and we would get up early
so early that the stars
would still sit high
in the dark night sky

we would drink milo
out of plastic cups
and eat oval arrowroot biscuits
spread thickly with butter

we would line up to go to the loo
one last time before piling into
the old car, sliding across bench seats
half our world packed into the boot

then we were off, on the old country roads
still sleepy for the first couple of towns
stopping at Jacaranda for a cup of tea
lukewarm, milky and sweet from the thermos
half a cheese sandwich each, and a fearful trip
to the draughty long drop toilet...looking for redbacks
the whole time, but only finding spinning daddy long legs

after that back into the car, for two hours of
winding our way down, the big hill,
listening for the clearnote  call of the bellbird,
watching for wallabies and wombats on the road fringe
and the bigger kangaroos, bouncing away
across the clearings...

at the bottom of the hill, Grafton a quick stop
to stretch our legs eat the cupcake,
used to bribe us into decent behavior up to that point
and another vist to the conveniences.
before the run down the coast,
past the big white resort
and into Brooms Head,
for a week of surf and sun
fish and chips, buckets of prawns,
frosty fruits and sunny boys
in tent and caravan,  
swimmers and towels,
we were tribal and free,
roaming the tideline
staying up at the campfire,
sleeping and waking
with the birds......
always such an adventure....
those idyllic days of summer

Am I winning at this game
Or is life beating me
Sometimes it's hard to tell  
Sometimes it's hard to see

When my chips are down
I try and quickly pick them up
Are you ready for another round
Or have you had enough

Sometimes it's hard to tell
If you're the monkey or the cage
I have yet to figure out
Am I the turkey or the baste

On life's shinny lock
I often fumble with the keys
When you find I'm in mid-sneeze
Would someone please bless me

While enter and exit signs
Loom everwhere I go
Not sure if I should stick around
Or pack my bags and hit the road

Sometimes it's hard to tell
If you're the noose or the rope
I have yet to figure out
Am I the grass or the goat

If ever there was a sliver
Of sun in this shade of doubt
It's that in life it is hard to tell
And even harder to figure out

A rugged sidewalk cried hard by the way-side;
Its fissures could not hold their tears anymore.
A puny man pushed a red cart in the tide
Down a darkling, narrow street in Salammbô.*
He mumbled to the waves on his way to the market
As he gasped behind his laden chariot.

His merkabah bore many a lost things
Which he had found buried in the quicksand.
Among them a fountain pen and a helmet,
A pair of eyeglasses, and a trumpet.
I wondered, gazing at the old man’s washed face:
"Will this worn-out scene ever reach the marketplace?"
© LazharBouazzi

You told me lying was a sin;
You lied.
You told me cheating was a sin;
You cheated.
You told me adultery was a sin;
You cheated.
You told me stealing was a sin;
You stole.
You told me cursing was a sin;
You cursed.
You told me dishonoring my country was a sin;
You dishonored my country.
You told me to keep my promises;
You didn’t.
You told me to live by the Golden Rule;
You didn’t.
You told me to be careful of the company I keep;
You aren’t.
You told me to help those poorer than I;
You don’t.
You told me to be an example to youth;
You aren’t.
A question arises, by and by;
Is everything you said a big lie?

They are multinational mongrels,
entities who feel entitled to
***** and grab all public interests
with their Atlas hands;
Claiming they hold the world
bearing the burden of heavy clouds.
With the hunger of Galactus
they gobble up our well-earned income
demolishing what little capitol we have left.
These creatures of mythic proportions
should find themselves opaque, existing in a state
of enforced transparency
so they cannot encroach upon
Our so-called democratic liberty.
But those corporations wear
the wrong long dark robes.
Instead of transparency
we found them enshrouded in
cloaks of offshore invisibility
concealing their ill-conceived crimes
from the eyes of our world wide
human community.

The leaves first healthy and green
Reaching up to eternity
Then turning red, then gold and rust
And falling, translucent in their glory
Only their veins showing, organic lace;
The tree's honest history.
Only their slightly different shape
Remains a mystery,
Remembered by those who might've seen
As if in a fog, mistily
With just the few days of it's life
Lived blissfully.

These are the children, the ephemera
Of our trees
Giving, sharing, growing, expanding
Repeating generously
To populate our world with breath
Suffering death constantly
Being reborn silently to us;
Sentinels of majesty.

These are benefactors of life
For all of you and me
Casting themselves up from dirt
To our reality
Whether we believe it or know it.
They give voicelessly,
And that is what it means to be a tree
If you are leaves set free.