I waited for my son
In the airport today.
It was fun.
It was fun crafting
A poem on the run
As I checked faces and
Metaphors - one by one,
Asking them all: “Is a
Poem a loved one -
Like a son -
Or is it just a pun
'On that which is done'*?”

©LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN, March 19, 2017

You do me one, I'll do you worse
Not even Christ could lift the curse
Living lucifer might burn your church
You crucified your ****** birth

Digging up shallow graves from
The days past, however many bones
Laid to rest in hollow holes
And covered with tainted memories

Trudging through a swampy mold
Black and blurry faces being told
Cast your sins in metal gold
Behold your Idol, still smoldering

Holding on to callous woes
The wart is becoming tumorous
Bleed it out into a bowl
And drink up your deliverance.

everything of
me was choir-song

every bolt of
air,
every summer
moon,
every drop of
cooling rain,

in spring i
melted like
a hedgerow,
in gold and
sky-bronze,

in summer i
gathered the sky
to my branches
green with shadows
of longing,

in autumn i trembled
downwards like a
girl unwinding her
hair,

and in winter i froze
on the doorstep
all black branch
and cold
rigging on
a barren ship,

everything of me
was choir-song and
i had the most
beautiful
purple throat,

i was a soft
melody of love
on a strange
moody day.

I don't know how much I love you
My fall has no rain
Never had
19 years old girls,they don't understand
Maybe I was jealous of God
when I saw the sun,yellow
I had forgotten my stories
Grandpa 's stick dose not turned to butterfly
My death is not beautiful
It would not be beautiful
A cloudy house maybe
With singing clouds
I see your shining eyes
We had forgotten the songs
I give you my earrings
I will miss Nastaran
She's not remembering her mom's embrace
Her dress,white
-I just see this -
Maybe I was jealous of God
That she was so beautiful
I don't understand my feelings about you
Your words has put Jasmine to sleep
Their eyes turned black
-no Jasmine-


You may not believe
You are the first person reading my poems in a language I don't know.
Sometimes being thankful loses its meaning
I never knew how to rime...
I've always seen you as the poet I love with no permission .
I don't know how much I love you
Don't look at the sky...
Please don't look at the sky


من نمی دانم چه قدر شما را دوست دارم
پاییز من باران ندارد
...هیچوقت هم نداشت
دختران نوزده ساله نمی فهمند
شاید حسادت من به خدا بود
وقتی خورشید را زرد می دیدم
قصه هایم یادم نبود
عصای پدربزرگ پروانه نمی سازد
مرگ من زیبا نیست
زیبا نخواهد ماند
شاید خانه ای ابری باشد
ابرهایش آواز خواندند
من درخشش چشمان شما را می بینم
ترانه ها یادمان نبود
و من گوشواره هایم را
به شما می سپارم
دلم برای نسترن تنگ می شود
آغوش مادرش یادش نمی ماند
پیراهنش سفید است
- فقط همین را می بینم -
شاید از حسادت من به خدا بود
که او آنقدر زیباست
احساسم را به شما نمی فهمم
کلام شما
یاسمن ها را خوابانده است
چشمانشان سیاه شد
- یاسمن نبود -


شاید باور نکنید
شما اولین کسی هستید که شعرهای من را می خوانید
به زبانی که نمی فهمم
گاهی اوقات تشکر معنایش را از دست می دهد
...من هیچوقت بلد نبوده ام شعر بگویم
همیشه شاعری را که خیلی دوستش داشتم
بی هیچ اجازه ای در شما می دیدم
من نمی دانم چه قدر شما را دوست دارم
به آسمان نگاه نکن
...خواهش می کنم به آسمان نگاه نکن

Look into my hands,
What do they tell you?
Can you decipher? Can you understand
Why they are tinted black & blue?

These hands have fought
Against Life's malicious onslaught
Sailed through the very worst
On Life's savage tempest

Yet for fear of 'breaking character'
Sorrow must be masked with laughter
And pain covered with panache instead
While these hands silently bleed several shades of red...

Welcome to my heart...

#BlueRain
2017

her golden fullness
wanton astride
peaked horizon

moon-ravaged
impassioned night
bites down hard