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 the Sun,
and the Samba
and the revenge
of the color.


© Lazhar Bouazzi, May 31, 2016; revised, August 5, 2016

Once I lost my pen.
I chewed it and chewed it during a problem
Until it was wet and made my jaw ache
And when I paused to gaze up into the air
For one last try
My hand went limp and it fell and
Rolled away

I searched for my pen
Under my desk it should have been
Spit had gathered around the sides of my mouth
And ink had stained my tongue bluey-green
It made me feel so dumb.

On my knees, where is the drenched thing?
I'm embarrassed for I was marked with its puzzlement
I still didn't know the answer to the problem,
And now I have another one.

I am always so much trouble,
but maybe I should blame the government.