Rule 2: Don’t Write Poetry about Poetry

A poem is a magic looking-glass
In which you see others, and not yourself
And search it for veiled possibilities
This mirror for the needs of –
                                                        not yourself

When you tap-tap to push pixels about
Or set in place a line of ink and hope
Into a meaning that you have perceived
It is a bedesman’s prayer for –
                                                     not yourself

A poem is a magic-measured song
That helps make sense of life for –
                                                     not yourself

You're the light in my darkness.
You can always make me smile.
We've laughed together,
and cried together.

We're miles apart,
but we're always in sync.
You'll always be in my heart,
no matter how distant we may become.

You've impacted me like no other friend.
You're my partner in crime,
You're my best friend,
You're my sister.

We talk about anything and everything,
nothing is off limits.
I tell you all my secrets and you entrust me with yours.
I treasure our time together,
even if we're just being lazy.

You'll always have my heart,
no matter how far apart we may be.
I love you forever.

The moon rose up late
Tonight; her face was
Swollen, like a map
Of Africa.
LazharBouazzi, August 8, 2017

Here I stand, a monument to my own destruction,
carrying on the work of an ancient construction.
Hands made of callouses designed for moving rocks,
seconds pass to minutes to hours on the clocks,
and life flows downhill through the roots of a Viking tree,
to the garden, to the sea.

Yggdrasil weaves its trunk through my history,
how it knows my life is its greatest mystery.
Its leaves reach to the heavens and caress the clouds,
through its xylems and phloems travels the worlds crowds,
and life flows downhill between the roots of this Viking tree,
to the garden, to the sea.

The gods of dark places fight their battles in the light,
and all the eyes of all the folks turn from the murky night.
Yggdrasil stands tall like a black tower ‘tween land and sky,
where the hearts of the bravest men climb towards a lie,
and life flows downhill by the roots of the Viking tree,
to the garden, to the sea.

.
Waters waltz land dancing,
Dragon flies flutter a buzz,
Cat-o'-nines torching tales,
Where beavers are logging
Time with fresh water fish
Who breach as they mouth,
Fly catching in a casted sea,
Mossy and bogged with peat,
And the colours, mottled, fey,
Brindled, brim, know they say,
There are lessons, hear stillness,
Punctuations in the spry singings
Of the never tardy larks, windrous
Riddles ripe rushing through reeds.
.