the first time i saw her stretch marks i
saw beauty as a landscape formed,
lightning collapsed on her earth
captured by my lavender mind
i painted cosmic energy on
her body, oil on canvas ii
created a portrait my
fingertip a brush as
i drew a valley of
a thousand hills
on her fragile
temple.

what horizons await us, what skies fasten
to the bright ambers of our dreaming bones?

our love, water trickling over
a pebble in a stream,

the whoosh of  
leaves and a shadow in the dark,

the ghost of a poem
written in a dream,

the splendour of the tide,

both everything and
nothing,

our love neither a poem or a sigh,
all the winds battling,

spring's blue moon waiting near the
water for one slow ripple to reach
out.

i have a blank canvas,
my poems like watercolours,
sweet blues and greens,
drafted in blossom.

spring brings new leaves
and budding flowers,
opens her eyes,
begins to dress the earth,
finds freedom in the flowing
breeze,
while the sparrows
sing like fluffed out
buddha's in the
hedge.

the blackbird dances on the lawn
(always in a tremendous fuss)
birds scrambling with
twigs and scraps of cloth,
chattering about the silks
of the blossoming sky
and the sands of the sun
blowing ceaselessly
in a gold dream of day.

i.

in the wild, drumming rain
blossoms sink, confetti pinks,
riotous whites, collapse
in spring’s paper mache pools.

ii.

on a hot tin roof
the rain plays her wind
guitars and percussion
while the sea recharges
her engines with the
thunder of the waves.

iii.

the sound of the rain, chiming,
a crazy singer on the forlorn
lawn, stretching like an
accordion, wild in her
wilderness,  crashing
like the waves
drawing me closer to you.

iv.


you kiss me and
my heart skips a beat,
flutters with excitement.

i long for summer with her
gold sun, warm, rushing
streams and bottle-blue sea...

It was like her hair captured the sunlight and created a whole new color.  It was the color called "Beauty."  My chest got heavy and I almost forgot to breathe.  If the soul is colorless her smile in the sun gave color to mine.  Until the one day she smiled at me..  I saw an aura of colors that could create a universe.

Let the wounded bird take wing,
Though dismal may be his fate;
Should he overcome this cruel sting,
His triumph he'll celebrate

Let the willow bend and weep;
Though it appears to be weak,
It would tell you its roots run deep
If it were able to speak

Let the wolf howl to the moon --
He has the right to be heard;
Morning will be here all too soon,
Then enters the singing bird

Let the spider weave her snare,
For this task she was designed;
While her prey, feeling no despair,
Awaits its cruel fate, resigned

Let love and loneliness brawl,
Let die the things that must die;
Release the tears and let them fall,
And let the broken heart cry

Let me love without constraints --
The sinking boat needs no oar;
Do not preach of sinners and saints
With Death's feet so near my door

Let me taste love's sweetest wine,
And let this shattered heart mend;
Having seen my star of love shine,
Then let the curtain descend

her
tulips bloomed in the night,
       softer
than the paling
moon/       beams

darker silhouettes
—hers—lined the u’s
and i’s of turning. the headlights
skimmed the road, petalled
like ice.

To the Goddess of morn
who made bread from fire
and taught me how to read
to read the wreaths of coffee
into the songs of dawn.

And to the Mason who
showed me how to hammer,
form out of chaos
and cherish the scent of
the cement on grey-green walls.

© LazharBouazzi