Autumn moonlight--
  a worm digs silently
    into the chestnut.

My hungry lips commenced to talk
To your lips in language hungry,
As my tongue began to unlock
The well of  your  language sundry,

Necking your North African mounds,
Halting at your salving shell pink,
To sip and sup your winy words
And faint and wake and rise and sink

In the waking sleep of  your fire
To pen my Sufi desire,
And die in the dunes of your body.

© LazharBouazzi

Life is fickle
has a thousand
and one role
challenging
everyone to climb
its  wet and slippery pole
how would you do that?
you couldn't even hold

but life says:
I was born to test
whether you are
cowardly or bold
and I welcome only those
who are on my side
willing to play and roll
as I set myself in motion
in weather hot or cold
my wiles and secrets
could never be understood
or ever told

don't bribe me
I don't sell
or hand out
any gold

now
here's the waiting pole
if you have the guts
let them unfold!

Bent
Near to breaking
by her burden
of fruit, swollen with seed
In that thrashing by wind
Bearing down on the sun
in her labor—
of  Need
to bear
the pain
to bring
her yield
to his hands—
her harvest
of warm juicy softness


Gone—
the upright
reach of untouchable spring
When stems, stern and smooth
wore a lace-beaded bodice of bloom
of coral chiffon
First leaves
a scarf
with a fringe of lime green
wrapping her gifted and lean
to the buzzing

She was lighter than dew
to the amateur insects
smeared with her

Her only accessory--
a robin
They had left
as evidence
they had ravaged
its song


Now broken and leaking
more damage endured  
Ripe fruit in rough hands
He leans against limbs
by his weight sternly pressed  
so suffused in the fragrance
of peach intoxicants
which he will have--

He is lost to his lust
He is forcing his need
into another year's beauty

asserting his claim over and over again
of that lost and ancient bounty

A novice
in poetry,
he can color
a young tree,
a sky in the summer,
an ocean,
or even a dancing
emotion.

But pleading
with the daimon
to come sing
to the sparkling
thunder
that would tear
the rusty dome
asunder,
is a different story
altogether.

(c) LazharBouazzi