I am burning out

I am getting too weary

And this love is becoming more of a burden

That is pressing me down.

I am burning out

And these voices won’t mute

They speak incessantly

In a hushed tone

They say ‘let go’

But I don’t know how.

I am burning out

My heart is a soaked sponge

My chest is thick with lodged emotion

My bosom is a Jerry can with water half its capacity

And my head a crowded room of loud whispers.

I am burning out

I can feel the heat freeze within me

I can smell victorious defeat coming my way

I can hear my heart crack along love grains

I can taste the sour taste of my tears

I can see the smoke, rising in single rings.





While we look around for the ultimate way to gift you.

While we yearn to learn how to appreciate what you’ve done for us.

While we discuss amongst ourselves

And remind each other with so much awe

How much you’ve been the mother that we adore.

While we reminisce sitting on your lap

Watching how your lips move when you spoke gently to us.

While we hope to compose legendary songs for you.

While we shine under the ray of your relentless prayers.

While we bask on your goodwill for us.

While we hope that you will be here so long

That our children’s children and their children will behold in you what we have.

While you become better with time.

It is never lost upon us to gift you with LOVE, mother.

Because all these things will dwindle away.

Others will fade into oblivion.

But I will always carry you in my heart.

We will always have you in our thoughts.

And LOVE you even when LOVE tries to leap from me.





NOTE: In memory of Westgate attack victims


That come with intimidating allure.


That sharpen memories that fade.


That fluid make me mad.


That each day make me cringe tight.


That to my ears are like hungry hounds.


That haunts with pestilence.




Last night while the world held its breath

And the silence made lots of loud noise

And my shallow breaths nourished my lungs with pure gulps of air

And dogs coiled into rings against walls

And the cats made love in the maize plantation

I had a dream.

I ran a bar with a personality for ages

Whose name was binnsword

Whose drinks were beer and whiskey only

Whose color was dark mahogany with a hint of maroon

Whose smell was delicious smoky aroma

Whose patrons were sophisticated folks

Haboring a taste for literature in their tongues

And a binoculars for art in their eyes

Loyal individuals

Who trooped to the well with the weight of sorrows weighing down upon them

And like maasai men leaving their spears at the entrance to manyatta

Stolled their troubles by the swinging double doors

And let binnsword massage joy into them

And energy

And esteem.

And I was the bar man

With the caramel skin

A  skill to die for

And mute.




Sometimes the rain soaks the sponges of our regrets

And our hearts become heavy to bear.

Sometimes the wind, in its gentle breeze,

Whispers the secrets of freedom into our ears.

Sometimes the scorching sun teaches us to persevere.

At times he turns warm and sweet on the skin.

Sometimes the silence makes lots of noise

Awakening the buried memories.

Sometimes the time tell tales of a better future.

Sometimes our thoughts speak to us and keep us sane.

But on other times our hearts take charge

And lead us into beaten paths.

Or unbeaten ones.

Sometimes we listen.

Sometimes we don’t.

And thus make a toast later

Or drown in it.

It’s all uncertain.




When finally, you fall in love
But still my allure is lost on you
Promise not to let it fall
And break into bits
That reflect back sharp guilt inducing light
I so loathe.
Because the magnificence is found not in my erratic shape
Or the lazy ethereal glow
Or gentle twinkle beyond migrating dark clouds.
It’s not even in the muddled wolf howl
Nor is it in the splendor found in movies.
Go on embrace her in the orange of the evening
For I too fancy those silhouettes.