"pairing" poems
Azure was the sky, and leaden was the sea;
Not surprising would the discord be
For him who has read Wordsworth.
What ailed his thoughts were the debris
Of broken glass fishermen-in-boats
Might have thrown into the ocean
On a night of 'Celtia'* with no pairing,
Or the sight of a woman’s dress
Whose swollen darkness was
A sea urchin, whose quills
Were plucked by the greenness of rust;
Or a German parachute
Over Kasserine pass**, my thyme nest
And the center of Tunisia.
©LazharBouazzi, July 15, 2018
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 6:35 PM UTC
Brown sugar sapotas
Blending with custard alfonso mangos
And bold sweet lime juice
Georgette saris
Pairing with uncut diamond necklaces
Mixed with peals and rubies
Gently sloping palm trees
Swaying in balmy sultry air
And hazy golden sunsets
Frenetic yellow autos
Competing with dusty zipping mopeds
Mixed with ambulating pedestrians
Aromas of cumin
Blending with the sewage
Other times with incense
Glows of brass oil lamps
Singing in hums of prayer
Added with turmeric's incantations
Brightly-patterned salwars
Accentuating gemstone bindis
Comfy fitted leggings
Savory masala dosas
Coupling coconut chutney
Meter-high filter coffee
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 8:17 AM UTC
Vermillion lips smile knowingly
across the room, so at ease it's
almost angelic to see.
He grips his wine glass to almost breaking point,
what the **** is she doing here?
More to the point ,How is she here?
Relationships are like cats, let them out,
and well they'd better be neutered.
That's what gramma said!
Slowly, sensually almost, she sashayed
over to him, she could see his tension,
but not his fear.........yet.
Face to face they smile, but her smile never
reaches her eyes, he stammers, drops his glass,
'Here, she says you need air'
Outside, he's composed
'No one knows, no one knows' he keeps repeating
Who are you talking to darling? She whispers
Not me,I'm dead, you shot me,
I was there, then kicks him hard
Vulnerable alone with his red mouthed wife he screams.
Guests rush out, to their host babbling,
Incoherent, confessing to ******
screaming over and over, blue lights in the distance
Closer and closer, guests now witnesses.
Host now completely within the pain of a mental
Eternal mind slip.
She, moves closer to him, soothes him, sirens closer,
reassures him as he screams,that yes his wife is dead
appeased he looks up in bewilderment.
Oh, me, oh darling brother in law did you forget?
Jo's twin, the one au-pairing abroad when you married
Pleased to meet you
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
you used to come home loudly in the dark but
quietly in the day we’d be together
to compensate
we were only in love on Halloweens
you in those hundred dollar costumes worth two
in material and tiny fingers
**** rats and ER surgeons
to me with a pop-culturally relevant ******* mask
Frankenstein (to the dumb dudes that go to these things)
that chisels me like a jell-o mold
that blurs her infinitely beautiful walking-away
the blooming glances pairing parting lips to talk ********
caking the ***** reeling in our heads
winding round the spindle hooked tight
pulling my hard-hat plastic-green face
to the windmill
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 3:02 AM UTC
Three days, is what the HR rep said, somewhat sheepishly,
As if she was fully aware that boxing up one’s grief
In a span of a few dozen hours
Is a matter of wishful thinking
And certainly she sympathizes
(Indeed, as she speaks,
She spreads her hands in such a way
As you half expect doves to come forth in full flight)
Empathy being their stock in trade,
But the law and the handbook say three days,
And then you need to have your head
******* back on and looking forward.
Eventually, the mail brings fewer envelopes
Marked with embossed flowers
And subdued and tasteful stamps,
The usual flow of solicitous inquiries,
Pre-stamped and pre-sorted,
Inquiring as to your credit needs,
The condition of your windows and siding,
Resumes apace, and more than once,
In fits of inappropriate black humor and frustration,
You scribble, in bold thick strokes of a marker,
The addressee no longer resides at this location.
You return to nine-to-five,
Though your ghosts keep their own hours,
Stopping by to visit on their own schedule alone,
Prompted by the tiniest of things:
The dog scampering to its feet in a hurry,
As if someone was at the door,
The discovery of a long-unused pitching wedge
Standing expectantly in the back of the closet,
A song from long ago which was beloved
When you lived in the pairing mandated by Noah
Before you entered the shadow world of ones and nones.
Sometimes you give into the giddy madness,
And rise to waltz around the room,
Careening about unsteadily, clumsily
As you have yet to completely master
The difference in weight shift and distribution
That is required of a solo act.
The timing of these visitations
Often disrupts your schedule and sleep patterns,
And you think that perhaps tomorrow you’ll call in.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
At this time of year winter's grip is left behind
In every corner little signs of Spring we find
Birds are pairing up, snowdrops brave the chill
Life in the earth begins to stir
And yes, I love you still.
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 5:53 AM UTC
~dedicated to the old poets here~
the addictive pairing of certain words, a line,
a lyric, slap-snapping you to full attention,
unfailing decades of instant recognition,
an adrenaline + caffeine shot that powers
a chance, a tensile injection that causes
the lips to commence a new choreography,
the fingers to tap, a jumbled, hurried, embattled
disorderly mess that regenerates, reformulates,
concords into agreement, a harmonic consistency
a geometry of many differing angles that equate
a hard physical, a soft mentality in a singled work,
coexisting in a sacred state of singed confluence,
though imperfect, satisfies mathematical boundaries
of a random outpouring, crowning the stripe inspiring
the spark that finally satisfyingly silences an ignited
filament a-glowing for years, that holy happens
to cross your antennae, fulfilling the need to honor,
the sacred geometry of chance, the honor to need,
the joy of saying, at last, this unwritten debt, paid!
————————————————————————-
(1) a favorite of many years, a lyric from “The Shape of My Heart” by Sting
(2) Dec 3 2020 2:53pm NYC
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 2:59 PM UTC
Journeys rendered dateless,
Unending,
Wayward and extending out,
Round the compass points --
Dizzying aspiration to cease this race,
To slow my sprinting soul,
This pace splintering, in exhaustion.
Expiring breath of hope or of home
Evaporated in a distance
Vanishing and
Disconnected.
Drifting
On trackless tides, across
Labyrinthine depths,
Within the vast heart
Of the world
I cannot run from.
Yet, I moved to and between
The center or its peripherals, in
Singular or collectives,
Seeking pattern and
Drawing connectives –-
Brushing by and
Bustling among
People
Entranced In their own
Objectives.
I watched their movements
And their exchanges,
I heard their rituals and
Invocations.
In all these transitions,
They have no inkling
That their seemingly trite
Lives merely manifest
The epic motifs of the heavens!
Our imaginations mirror
The vitality of the gods!
We are as immortal as they!
Our simple, sensual stories
Are also enduring legends
Unfolding,
As our pages turn,
Our flags are unfurling!
Just as our fellow
Olympians of old
Engaged in a marathon of
Endeavor to heights
Unimagined!
From those mystic days
Since Orpheus’ ardent lyre
Sang notes
Of Nature’s divinity, Her
Eternal sweetness.
We need only sense that
It is in Nature’s essence
We are sharing.
With her, we are joined in
An undying marriage,
A unified pairing –
Our human heritage,
Our dignified bearing.
We share in that song,
We share in that sweetness,
We share in that race,
We share in Her immanence.
This journey is our own.
It goes on, unending!
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 1:11 PM UTC
.
**•••••••
•here lies
the rema-
ins• that once
beat with superb lustre•
caring not for worldly gains•on-
ly undying hopes of pairing with
another• but fate had tipped the scales, not in his favour
•when it sent an oncoming car to share the same lane•
driver was behind the wheel but alcohol had taken over•
causing the car to swerve recklessly
in the rain• the last few moments
was punctuated with a deaf-
ening sound•his
day began
not know-
ing death
was writ-
ten from
the start•
so here li-
es he, whose
heart had thus
been crowned •
his love is immortalised with this tombstone as his heart•
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••**
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 10:02 AM UTC
This is a gift exchange.
I would like to share with you some of my happiest moments:
Having breakfast at a restaurant on top of the mountains and watching the sun rise over sleepy houses.
Wine and food pairing tasting in the summer, near the lake. It smelled like fresh flowers and the breeze off the lake made the summer sun bearable.
Kissing you and realizing it felt like home, like I had found something I didn't even know I was missing.
Every memory shared has been a gift exchange, and your gifts are ones I will always cherish.
Thank you.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 12:24 PM UTC
its the time for cutting and harvesting silage.
shearing of sheep.
busy time of hard work;
pairing down poems
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
My beloved Douro Valley
The land where warm Sun sleep,
Vines and oak trees to greet.
Walls made in the past,
Grapes growing fast.
Love the vines,
Portuguese king planted pines.
My Douro River,
A friend and a giver.
Place where port is made,
British put it on trade.
Lovely flavor,
Share with your neighbor.
The region with natural charm,
Producers without a farm.
Douro valley in a good mood,
Wine pairing well with food.
Warmest regards.
Victor Marques
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 4:00 AM UTC
He had to come back.
On a December afternoon
when the sun was more to west,
he landed on the most favorite place of his house,
the roof.
Just as he had imagined
the still winter air was abuzz with life.
Doves were pairing for a home
Green bee-eaters swooped on insects
Two herons kept following the grazing cow
Crows were busy with twigs and wires
High up beyond where paper kites could soar
Storks slow sunned their wings wet from the jhil
The cats warmed their furs before the cold night
The stray puppy gamboled with its mother.
Each piece had perfectly fitted the other
including the silently sleeping house.
He was tempted to walk down once
has she changed any little way?
He smiled to himself
then breezed away from the roof.
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
Dear Emma Watson -
Shall we make love
The object of
Our spiritual quest
Together?
Surely an altogether
Better option
Than pairing you off
In a commentary box
With one John Motson
Discussing twenty two
Pairs of socks
Chasing a piece of leather?
If spiritual questing
Is not for you
I will make do
With tightly tied pairs of shoes
Existential emus,
Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes.
Whilst hoping you find
Your Sherlock Holmes,
Miss Watson
I will content myself with
Cataloguing my collection of
Black and white combs.
I also have plots on
Which I need to work -
Wednesday Addams's love of
Moon dried tomatoes
Or Erica Roe
Somewhere in Portugal
Growing sweet potatoes
For sale.
Don't let anyone tell you
There ain't no perks
To being an Omega Male.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
Oh dear dance partner in despair
must you weep now that the song is over?
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
Nice Hawaiian Punch
I was standin there you see,
I wusn't expectin nutten,
when she double sucker-punched me in the gut
my belly revolted badly,
fowl words were on the button,
civil conversations like a pairing knife cut
It's been in the works you see,
we've been beggin for a fight,
the pressure is too much for you to take
so when I wasn't lookin',
first you threw a left and then a right,
and that is why now my belly ache
now the truth is setting in,
my waves have settled down,
a big mistake has reared it's ugly head,
my world will be in sorrow,
my presence banished from this town,
a nice Hawaiian punch the pain I dread
Gomer LePoet...
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 9:01 PM UTC
Let us awake from the decay of strategic costumes where the incestuous fragrance of madness permeates golden dreams of eclectic strokes.
Bureaucratic self-enhancement nurtures docile manufacturers of laborious compliance, whilst social conscience plummets to depths of callous and entrepreneurial versatility.
Enduring imitations of an unsatisfactory kind is like pairing mint fondant with rich and savoury gravy which is acquired with strategic dishonesty.
Oh, negligent wakefulness – will we ever arise and discern those lobotomised representatives in this legislative brothel of excessive absurdity?
Shake me at one minute to midnight in the House of Lords.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
I'd marry you tomorrow.
I'm not even kidding.
Like if you said,
"Let's go. Let's do this,"
I would be 100% down.
We haven't known each other
very long, six months-ish.
We haven't explored each other
like a ship sailing every
nook and cranny
of every ocean and sea,
but I've seen enough.
You are the best thing that isn't even mine.
And in time, I hope to make that statement a lie.
I want you to be the best thing that is mine.
And I, want to be the best thing that is yours.
I think we're on our way, even without
a perfect, smooth sailing.
So, you could say I'm shipping us,
a one-true-pair.
We'd go up the ark together,
and I think Noah would agree,
two-by-two, you and I would be
the two that he'd expect to see
pairing up.
I'd marry you tomorrow.
I'm not even kidding.
Like if you said,
"Let's go. Let's do this,"
I would be 100% down.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 1:00 PM UTC
She tells him this better be the last one--
the last first love poem he'll write.
The title, she says, needs to be brief,
something any lover can relate to.
Do you want me to leave the room
while you write it?
No.
With one step she's no longer in the
living room, she's in the middle of the
apartment kitchen. There are two bowls,
two spoons in the sink. The bellowing heater
acts as background, smoothing the space
with its hum. She squeezes a drop of soap
into each bowl. Fills both with hot water.
Any lover needs to be able to relate, she says,
but make sure you set it somewhere romantic--
not Paris, Rome, or anything like that--but
next to a body of water. There should be
birds. Clouds and rain. Not sunshine. Don't
you think?
He thinks.
She works the bowls over with a dishrag.
Dinner, breakfast--whatever you want to call it--was good, she says.
Good.
She dries the bowls, places them in the cabinet.
Have you written a line yet?
Yes.
Can I read it?
Not yet.
When I wake up?
When you wake up.
With a hand to each side of his face,
she denotes the spots he missed shaving
with her index fingers. Here, she says.
Here. Here.
The lines run from the corners of his eyes
as he smiles. Now she marks these.
She kisses him; she doesn't say, I love you.
Not yet.
Wake me up before you go to work, okay?
Okay.
With one step she's in the bedroom.
The bed's a couch.
She pulls the quilt up to her chin.
Her body curls.
She says, Hang out with me in
my dreams.
Wouldn't miss it.
Good morning.
Good morning.
A few minutes later her breath
goes steady, falling in line with
the heater.
The sun starts seeping in through
the blinds. The loose strands of
her hair become gold. He draws
the curtains so the light does not
wake her. She, he types.
In an apartment where once was one--
one toothbrush, one set of sneakers
by the door--now there are two.
Everything paired off and content in
its pairing.
Is a woman, he types. He hits the delete key once.
Then he types N again.
Her makeup bag is on the dining table.
Islands of stray powder dot the bag.
Her brush is on the coffee table
next to the couch. Countless
numbers of hairpins are embedded in the carpet.
I can't make it in today, he says into the receiver.
Yeah, not feeling too good. Thank you, sir. Will do.
Alright. Yeah, you too.
When he presses in beside her, she says, I've been awake
the whole time.
Have not.
Have too. Did you finish it?
Yes.
Can I read it?
After you actually get some sleep.
What'd you call it?
Is a Woman.
I like that.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
Begin:
Before Birth
Platypus
Came to America
Sent to celebrate my birth
He was small by monetary holds
Heart is all
First gift full of heart
End:
18 years of lies?
Platypus
Rests in a home
Placed to mark a pairing
He is now a small piece seperated
Heart is all
A token full of heart
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
I tell you
My name is William Cupid
I see that apple in your eye
Have no fear my dear
off the rack
I'll nock
pull back
and let these arrows fly
Aug 10, 2023
Aug 10, 2023 at 10:02 PM UTC
i always wanted to
try listening to the
debut album of
a british goddess
while ironically
killing my own
pair at sunrise --
but as plans often go
south for mice and
men equally, so do
my own;
languid
wakefulness ran
down my gullet
like seconds on
a smooth cocktail
seasons too late,
and moreover,
my addled brain
forgot the catalyst
the night before
last when i was
trudging along
in the dark and
some saviors in
a cheap white
chariot pulled
into the parking
space beside me,
telling me to
get in --
like they knew
or i knew, or we
all had some odd
mutual feeling of
positive vibrations;
like reminiscing
about early in
last august when
a mysterious scarf-
clad traveler with
sacred arabic
etched into his
hands slipped
me an equally
sacred slip of
paper with
nothing more
to give it purpose,
reason, definition,
or validation, than
that single glorious
and grammatically
incorrect pairing
of expressive
awareness.
i don't plan to meet
the pilgrim again,
regardless of our
unfinished affairs,
but sitting on that
little square of cloth
on top of manicured
lawn in cosmic harmony
with strangers, new friends,
serenaded by sigur ros
and kept company by
grouplove, i've never felt
more enlightened,
more awestruck,
more tuned into
those frequencies
above human
perception,
broadcasting
the only message
we deny ourselves
indefinitely --
happiness.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 3:42 PM UTC
You don't ship it like I do
In my spare time (all the time)
Instead of paying attention.
You're not as much of a fan as I am
You say I'm obsessed
I call it infatuation.
You can't fill the hole in yourself
Without a ship but you'd rather not
So you can shy away from shipping
I'm on a ******* yacht.
You don't understand the calling
Which is, basically, at this point, normality
And thus, I have no need for you
Go be a carbon copy.
But I will sail!
I will go down with this ship!
**** tumblr to hell
For spoiling my ****
But sail, I will, even still.
Oh, in my battleship
I'll rip your OTP!
My ship is stronger
My ship is closer to canon in reality!
So yes, your pairing, I will shred, I'll rip.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
My life is just a sinister joke.
That people laugh at and provoke
while they watch me lie there and choke.
It’s like I can feel the ripping and tearing,
A mental pairing of chains and shackles
A ******* that causes me pain
with forgiveness that is vein.
My sanity is like a toy for only the cruel to enjoy.
Very few understand the amount of pain one can endure.
You’ll find that most are blind and obscure.
They don’t understand the complicated mind
or the reality of mine.
You can watch as I self medicate.
While I’m hoping others can relate.
But look at me in denial like my life is just a trial.
I keep lying to myself a deluded belief that my life is decided.
From beyond what I can understand is why I exist.
Why im still here when I don’t have a purpose.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
“Sweet Kiss” was the horse and Frank Hayes was his rider,
Both destined this day to gain fame.
Frank was a stable boy on his first stake horse;
The horse too was a novice, but game.
This pairing went off at 20-1, but was well worth the risk of a “fiver”.
Sweet Kiss won the race and the bettors were stunned
for his jockey fell off, a cadaver.
Frank suffered a heart attack on the last turn
and the horse was the only survivor.
Frank Hayes, undefeated, was interred in his silks.
“Sweet Kiss”, undefeated, retired.
Jockeys are short but have memories long-
None were willing to be her next rider.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC