I have always wanted
A legendary love affair,
But of ever finding one
I fear I was in despair.
I admit I wanted the closeness
And the permanence of it all;
Finding that perfect relationship.
I just never knew what to call.

I hoped for just thinking
Of my lover night and day
And that kind of communication
That time did not take away.
I thought of little glances
And phrases we might create
That sent entire sentences
Back and forth, mate to mate.

But in the larger sense of things
That didn’t come into play.
No looks or code words needed
To say what we have to say
Because when he hurts, I do
And when he suffers I cry.
I used to wonder and question
But now I no longer try.

I just accept that we are
So totally consumed by love
That questioning would be like
Not accepting it was from above;
From some perfect kind of care
That has matched us together.
I simply smile and sincerely hope
We will be this way forever.

If it ever gets in our way, I know
We are strong enough to heal
But something inside me says
This is all so utterly real.
Somehow that old adage of
Two making just the one
Should always make our hearts sing
And be sublimely fun.

A new day
Has dawned
But
What is a ‘new day’
Anyway?

A slice of
Never-ending time
An irreverent
Rebellious rhyme

Coordinates
Are needed
To place one day
In the history
Of ‘me’

In a cave underground
Without a chime
Around
To tell us time
Pray
Tell me
Where is the day


Sean Hunt   March 2017

They tried to burn me alive
to give me my last rites
while I cried,
“Stop!”

Puffs of nightmares
smoking and
stacking upon
the wind
pushing
their
billowy blackness
up and around
like an upside down
ice-cream machine.

Fire touched my tips
Eyes burning,
blinking wet.
I begged them
“Please.”

Flames pursued
my bare flesh with ease,
melting and distorting,
transmuting it into
twisted versions of
Autumn colors.

I screamed
as each inch of skin
was swallowed in agony.

The masses
looked on.
Muted expressions
of fascination
and a sick satisfaction
plastered their faces,
while heated confusion
and pain painted mine
because their
tolerance for madness
had been expanded
beyond my comprehension.

So, when those holy men
told them
that I needed to be cleansed
Well,
all they thought was
the next life
will be better
for the burning
of him.

Then in the end
my skin
flaked black,
while white ash
floated in the wind.

Blank walls
paint the
transparent halls
of my memory.

The tragedy
is that I can’t see
pass the
The steps
that spiral
into grief.

The unpainted
empty timber
barn toy box
collects dust,
leaving me
to choke
on what was once
playful fancies.

The closet is closed,
but beyond
the dark brown
wooden patterns
I hear echoes;

People I knew
talking,
sitting in old
frayed
lawn chairs,
looking up
at the night sky,
and me playing.
Star light,
flint rocks,
and fireflies
sparkle
escaping
through the crack.

But the door
is locked
and I can’t
get back
to that or
to those I miss.

So, I cry.
Fear
plants its fierce feet
hard into my face
as I worry
that I will be to late
to say goodbye
to the next
loved one that dies.

and we would get up early
so early that the stars
would still sit high
in the dark night sky

we would drink milo
out of plastic cups
and eat oval arrowroot biscuits
spread thickly with butter

we would line up to go to the loo
one last time before piling into
the old car, sliding across bench seats
half our world packed into the boot

then we were off, on the old country roads
still sleepy for the first couple of towns
stopping at Jacaranda for a cup of tea
lukewarm, milky and sweet from the thermos
half a cheese sandwich each, and a fearful trip
to the draughty long drop toilet...looking for redbacks
the whole time, but only finding spinning daddy long legs

after that back into the car, for two hours of
winding our way down, the big hill,
listening for the clearnote  call of the bellbird,
watching for wallabies and wombats on the road fringe
and the bigger kangaroos, bouncing away
across the clearings...

at the bottom of the hill, Grafton a quick stop
to stretch our legs eat the cupcake,
used to bribe us into decent behavior up to that point
and another vist to the conveniences.
before the run down the coast,
past the big white resort
and into Brooms Head,
for a week of surf and sun
fish and chips, buckets of prawns,
frosty fruits and sunny boys
in tent and caravan,  
swimmers and towels,
we were tribal and free,
roaming the tideline
staying up at the campfire,
sleeping and waking
with the birds......
always such an adventure....
those idyllic days of summer

Am I winning at this game
Or is life beating me
Sometimes it's hard to tell  
Sometimes it's hard to see

When my chips are down
I try and quickly pick them up
Are you ready for another round
Or have you had enough

Sometimes it's hard to tell
If you're the monkey or the cage
I have yet to figure out
Am I the turkey or the baste

On life's shinny lock
I often fumble with the keys
When you find I'm in mid-sneeze
Would someone please bless me

While enter and exit signs
Loom everwhere I go
Not sure if I should stick around
Or pack my bags and hit the road

Sometimes it's hard to tell
If you're the noose or the rope
I have yet to figure out
Am I the grass or the goat

If ever there was a sliver
Of sun in this shade of doubt
It's that in life it is hard to tell
And even harder to figure out

A rugged sidewalk cried hard by the way-side;
Its fissures could not hold their tears anymore.
A puny man pushed a red cart in the tide
Down a darkling, narrow street in Salammbô.*
He mumbled to the waves on his way to the market
As he gasped behind his laden chariot.

His merkabah bore many a lost things
Which he had found buried in the quicksand.
Among them a fountain pen and a helmet,
A pair of eyeglasses, and a trumpet.
I wondered, gazing at the old man’s washed face:
"Will this worn-out scene ever reach the marketplace?"
© LazharBouazzi