Hey, you
Yeah, you
the one way over there
ensconced in tall grasses
where do you
think you are
going
you extend a hand
and loving heart
to so many
and so few
see your brokenness
your pieces of shattered
glass from
all four of those
muscled-*****
blood-flowing
chambers in your chest
              all over the floor
And Hey
I see you
I see you deep
Your molecules rising
Up unto
that soul's
brightness and
so beautiful
outlook
wisdom gained
from time
mixed with pain
             and rhyme
Hey
Let me
wrap my tendrils
of healing all and up
around you
right through you
Hush
No need to talk
         Just let me
press my
blood-pumping heart
right into
        yours
Feel it
Let my light
infuse you
Let me touch you
deep into
under skin
just like
you
    touch
            me

Writing is
the frozen music
of an ellipsis,
the silent song
of a lonesome poet
who sings in the dark
among howling winds
crossing swords
in the white shades
of unseen things -
a winter on the Pole
on whose  obverse side
there's Rio,
and dancing
and mirth
and the sun's critique
of hegemony.

© Lazhar Bouazzi, May 31, 2016

Poets, like
madmen and prophets,
are banned from
the Kingdom of Reason,
as they are
the progeny of the sun
(the sun who illumines as he blinds)
and the siblings
of the rays
who never tire
of beating
the world into
magnificent new shapes
that fascinate us
all – including
Unwavering Moon whose
lonesome secret is to be
madly in love
with the rainbow.

© LazharBouazzi, May 26, 216

Forty-eight floors up, a God’s-eye view

a man practices tai-chi on a tired patch of grass
he is measured, beautiful

families rest under new-green trees
in Yoyogi Park this early spring Sunday

Mt. Fuji rises like a myth, fading
to illusion in the gathering smog.



                                                            A few inches can be an impossible sea

                                                            we sit, silently contemplating discord
                                                            and the meaningless reasons for it

                                                            cherry trees paint the city pink
                                                            while faded petals cyclone at our feet

                                                            tears, fleeting as sakura
                                                            bloom and fall.

.

How do we mend wavering pedestals...
When the ground beneath is parched dry.
Stemming off loose foundations that time had weathered wry.

How do we mend broken gazes...
When watchful eyes which were meant to see,
are blinded by the onslaught of half-truths and fallacy.

How do we mend burnt bridges...
When we never look back to trace heavy missteps.
We fail to admit to consciously springing obvious traps.

How do I mend ailing hearts...
When familiar corridors seem warped to a bend.
When my own is struggling and perpetually on the mend.

for the distance, the blessing and the curse
in this forgetful bed, on this blank page
I sit as quiet as an empty hourglass
so used to contemplate the wounded pride
of desolation
the dilemma in your steps, the missing link
happiness just an eclipse
an accident on unmapped streets
-space is just the exhaustion of time-
worlds of words caught up in their embryo
crushed there,
their innocence stripped away
paper-thin dreams chased away like useless creatures
from your back burdened with the same shame and
no soft tissue for your tears

if only I could say this loud enough:
love is the courage in our cells
disambiguation
and there will be a day -
no more fear
no more far away

is such that  it is popularity ,
or meaning or tone.....

can it be both?
or one if not the other

can one word said alone
to one who never hears

be more important
than all those yelled

.

Left alone, the abyss of failure
closes in,
for days it seems like weeks,
though months are now reduced to counted minutes

Coffin’d stances form the stoic barricade
which surrounds my hope
in picket lines of untrained defectors

I claw at its lid,
thrashing mightily to my sides
as collections of miseries
flood this chamber of my coerced sleep

“I am here!” I shout,
hearing my words
echo in distance dance halls
two stepping on my memory,
spitting above where I lie

Here - a relevant term
as columns of disbelief carve themselves
from my mind.

Forgotten, left for dead,
erased from the blackboard
by the firm swishing hand of fate…
reduced to dust (I don’t feel like dust)

Blisters climb my arms in search of answers,
none can be found here,
where ever the hell here is… yet, I am here

My brain circles the skyline in desperation,
the gutters below cry, trash strewn as if it were me
sleeping off my drunk
in that Frigidaire box

“I am me!” I cry to the empty corridors of someone else’s life
One I’d rather be
Or one who would rather not?

…….

Someday my file may lie open,
atop a desk,
a partitioned sanctuary of hidden ethics,
beneath the crumpled Cheeto’s bag,
now layered with stale orange crumbs

maybe someone will see

maybe someone will wonder

or maybe still forgotten

I need incentive to write
To think
To imagine
Living a happy life
I need a heart
A replacement
To the misery
You planted with your knife
I need my time
To be back
Without struggles
When we fight
I need air
To breath
To feel my lungs
Exhaling you out
I need light
To see
To spot you
Leaving my sight
I need ears
To hear
To despise
The lies you weaved so tight
I need my mind
To forget
The promises you say
Then **** over night
I need incentive to write
To warn others
To tell innocents
How all this was never right

Alone in this silent desert, burned indelibly by sun
after the call, after the blue, red fall of flames
here, after the dancing scorch of fire
I am left to the smouldering doldrums of desire
this bed, now an empty space, a wordless, lifeless place
here, where I have slowed, my movement stagnates
the memories, the sheets - they suffocate
some days feeling so trapped by love
I can only think to run, think how to untangle again
still some days I dream a life with you
in colorfully painted, magnificent hues.