Look at the dormant summer noon
Drowsing by the pregnant tree
And lulled to his vision of the moon
By a wandering honey bee

(Whose scarlet thirst she can’t quench
For the translucent nectar).

Her songs are so sweet and subdued
As a score of fruits waiting  in
A cluster
Not knowing when they will be plucked
So they hung on a sleeper’s specter.

© LazharBouazzi, 1 June, 2018

His head kept bumping on my shoulder
and he was not my father
or anyone I knew

he smelled as if a bath was overdue
and slept like wasn't a place better
than the ***** briefness of my shoulder.

Breaking down was my brittle patience
needled by his bristled cheek
brushed by his shabby dress,

was for rest the man hard pressed?

Wouldn't I have been nudged by pride
if the head on my shoulder was my father
happy to have him by my side?

as he gets older
does his blurry mind miss
a place where he is not alone

one or any shoulder
for an untimely nap in peace
a quiet stranger to rest upon?

There are the dead
and the dead and
the dead and the dead
floating down stream
towards the Ferry, and
there are the things
my brother, Barry, never
thought about telling me;
I am dead asleep, I am alive
and you are gone south
my brother, tell me I am that
which I am, I am dreaming
that you are not death yet,
we are  one person
getting up and going
outside naked as the day
we were born, one April
and one May, we are still
rolling down hill in the hay,
and you say we should be
shaking our fists at the moon
O, brother tell me you
miss me and I’ll tell you, too.