We come as we please
And we leave on the breeze
Away........

Distance
As an image of warm blue air
The ***** man denies seditious writhings
Coming in proud bursts of creation
Irrespective of soil or culture
Bursting thirsting creation
Heathen fertility
Haphazard geography
Lust of life beyond life

Screaming gadgetry can cowards make
Tight cages can our spirits break
But love is broad and clean
Fickle and immortal
The soil from whence we came
Without permit or permission
With honour and with relish
The ***** man denies nothing
Not one word at all

And on and on
The fairground moves on
Away

                    By Phil Roberts

With one ear he harks to the drums
Of the tribal measure when it comes,
Then he feels he must talk in tongues
So he yields his nakedness to the words.

Only words when summoned
Ask for nothing in return
For a fire they beckoned
To kindle a withered burn
And brighten the dark dome again
In the midnight hour.

With one ear he harks to the drums
Of the tribal measure as it comes,
Then he knows he should speak through some tongues
So he offers his nakedness to the words
Willingly in the midnight hour.

© LazharBouazzi

carrying the sky
on lilting wings,

our love, melting
like a candle,
yearning to
be set free,

the grey dome
of the sky
promising rain,
whispering to
the cardboard
streets where
the gold leaves sink,
flavoured by the
colours of autumn,
that love is a
wondrous bird of
the skies,
is all of our morrows,
is the happiness in
our lives.

She looked at her pier-glass
Nail polishes drying
With half open lids
Her toes were colored once may be
You can get it from the toes
Green
Or pink
I don't know
Maybe red
She cried in her look
What happened to her womanly freshness?!
That says I'm beautiful
I know a woman
Who wears mustache
Do not make fun of her
Where is her womanly freshness?!
That says she is beautiful
That cut her hair
Blue scarves turned black
She cried in her look
Her tears reaching her lips
Starring at the corner
Pink colors were coming
Turning to deer
Green colors were going
Laughing
It had dolphins
It had blue color...
My bin
still has a clockwork doll
Handless
With green eyes
In her white gossamer dress still
singing
Dancing
Still happy
She can be happy
She can fall in love
With other clockwork dolls that sing
That were kids...
What if
I fall in love in the streets
With stared eyes
I will say hello to the passengers
When the trees
Make love too
What if I love you on the same
street with no address
It is said the laughter of maniacs is beautiful
It has simplicity
I have worn my childhood clothes
I'm mad...
She grew up
She dosen't know the walls
She has no mother
And waits to possess a pass anger
Do not make fun of her
Her womanly freshness...
It is said
I don't write poems

میز توالت اش را نگاه می کرد
لاک هایی با دری نیمه باز
که خشک می شدند
شاید می شد از ناخن پایش فهمید
زمانی رنگ داشتند
سبز
...یا صورتی
نمی دانم
...قرمز
در نگاهش گریست
طراوت زنانه اش کو!؟
که می گویند من زیبایم
زنی را می شناسم
سیبیل می گذارد
مسخره اش نکنید
طراوت زنانه اش کو!؟
که می گویند زیباست
که موهایش را بریدند
روسری هایی آبی
مشکی می شوند
در نگاهش گریست
اشک هایش تا گوشه ی لبش می رسیدند
به کنج دیوار که زل می زد
صورتی ها می آمدند
آهو می شدند
سبز ها می رفتند
می خندیدند
دلفین داشت
...آبی داشت
صندوقچه ی من
عروسک کوکی ای را دارد
بی دست
با یک چشم سبز
در لباس سفید توردارش
هنوز می خواند
می رقصد
شاد است
می تواند شاد باشد
عاشق شود
عاشق عروسک های کوکی دیگری
...که آواز خواندند
...بچه بودند
چه می شود که اگر
در کوچه ها عاشق شوم
چشمانم خیره باشد
سلام رهگذری را پاسخ خواهم گفت
وقتی درختان هم
هم آغوشی دارند
چه می شود که اگر
در همان کوچه ای که چشم ها
خوابیده اند
نامم را می پرسی
عاشق تو باشم
نشانی ندارد
که می گویند
خنده های دیوانگان زیباست
سادگی دارد
من
لباس کودکی هایم را
به تن کرده ام
دیوانه ام
بزرگ شد
دیوارها را نمی شناسد
مادر ندارد
و منتظر می ماند
تا رهگذری را مال خود کند
مسخره اش نکنید
...طراوت زنانه اش
که می گویند من شعر نمی گویم

Blake has written it all and written it
in perfect clarity and beauty
and Baudelaire topped it
with decadence and forbidden pleasures
and  Kerouac took it on the road
and gave it a beat
and Bukowski redefined and simplified
and told all its ugly truths
and got it drunk on beer and women

yet still we sit here poor men and women
and boys and girls
scratching away in our journals
and typing at our refurbished vintage typewriters
and cheap plastic keyboards
attached to overpriced laptops
made of fruit and ego

trying to add to the vast pile of treasure
left behind by Coleridge and Thoreau and Whitman
and Mother Maya Angelou
trying to write ourselves in and out
of the corners of solitude and madness
following in the echos of Plath and Dickinson and Poe

we pickpocket dead myths
and dig up their bones
and dance in the fields of their deaths
and claim their prayers as our own
and play the part of god
as we invent new ways to sin
and feel shame for walking naked
in our own bodies
and daring to enjoy lust
and desire and love

it’s all worthless garbage
and it’s all priceless time well spent
shouting into the void of our meaningless existence
and all the vast emptiness of space takes no notice
no matter who loudly we bash our pans
and pound our fists
and ******* our overinflated sense of self worth

we are helplessly alone
stuffed in overcrowded tin containers
packed tightly in our human misery
willing to sleep with one another
but afraid to look each other in the eye
and see who it really is
we’re sharing our beds with
because we would rather
just imagine it really is love
and not find out if its the truth of love
we’re trying to define
within the fragility of our hearts

we wait till our beds are empty
and our hands are cold
and then we pick up our pens
and strike our keyboards
and lay down lies over the truth
we are afraid to uncover
and we treat it poorly
by doing this again and again

yet it defies us still with its volume and weight
and no matter how many times
are how many ways
we re-write the same poem
over and over and over
the heart stays the same
no matter what color we paint it
red or black or bruised sky blue
what tear lost in the ocean
or ocean trapped in a tear
it remains within the grasp
of the same endless heart beat
coming from the same eternal heart

no matter how many times
a new giant or new lord or new king
or new queen or fool are crowned
and wether they type streams of garbage
or write on leafs inlaid with gold
we will always be connected
by the necessity
of the painful beauty of poetry