stopped
and only the ashes abound,
You’re bound by the nagging realization that, after
all, the story is quite not yet finished.

Something was not entirely said.
Something was not spoken.
A vital truth thus was hidden from your intent ears.
A word lies,
there in a lie, unspoken.
The unspoken word…..

It is this unspoken word,
Hanging in the room,
like a mysterious aroma,
or like wanton fiend
from a field,
unknown to you
but known to him,
cleverly hidden in that low intonation,
Masterly concealed in that sly simile in the smile,
Craftily cocooned in that understanding look,
Cunningly parceled in those regular silences,
That vex your intellect.
That matters most.
The unspoken word….

Most never pick
up the mind games,
But the discerning ones will always, and will reach
and try to wrench the
unspoken word
festooned in
a friend’s psyche
and reveal
its contents in day light.
For it is in this unspoken word,
that the painful truth resides.
For it is in this unspoken word,
that the true sentiment lives with her regimen.
For it is in this unspoken word,
that possess all the answers. grudgingly…..

How many a lover had wished to hear this unspoken word spoken, And thus gain an illegal entrance
into her unguarded heart and mind and steal her
And his magic spell would commence
to wow the lass with his potent lover’s guises.
Every wily dealer never says all,
its the buyer to find out how much he’s been
Every mistress worth her salt,
never tells all to her conniving master, he must cleverly know on his own, if he has anything between his two ears.
Every skilled politician, leaves a lot of unspoken words
hanging in the air, like menacing dark clouds, or marauding pack of ungrateful vultures,
cycling high above, ready to swoop down and vanquish the sorry mortals.

This unspoken word is power.
Evil power.
Good power.
What’s your decree?
Words fail us miserably.
There are somethings in your chest that words can’t adequately describe. Even scribes can’t script the truth of that emotion
Hear with your ears, but most importantly, listen
with your eyes.
Look with your eyes, but most crucially, see with
your heart.
In this way, the countenance of your friend’s
inscrutable face,
Will never hide anything from you even if he never speaks that elusive word.
You’ll surreptitiously catch the lier in his lies’ lair
without uttering a single word.
Unfortunately, what fails to be said is usually
what’s important.
Alas the unspoken word!

© Ayoub Mzee 2012

An Ode To A Poetess

I sit,
at the very bottom of her feet,
like an astute statue
and watch with awe and wonder,
as the poetess deftly
breathes life into her creations.

I rest,
in the poetess’ limbs,
watching the way
she yarns and strings together threads
of impressive similes and imagery
that conveys and says
the very emotions lurking deep in my breast.
She magically arranges
the idioms in perfect
alignment and in harmony with my psyche.
How did she know about
the vibes steaming and streaming in my veins?
She’s saying the very things
that I failed to give voice to.
My lips were afraid
to mouth them then.
She has given life to these words.

Her metaphors are plodding
and fingering at my trepidations.
With further alliteration,
she will rhyme my pain.
Each meter in each stanza
is a probe and a personal assault.
With enough repetitions,
this poetess will hypnotize
me with unheralded reality.
And with a penultimate syllable,
I’ll drink from her quill,
While my joy and angst spills
on her mature scroll.

Slowly and with a startled glance,
I gaze at the pot of my
run-away emotions taking shape.
With an awed wonder and a close respect,
I can only
vaguely guess the end product.

Will it be;
An Ode?
A Sonnet?
A Lyric?
A Burlesque?
A Carpe Diem?
An Elegy?
A song?
A Ghazal?
An Epic or
A Ballad maybe perhaps?

In a moment I will know,
while still at the potter’s feet.
She the poet in a dark night
by the spring of life,
has trawled my very being with a sure meaning.
She kills I slowly and tenderly
with a potent intent,
painting my life story
with the colours of the wind.
Praise thee poetess..

© Ayoub Mzee 2012


© Ayoub Mzee 2012

Behind This Smile

And warm to a soul,
It is this smile.
That no one would suspect,
The enermous pain,
That lurks behind it.
None could feel,
The heavy burdens,
That this gentle smile carries.
Benevolent coutenance conceals many a sufferings,
Quietly borne,
Silently experienced.
Resilience gently plods the soul
along, cajoling for a reprieve.
Bright eyes refuses ill luck,
To peek into a soul in an embellished destitution,
The spirit sings a song of hope,
And recites words of faith.
Behind the smile,
Lies a bland life,
Bereft of verve or vivacity.
A lugubrious existence behind the smile is all there is,
Cleverly concealed from a piercing heart.
Behind this smile,
Lies half dead dreams,
Broken visions and shattered aspirations.
But behind this smile,
There exists a strong spirit,
Oblivious to evil’s beguiles,
No more subdued hues or hushed chromas.
One day,
The light shall shine through the smile and scatter away the dark energy that found abode behind this smile so easily.
And the day is not too far.
The day is here, to rejoice and reclaim and make new.
But don’t let this smile fool you,
It has hidden many things before in yore…..

© Ayoub Mzee 2012