Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
A torrid rumbling in my head
Chants for the making of a poem,
But no words in my head respond
To the hungry, chanting plea.

A brass rim hugs an acre of
A zinc ocean, no fish no birds,
Save an empty body, no soul no words,
Fluttering on a broken sea.

And lifting from time to time,
From wave to wave, a valedictory
Pallid hand in lieu of a grimace.


©LazharBouazzi (August 11, 2017)
 Sep 2017 Poetry First
r
To live a life in perspective
I’m told you need to define a horizon
line eye level to the viewer.

From my hill of years the view is fluid
as in watery, but also as in unpredictable.

On the sea’s face a wall of fog moves in
and out like histories remembered
and forgotten.

Sometimes silver striates the sea
with such a glitter of insight
I am bedazzled and cannot look.

Sometimes fogbank and ocean merge
with such blue-gray unity it seems
the horizon rises so that I stand on
the shore, dwarfed by a surf of knowledge
that pounds at my ignorance.

Sometimes the sea becomes invisible,
the white air a questioning emptiness,
a finger-touch of damp against the cheek.
 Sep 2017 Poetry First
Cné
Touch
 Sep 2017 Poetry First
Cné
Ah yes, the magic of human touch,
Trusting to warm my soul's skin
Tis nature of loves connection, as such.

My body accepts, oh if you only knew
Like an honored guest, I grin
Anticipating the pleasures, one of the few.

Skin to skin, our bodies converse.
Uninhabited, my mind wander
Deep inside, my craving thirsts.

Artful hands sculpt with purpose
Lulling layers open, you're quite the artist
Soothing caress melt my body formless

I'm yours, silently, I surrender.
As my flesh cries out for more
Arching waves of splendor

Rewarded my senses sated.
With newfound clarity reborn
Mind, body and spirit replenished.

I thank you for your gift of touch.
Lovingly, I would return the favor,
as such.
Nothing is spoken, just being open to touch is the reward.
 Sep 2017 Poetry First
ryn
Shelter
 Sep 2017 Poetry First
ryn
Let us hunker down...

Let's submit to each other's embrace,
and may our arms form
our very own private sanctuary.

Let us be shielded
from the debris and shrapnel
of malicious intent.

Let our fingers be free
to wipe the dirt and tears
from each other's eyes.

Let us be afraid together,
for in this cocoon,
there may yet be some mettle.

Let us still be sheltered...
For the storm is not yet over.
Don't waste your days away
write bad poetry
I mean absolute garbage
and draw stick figures
with squiggly lines
and paint with your fingers
and laugh when you ****
and blame someone else
for the terrible smell
and sing and scream
whenever your driving
to wherever you may be driving to
and stay up too late
and get up tired
and nap
and sleep through church
or at church
and snore really loud
and day dream
and live dreams
and when the nightmares come
enjoy the fear and the rush
and the pouring sweat
on your forward
as you wake up screaming
but don't look out the window
because there isn't anything
out there that is more scary
than your imagination
and make a deal with the devil
and cheat him his dues
and leave a rubber corpse
on your death bed
and live another day
and out run the sun
and give a butterfly the moon
in exchange for
the hidden treasure map
painted on its wings
and hang that map in the sky
to cover the hole
where the moon used to be
and don't worry
no one will notice
because they look exactly the same
and ask the stars politely
not to tell anyone
and don't forget to say please
and thank you
for stars never ignore a request
for a favor that is asked
with a manner of grace and kindness
and build sandcastles
to close to the shoreline
and watch the waves
wash the towers and walls away
and listen to the mist giggle
at the mischief it has done
and fold a boat
out of the song
no one else can hear
and give your hopes and prayers
to the wind
and sail away
and find yourself
and lose yourself
and give time and love
your full attention
and no matter
how bad things may ever get
or how good things may ever be
I will always be a fool
and a dreamer
and a magic bean believer
and I'll write you bad poetry
really bad
absolute garbage
whenever you need
because I can't think
of any better way
to waste my days away
 Sep 2017 Poetry First
shåi
his words
clung to me
as if it was

sticky maple syrup

i loved the
way he
mixed his words and

sentences

and
the way they blended so
effortlessly

i loved
the warmth
his syrup drew

the slight hint of happiness
in his words

his word-filled
syrup
used to be my rarity

before it had
become my continuity


(b.d.s.)
She
Changed
My
World
Everytime
She
Smiled

I asked her to stay calm
She told me her heart was too wild
It could not be tamed
A fire burned in her soul
I gave her a love she could only buy from me
I was her dealer, and blind lover
For I saw love through her
Next page