oh, how in this dark
oh, how the wave flows,
the sky black and stark-
oh, how the wind blows.

the little dogs bark
their songs full of woes,
oh, how in this dark-
oh, how the wind blows.

the autumn draws nigh -
last splash of the rose,
a withering sky-
oh, how the wind blows!

ghost-like, the song of syrinx,
seven hollow reeds plucked
to make a flute, a star-wish
where the dark waters ride,
(the horned god laughs and plays),

shrunk to a dusk, the river mute,
her voice trickles over stone
and leaf, branches reflected, pools and
caves where otters breathe, where
drinks the evening dew -

her voice fades like a star as pan
awakes, his pipe brushes her lips,
sings of the infinity of night of
a moon white-layered like stone,
dancing like a woodland breeze.

The early bright chased away shadows in its slow rising scintillant song.  Very little stars were left in the sky.. The purples and oranges that painted the sky soon turned into atomoshere blue.  The dawn-to-dark song was in full bloom..  The lyrics sung about colors the light of the day would award my deep brown eyes. Some of them also spoke of the coming nighttide that was well on its way to catch us all.   On eventide I walk up to the hills.. The night slowly makes love to the day and lays her down to sleep..  There I begin to count the stars.. Until there are to many to count..  As there is no moon to shine down on my star parade I clearly see the vault of heaven in all its beautiful cosmic glory.. The night is in full bloom........

like stars, her eyes following the path,
time moulded into its caves
the sky with its sapphire-mooned dome,
the rustling trees where the fast
wind swore and shook each crooked branch

here beyond the houses and the well-kept lawns,
the low walls and scrolled iron gates
the sounds of the night a bat’s wing,
the sagging wind gusting, smoke
peppering the sky from chimneys in a thin flame

or the jagged ice of a jaded moon
where the horses in the woodland
shook their manes, grey-eyed like
athene and her owl, untired as
a fog-spun sea, relentless and alive,

the trees and their ghosts around her
she held her breath, bare feet weaving
along the sandy track, dress flowing,
her arms covered in bracelets,
her lips, coral-pink, brushed in peppermint,

free to dream at last , eyes swallowing
the dark lines of the trees, hanging the dusk
from her eye lids, singing of the sweetness
of the night and its ragged clouds,
the raw dust of the moon.

her dreams were blue pools, the night
with its midnight leaves, her
heart longed to be free, to wander
through the trees as wild as the
horses with their stone-like manes

and sweeping metal hooves, brushed
with the inks of the sky in the shadowy
woods where everything was still but
not still, where the moonlight carved
its name in the woken tree.

A novice
in poetry,
he can color
a young tree,
a sky in the summer,
an ocean,
or even a dancing
emotion.

But pleading
with the daimon
to come sing
to the sparkling
thunder
that would tear
the rusty dome
asunder,
is a different story
altogether.

(c) LazharBouazzi

a yellow rose winds to the skies,
blossoming, letting soft petals fall to
the cidery earth, blushing in
the caverns of the sweet-flowering day,

inspired like the greek
sun-god helios but
drawn out of rhododendron
and apple, drawn out of love.

a thousand years of summer,
the wolf, the thin mouth of sky,
a diamond bumble bee, the
gifts of a stolen sun,

shaken out like a rattle snake,
the broken angles of death,
the lost side of each word,
with all its intentions and promises -

fallen to the floor, like an apple,
or a blind mole loving
the soil, the dry earth,
the faded parchment sun,

or a rock of ice, in a tangy glass,
where the summer sun
grows roots and shoots,
shadow domes and leafy golden skies.