Alpha and omega like a womb;
Visions and visages in kaleidoscope rooms...
Hanging on drapes of blue;
Impressive orbs of translucent hues...
Waves break in an
Eternal haste in time
As you float down into
Space and
Your tummy aches on
Seemingly misplaced dreams.
Dreams spewed together, in an internal river that shimmers
Like a dragonfly wing,
Like lava lamps and vintage photos, out of focus...
Or when the
Whispers disperse,
In the rain..
Reminiscent of bubbles floating,
Suspended,
Guided inklings and transparent meanings;
Reflections in mirrors or
On water,
In spoons or car windows...
An underbelly of inner kingdoms
Almost pillaged and buried by age;
Remaining only by hope or faith,
Like Camelot In its wake,
Only to glide to sleep
Where redemption sweeps in soft on swift heels.
Reminiscent of the rose bushes in that fairy tale Sleeping Beauty,
Where soldiers bodies were left to decay.

Dragonflies and Damselflies
Symbols of good fortune
From water nymphs
To flying orchestra in tune
Beauty in symmetry
Fragile Forktail
Ebony Jewelwing
Common Whitetail
Eastern Amberwing
Autumn and Amber Meadowhawks
The Common Green Darner
Such beauty in variety
5,900 species of wonder
Ode to the Odes
Dragonflies and Damselflies
Another splendid nature code
Filling my skies

r  
4 August 2013

An oblique path cutting in two a blue hill,  
bathed in a cobalt ocean of morning glories.
On the blue hill there were also a red mill,
Crickets, ants, bees, and many-hued damselflies.

A haven was the fresh upside-down coquille
For long stories untold and movements still
Of difference and dragonflies of fluttering
Over a bluesky ground of mute uttering.

On a dry log pitched not too far from the mill,
Rose an artless sign in the hushed sound of the hill;
Each of whose letters was written in blueberry -
Surely placed there by a traveler in a hurry:
“No matter how often a road is traveled by,
It never tells twice the selfsame story.”

(c) LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN, August 23, 2016

Here is Cedar Draw, a stream which
spills free from the dam upstream
and then slowly licks its way westerly
among the billowing cottonwood
and volcanic boulders that still appear red-hot,
flattening out, pooling here and there
where fat trout and perch can feed
on luckless grasshoppers and mayflies
blown into the water by the wind.

Here is Cedar Draw, widening into
lush shallows with bulrush and cat-tails
clicking in the wind, showy red-winged
blackbirds clinging to stalks high above
the waterline, and where snowy egrets
ply the mossy banks for frogs. The
only sound heard is the chittering of
birds and that warm summer breeze
softly moaning and sighing for you alone.

Here is Cedar Draw, as fine a place
a poet could every hope to find to relax,
meditate, sip a little port wine, tease the
iridescent-blue damselflies that abound
here, cool one's feet at water's edge,
scribble in a notebook disjointed thoughts
that may or may not make it into a poem,
perhaps to doze a little and finally to
rouse up and thank your muse for such
a great day and such a splendid spot.

--

The late afternoon sun shines amber rays upon a silent grasshopper.
A profound event is under way.

In the woodland's soft loam, mama grasshopper has planted her eggs, the ****** of a brief, worthwhile life.  Having evaded field mice, mantids, lizards, snakes, and birds, MISSION ACCOMPLISHED - almost.

In this little patch of sunlight, it is her time to "donate" to Mother Ecosystem.  It's an honor she shares with the butterflies, bees, squirrels, gnats, toads, termites, foxes, deer, hawks, robins, ants - and let us not leave out microbes and fungi.

Now sugar ants have discovered her and are dismantling, tugging, dragging her away in parts, reminiscent of an automobile salvage.  

Wayward workers stumble into ant lions' pits and become meals themselves.

The old, hollow white oak log, once mighty King of the Forest, is prostrate and bare.  Yet, with its last molecule, it continues giving.  Within its hollow, a disparate multitude is moving about, hiding, hunting, chewing, defecating, sleeping, reproducing and dying. 

In decomposition, the oak's material essence  melds back into the earth as nature's great Round River,*  an incomprehensibly slow, invisible tide.

It is late spring and waves of woodland sounds are pulsing through the community.  Cicadas shrill chorus fills the air. Distant flocks of song sparrows and warblers combine in a cloud of chirps. Above it all is the sharp tapping of a  woodpecker.

A charred fence post has become prime real estate:  a coveted,grand perch for phoebes and jays, and for a fence lizard, an elite high rise station for sunbathing and attracting a mate.  Mating azure damselflies dance in the air above the lizard.  They alight for a moment - snatched!  Above, a circling red-tail hawk eyes the lizard.

Across a draw stands an abandoned farm, tragic end result of disrespect for the land.  Goodbye sweet, precious loam, created over millennia.  You are being carried away with each rain.  Where, on where are you going?  
To brooks, rivers and the sea.

On a bleak ridge, a few oak tree survivors huddle together as they endure relentless grazing.  This parcel of land has nothing to offer anymore.  If you were to listen to the wind, you might hear its whispers of dispair.

But here, in this vibrant, buzzing woodland community where the land breathes life, there is home, food and an ideal place for all.

*  Words coined by Aldo Leopold, pioneer American ecologist, conservationist, and educator

An oblique path cutting in two a blue hill  
Bathed in a cobalt ocean of morning glories.
On the blue hill there were also a red mill,
Crickets, ants, bees, and many-hued damselflies.

A haven was the fresh upside-down coquille
For long stories untold and movements still
Of difference and dragonflies of fluttering
Over a bluesky ground of mute uttering.

On a dry log pitched not too far from the mill,
Rose an artless sign in the sound unseen of the hill;
Each of whose letters was written in blueberry -
Surely placed there by a traveler in a hurry:
“No matter how often a road is traveled by,
It never tells twice the selfsame story.”

(c) LazharBouazzi, Tunisia

gentle rain,
flavouring the night
with earthly spring scents,

soak this land,
make it pregnant

- a marsh
or a pond,

white nenufars,
damselflies,
fireflies,

shimmering glows
for blinding the doom...!

An oblique path cutting in two a blue hill,  
bathed in a cobalt ocean of morning glories.
On the blue hill there were also a red mill,
Crickets, ants, bees, and many-hued damselflies.

A haven was the fresh upside-down coquille
For long stories untold and movements still
Of difference and dragonflies, of fluttering
Over a bluesky ground of mute uttering.

On a dry log pitched not too far from the mill,
Rose an artless sign in the hushed sound of the hill;
Each of whose letters was written in blueberry -
Surely placed there by a traveler in a hurry:
“No matter how often a road is traveled by,
It never tells twice the selfsame story.”

(c) LazharBouazzi