WordPlay II

A proliferation of monosyllabic thoughts,
That are ubiquitous for the umpteenth time,
Can be inconsequential and ludicrous…

By the heath,
Some thoughts belonging to the Mesozoic era,
Sighs an exasperated and demurred
Replete with pliable notions,
That throws brusque and iconoclastic tantrums,
That are untenable and don’t call me a superstitious person…

Placid platitudes,
Espouses visceral thoughts,
Turning I into some chaplain,
To companion,
Condescending and narcissistic longings that I have learnt to hate…

A perfunctory smirk,
Proudly worn on a face,
extrapolate quiescent paradigms,
That enunciates sweet succour of yore..

I am subservient,
Gale me with ancient penury of distant thoughts,
It is a wordplay,
It is not a mindplay,
Of thoughts…


This Thing

I don’t know what it is,
But I will know what it is,
When I see it…

I don’t know what it is,
But I will understand it,
When I hear what it is…

I don’t know what it is,
But I will realize it,
When I feel it…

I don’t know what it is,
But I will appreciate it,
When I taste it…

Ah. this thing.

It is out there,
Silently waiting,
Softly watching every move,
This thing is out there,
You can feel the strong vibes…

Ah. This thing.

What could it be?
Could it be love?
Could it be some fortune?
Some luck?
Some fate?
It could be anything.
This thing…

The Lone Reveler

He sat,
At his lone table,
In the far and dark corner,
And continued,
To revel,
In own company,
And gesticulated to himself,
And talked to himself,
And laughed to himself,
And generally had a good time,
With a glass of clear liquid,
In his hand.
The lone reveler…

Only that,
He was taking water,
From the tumbler,
And he was,
A mad man,
Who habitually,
Wandered in from the streets,
And into the pub,
To have a good time,
Just like he used to,
Before he lost his mind,
Before he lost his job,
He was a lecturer,
A lecturer of the languages,
A polished poet,
A renowned writer,
A gifted orator,
But now,
The reveler exists,
In his own world,
Talking with his hands,
Smiling at passing shadows,
And gazing at a lost world.
He stands up,
And stumbles off into the darkness,
And disappears into the dark night,
A lone figure.
A sad figure.
A miserable soul.
A disturbed spirit.
The lone reveler…

© Ayoub Mzee Mzima 2013

Uncle Stu

Stu, a distant uncle
Came home last night
We had a drink together
And I could see that he had something in his mind
But he never spoke
I let it pass
We drunk our wine in silence
While watching the starry night
And wishing upon a distant star

Then out of the darkness
He muttered
“I think I am in love”

I really didn’t know what to say
I kept quiet
We kept quiet momentarily
Both of us
And continued to sip at our muratina wine while in a curious silence

Then he expounded
He told me that he was in love with a beautiful woman
Both in heart and in body
I told him that I was happy for him

He turned and looked at me with a certain intensity in his eyes and asked
“How well do you know about love?”
I looked down at the smouldering fire embers and answered him
“A little bit I guess. I used to know love but she doesn’t live here anymore”

He patted my shoulder and whispered “Son, she will be back and you better be ready”

And I was convinced
Of his faith
In a hopelessly romantic heart like this
And I was happy for him
To have found true love albeit so late in life

Yes, life indeed begins at 40.

Ayoub Mzee Mzima ©2013

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