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Lazhar Bouazzi Aug 2018
A green pond
In a leafless park
Held with an iron bond
His stagnant equilibrium.

©LazharBouazzi, 5 August, 2018
What else can I write, when the evening sets in?
The wintry old road, whispers to my soul-
Gather round the fire, there are
Stories to be told.

What else can I think, if the sky shouldn't sing?
I think I am getting old,
Like the wintry old road.

Like pebbles and mud and water and rust,
There would be time for-
Rebirth and trust,
And hope, I guess...
    But, What else can I think when the evening sets in?
I  think I am old,
    Like an anthem for a sin.

The days and the places,
Are numbered my friend.
The grass, the green
The gorging delight...

All like a bubble might vanish one day-
And What else can I feel and write what may...

I must treat the night with care,
With love, with patience and
With delight if I dare.

Since the pain would recede to the grounds, you see-
   And What else can I think when I am contained to be free?

I wouldn't be proud, and deaf to the
Tones of gloom and of death,
   But what else can I write if the evening rejects?
  Aug 2018 Lazhar Bouazzi
Julian Delia
Burning bridges.
Originally, defined as follows –
Intentionally cutting off one’s retreat.
In the words of the immortal Caesar,
As he crossed the Rubicon, unwilling to concede defeat -
Let the die be cast.
A bloodbath that built an Empire,
Stretching wide, impossibly vast.
Thus, later meaning –
To alienate former friends.

Is it an act to be reviled?
Is it an act to be condemned,
An instance of passions running wild?
Or is it an act to be emulated?
A last resort when hope for reconciliation
Has been all but desecrated?

We need connections, hope and love –
We crave Ishtar’s white dove,
A blessing from ‘the Queen of Heaven’.
Yet, by the time the night’s hour numbers eleven,
Many of us are collapsing, battered;
Relapsing in toxicity, our spirit tired and scattered.

When our soul is shared with others,
It goes one of two ways;
With the right influence, it grows and flutters.
With the wrong kind, it falters and stutters.
Trust your gut –
If you get a feeling that says, Run,
Do so as if you were an Olympic athlete
And you just heard the starting gun.

Do not compress yourself
To fit the boxed-in view of someone else.
Do not edit or trim out a single verse
From the poetry that is your life.
Live freely, choose wisely,
Wield a voice that is steely, treat yourself and others kindly,
Stand ALONE if you have to.

In other words, some bridges need to be burnt;
Some lessons need to be learnt.
For sometimes it is better to burn the bridge as you retreat
Than to keep on fighting just to avoid defeat.
Caesar might have violently conquered all his opponents,
But in the end did it matter
When his own kinsmen were his assassination’s proponents?
A note on moving the **** on.
  Aug 2018 Lazhar Bouazzi
emnabee
I was down.

And so I decided I needed flowers.

But not roses. Because roses have thorns.
And I am so sensitive lately.

I decided, not mixed flowers.
Because I’m mixed up.
And I need to stabilize.

I decided, not tulips.
Because tulips droop.

I decided,
I need gerbera daisies, bright.

Because gerbera daisies stand upright.

And so I bought some
in a wonderful shade of Fuchsia.
  Aug 2018 Lazhar Bouazzi
Dr Peter Lim
They have the latest news
let them in high spirit narrate
my little farm is impatiently waiting
my crops I've to quickly cultivate.
  Aug 2018 Lazhar Bouazzi
Jeff Stier
The sea is resting now
after a long day
gnawing at the edge
churning in deep hollows
ever so slowly eroding
this peaceful coast

Sand is the issue
of this marriage
sea and sky
combining to
make the land large
in its retreat

A handful of sand
to the winds
my life
to these tides
Lazhar Bouazzi Jul 2018
The first thing I saw early this morning
When I pulled back the light green curtains
Was a hectic blue 'n orange butterfly
Wavering in the fair sun of my garden -
'tween the enclosed well and the laurel tree.

On a sidewalk, red and radiant,
Strutted two maidens together,
A turquoise skirt wore the one,
A chocolate T-shirt the other.

Jubilant they were together,
As the cadence of their laughter
Waved in the air like Tunisian silk.

No harvest did my screen display today,
No mountain range did loom far in the distance;
All that was shown were a laughing sidewalk,
And a quivering sun in a small garden.

(c) LazharBouazzi
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