Beyond the quarter moon's melody,
Reminiscent of ****** passings
               The Edge deflecting certain ends,
A Look into the Child's goddess,
And the warmth from beginnings
               Like eternal lamentation of nocturnal
Dreams into sudden arms,
A cry for that crystalline
              Where time has no rapture
And The Edge seems a return,
I dive deeply and willfully

             A certain fate after interwoven years
Life I bid you.....
             A fall to be reborn.

What is it that he celebrates today,
The oncoming of the frost or the passing of time?

Beneath his feet the water
Scintillates with a flame liquid -
Silver -
A transmutation of fire
Fuelled by the tears of his mother,
In whose waves he sailed to Sicily.

Bayreuth, Germany, looked like a frozen Sahara
With the local colors, and a pale-blue train
He had taken in Rome, at the "Stazione Termini.”

She: her body was carved in Napoli
He: his hair was planted in Carthage,
But both sought another knowledge
In Tübingen or perhaps in Konstanz.

She said, “I would sail from here to there,
Like you did from where you were,

But I would lose the rattle of your absence,
And that would be what makes all the difference”!
© LazharBouazzi, January 27, 2018

( sonnet )*

The morning world in mist dissolves and under,
Towed to heaven, we, a plod below the death
Of clouds, sing mute, where they trumpet-glide
Flashing into peace.  Three-toed slabs, parched
Of orange, web the stars over the wine
Dark seas and chalk the churn and twining earth
Into gloaming.  In rapt stillness they,
Are import and income, parables,
Echoes of the innocent song sung to a spire,
Gilded hutches, to those who heap on brightness
Swans are brighter even more with blackest
Eyes, they pierce the silent shroud all starry.
I wish that we were like two swans my love,
Neck of nape, embracing without touch.
.

She had a beauty that boomed like thunder,
distant on the newscast- while some family
stood by the wreckage of their lives after
the storm (somewhere in Oklahoma) and,
it made you want to cry, like a newly made
widow, who’s story would follow at the top
of the hour: people described her with -

vibes a lot, but nothing vibrated, it was more
like an explosion, but not like a backpack in
Gaza, more like the Fourth of July, in Ohio.

It was hard to see her by looking directly:
you had to find her in angles and moonlight,
and even then you weren’t sure in the same
way that sometimes you can’t see the stars
because the constellations get in the way.
She made me think of Miami, but I couldn’t
say if it was more Miami than Miami, or just
what was left …

…of imperfect pictures painted by a sculptor
that wasn’t always paying attention at the
right time.

In that algal bloom marshland
Lived a frog with his wife once
Feeding his wife every day
The frog was now tired and tedious
"Oh! My beloved, I can't feed you much
For I'm already old and broken"
His beloved was no longer in delight
As she was in a frenzy of fright
"We can't leave our birthplace
We're not in a great haste
Let us gobble up anything
A twig, a bug or a little fish
Let's settle up our lives
For we have to thrive"
Slowly and steadily
The marsh was empty
All it own was dump like a bin
No pathogens, no bug, no fish
Except two souls counting days till death
As they worked hard with their breath
The marshland was now the property
Of a government official at duty
He called for drainage cleaners
To build there shopping centres
To disappear the marshland
In the crystals of water vapour
As workers dug deep inner
All they unearthed was algae
Nothing more than that
Nothing less than this..