Meghzouchene's poetry

1.
Gifts of nights


I'm grateful to nights
which during my sleeps
present to me, complacently,
the best of all dreams.
You, woman of entrance,
slithely along days,
would come every dream
to soothe my scares.
I wish nights were leapfrogging
the days of unmet chimeras.
When I open my eyes,
you just slip away
with a taste of unripe
cherries on baked pie.
Dreams, short of you,
are keen incubi.


2. My rose




My rose,
break silence,
cease suffering,
forget hopefullness.
Now comes
warm voice
to soothe your rues.
The remedy of melancholy
is pleasure of life,
my dear rose.
Do fly, my angel,
in my heaven.
Don't worry about
your majestic wings,
and innerable beauty.
My kisses do flatter
your scarlet lips.


3. Between your hands




The sun is back
for illuming your heart
and making you warm.
Don't be so sad, please!
Spring's colors lust for
your smile on your red lips
which hope has emblazoned.
Hope returned to you,
to refresh sources
coming down
from the vales
of your chest.
Affection is in front of you
splashing ink on paper
to drown you
in verses' swells.


4. The current of torture




My heart has lived
between two currents.
One current dragged it down
to the depths of prangs;
the other, afloat, strived to
find a tender soulmate.
I was wandering,
fangs of devils
floating around me.
I felt the moments
of shallow anguish
and knobs of despair
locked all the doors
of fair life.


5. Reconciliation day



Moments of exceptional levity
as the blood relation streams again,
following years of glaciation
and indecision to break the ice.

There'd been times when whispering
a ‘good morning' to surrounding kins
was tougher than flattening mountains.
There'd been times when handshaking
a brother was simply unthinkable.
From one womb, but disbanded hearts
were living with hellish rancor.

Grandparents died, dragging down
to their tombs unsettled conflicts
of to-whom-do-belong elms!
Descendants decided at last
to make coffins from elm wood,
and clashing heads were buried, fittly.


6. Solitude




World of love,
life of confidence.
I'm alone,
no happiness,
no affection.
I see here and there
under the shadows
of gardens and meadows,
thinking about merry living.
Withstanding hostilities.
My life was crucial,
in a storm of pains.



7. Filling
in my heart



Best way to gain
a man's love and care
isn't by cooking well,
as it's widely believed.
Rather, a man is hungry
as long as his heart
lacks woman's rays,
smile, passion and stroke.
Man is like a baby,
needs gentle handling
to stave off bumpy
rocking of his cot.
He innocently clambers up
to milky geography!
Narural grub is a far cry
from cooked dishes!


8. Field of shame



Day one,
khaki hat and waistcoat and breeches.
Day two,
the uniformed soldier drilled hard.
Day three,
he thought high of colors.
Day four,
he heard and wept killed mates.
Day five, he prayed by their graves.
Day six,
he fell dead, too; ambushed.
Day seven,
the brave soldier joined
his mates down in tombs.
Obviously, ants and maggots
had yet to bite and eat up
fresh bloody bodies.


9. Refulgent



Loves rhymes and lasts
with your existence,
as sunlight affords
plant photosynthesis.
I'd chuck a sickie
to catch a pail of rays,
all beaming out from you.

Spun out absence
pares the gist of life,
scares flowering and budding,
and rottens mill's gist.
Primarily, your silence
kills me so slowly
the way a ciggie consumes.

Days got ever heavier,
horizons grew blanker
and weren't prurient.
Every fall, I amass
repining yellow leaves,
to at least help them
allay their falling love.


10. Primed sentiments



Unexpectedly, I met you again
the instant I'd believed you away.
Gloved hands against bare hands
stole chop-chop cold handshake.
Chilliness paired with suddenness.
That night, I ruminated at length
the dimly lighted features
I'd furtively seen after sundown.
Nights are surprise-ridden, indeed.
Is it the fetching aspect of darkness?
That day, it was rainy and windy:
did you arrive by rain or wind?
Beauty of yours doused, in gusts,
my then taciturn sentiments,
not without a corollary pang.
Emotional to-do gentled by dawn,
drowned by a belated sleep.


11. Weedy trough



Blasts are back again,
gulls screech in disdain.
Gloated peace swells back
with gouts of blood-sodden foam.
Latent terror returns home
to ravish bandaged souls
and rip through trembling flesh.
Blood-suckers cling to scimitars,
all blotto with seeping blood,
seeking more throats to slit open.
And new abodes to swamp.
A world of families to sadden.
Sky is cloudy and careworn,
smacking down heavy drops
for laundering earthly bloodshed,
which is breaking through

the Seven Gates down to the sea.


12. Ramose pain



Death,
real death,
is a crystal end.
To die once,
interred and mourned,
isn't like dying
driblet by driblet,
living death
at
every
pace
and race.
Each coming day,
adjourns one's passing.
That's the raiment
death slips on, in here.


13. Field of shame



Day one,
khaki hat and waistcoat and breeches.
Day two,
the uniformed soldier drilled hard.
Day three,
he thought high of colors.
Day four,
he heard and wept killed mates.
Day five, he prayed by their graves.
Day six,
he fell dead, too; ambushed.
Day seven,
the brave soldier joined
his mates down in tombs.
Obviously, ants and maggots
had yet to bite and eat up
fresh bloody bodies.


14. Terror in show



Circles of horrors
sent slayed men's kins
aflutter and asunder.
Anticipated widowhood
and sealed orphanage
screamed in wildness.
The rank and file
suffered bit by bit,
bate dust collectively.
Scarce, scared survivors
swerved to honour
redundant burials.
Let roasted corpses
in the open ;
in show,
Earth denied
the disfugured bodies.


15. Farewell !



I kept cerebrating
all the night and morn.
How has that befallen,
all of a sudden ?
I lost my craved
lady in a porous day.
She blinded me
with bogus winks,
so that I let her
lead me onto debris
of unplanned ends.
(Beans KOed brains !)


16. Be a man



Flibbertigibbet men
ruminate women's traits
in cacaphony of reveries.
Satire has no radius.
There exist some hombres
who do up beyond rims,
even more than debs.
Just to attract them
unaware of their effemination !
what women need more,
straight and real men
who don't put a leg
in manhood and another
in the soft world of women.





17. Mastaba



Graveyards, remote and forgotten.
A fact : in all cemeteries,
varicolored flowers
do superimpose all graves:
from daisies to poppies.
Unusually, poppies bewilder
for their overwhelming push.
Is it a cryptic dead's message ?
Is red color standing for something ?
Only the deceased humans
do have the obscure response
in their ever darker rest.
In the wait of one's release,
winds make the poppies' petals off.





18. The missing sun



Where are you, sun?
To light up my sad heart.
I so waited your rise,
for you were absent
from us for years.
Is there a room
for hope again?
To illuminate my jailed heart,
to live in safety,
and to blossom like jasmins.
I've searched in my chest
many times for sources
of lovingness, to no avail.
I'm now on the throne
of deep heartbreak.





19. Imaginary world



I sit in this pleasant place,
gazing at the vault of sky.
I hear birds chirruping,
mind and heart on a trip,
astray in the world
of limitless imagination.
Nothing here, just colors
by the wonderful scenary,
smelling around for tenderness
and slippery love.
Fleeing away from sour reality,
in wait of awakening
to cut it short.





20. The spring is back



The winter disrobes its white garb,
and the spring, my lady so reveres,
flaunts abouts its flower-draped meadows.
Dandelions are envious of the poppies
you are doting on delightedly.
We show deference to this season,
for it made our hearts come together
in lissome dyes and relaxing verses.
In every spring, you buoy me up
to portray the irresistible features
I'm most enchanted most by when patting you.
I I were painting you, I'd surely
stress on your exquisite tenderness,
mellow affection and rosy smile.
All the springs endear my lady;
as to me, I'm loyal to you year-round:
you're simply my immortal season!





21. Laurels of altercation



It's hard to entertain a woman.
Inborn tember or acquired freak?
Anyway, I had a go at probing
the womanhood's abstruse concern.
I headed down to the brook,
where stood white and rose laurels;
then I picked up both colors
in hope of flattering a woman.
She surprisingly, declined the two hues
of laurel's flowers with gall.
I requested from her an exclamation
in a bid to console my heart.
She just retorted that the leaves
of laurels were all she'd hungered for!
I buried myself in botany books
to hit upon the why of her acumen.
‘Leaves of laurels are poisonous,' read I





22. May I disturb you




Don't stretch your eyes
too much when you read
the lyrics that praise you.
Listening to heart's melodies
is better off eyes brimming
with tears of words' fake.
Herat's languages is innate,
whereas tongue's is learnt.
Put your eyelashes together
to vocalize that language
of tuned beats of heart.
May I disturb you a bit,
by dropping in on your soul
the solely instants your body
elopes the moats of heat?





23. The sigh of thorns



The more love dilates,
the more my heart aches;
it has so swollen that outburst
of its content,
be it waxing lust rust,
will expunge all flames.
That day I'll take rest
from your ponderous baits,
which have mossed by time
without regarding northwards,
to where you melted away.
How can I refurbish
the damage you left behind?
Should you first realize
the harms you whipped yourself
before resolving to fix up mine .


24. That bench





Woman of the uphill paths,
I reluctantly lost your trail;
no news, no dates, no mails.
Still, that C-shaped bench,
made of concrete , bordering on
the artificial pond, reminds
me (do you?) of our talks,
gestures, fevers and woes.
Stumbling down the roads
to resume half-done plans;
still dormant in dewy revival.
Unless, we join hands again,
buds of sensuous pact
would desiccate and wilt
at the dawn of blossom.


25. The heart welcomes snowflakes




Does really love
dwell in hearts?
Scepticism nullifies,
as I'm concerned,
so-so conviction.
All humans own
same kind heart;
however, aversion,
hatred and grudge,
are all what flow
out from them.
We're flabbergasted
before white snow,
despite blackness of hearts
and blindness of sights.





26. Revamp



I leaned back by the oak.
A half-rotten trunk, in fact,
was all roots provided for
an equally degenerating back;
caved-in back out of bags
of time- and space-defying grief.
Baleful maggots made it rotten,
and contrivingly, mosses camouflaged
the decaying of centuries-old oak;
likewise slowing down heats
under acorn-free chirping betrayal.
Nonetheless, my back gave it life;
unexpected revamp it so yearned for.
I grated down the carpet of mosses,
impelled maggots to slither down,
then patched up the emaciation;
allowing trunk to mend its bark,
the once-ached backed to come back.
Heart started off beating normally,
tuning to the air of ardour.
That of a come-from-behind love.

Thanks Belkacem Meghzouchene for sharing! I have no doubt that they are also wonderful!

Hello, Chinda

I'm grateful to your genuine greed to read me!

Go on!
And enjoy!

BM

Good evening Mr Belkacem Meghzouchene. Thank you indeed for sharing this
bunch of poems with us. Some sound like Gothic poems somehow, and i
love that. I liked Mastaba very much.
Again, thank you!

Hi, Sassy 86

Thanks a lot for reading and enjoying me!

Go on!

BM

32. Witted promise



Strange feelings of déjà-vu
seep up from beneath shadows.
Specters and silhouettes are all set
to tickle the stropped sight.
Quick-flowing sequences of drive
engulf the last love's slats.

For repose, heart's beats subside
at the cross of age's impetus.
Imperishable mine of fibs
has been conering stale body,
heavy soul and odd shadows
(those of missed, beloved faces.)

That promise out of the dim past
had been hard to keep up sound.
Winds drifted minds gawkily,
bumping onto unwanted strands.
If you'd just seen the ghost
I'd become when you left me.


33. Lifeline



Why weren't you touching
my two too-furrowed hands,
though they'd been too-generous?
Hands had held my up
for so many dolorous years,
in which I'd chow maggots
to allow you eat healthy apples.
I'd reach school by foot
while paying you cab's fees;
I'd put on ragged clothes
as I had you dressed up.
I'd let my hair outgrow
just to living up to your fashion.
I'd walk on pins as
I lifted you on my shoulders.
Despite all perks,
You condemned me to pillory.
I just ask why and how.





34. Munificent love




For an enlivened spring,
the fog wrapped up that town
where challengingly souls
yoked to a sapphire point.
That dot would swell
into heart-shaped pool
to soak years-old sere eyes.
There love did resuscitate
as your warm fingerprints
left the stamp of caresses.
And curses!


35. Sycophantic agreement



Eristic heart's pounding
in the lap of swells.
Nervous rollers.
Beats are feeble,
limping ashore.
Sere, lone shore;
no palmtrees,
scarce shells.
Just smell
of seaweed
and shellfish.

Gulls are screaming,
for the heart
is agonizing;
impending vittles.
Last sorrowing
is sinking, silently,
into the salty sand.


Terns wait their chow,
hungrily and angrily.
A soaring white wall
hauls the beatless heart
back into seawater

Larids cuss the sea
that has been feeding
them with fake tickers!





36. That gold digger



After your missing,
no wordly wonders matter.
Short of a paradise,
you're an Angel by proxy,
if I dare going to extremes.
Tricky to confine flames
spreading in the wake
of your winnowing hair.
All I'm worried about
is the other heart's care
you're now getting from him.
It's legitimate for you
to secure your morrow,
under wealthier roofs.





37. The edges of devaluation



Clatter of crossing sabres
keeps on offensing hearing sense.
Soles of clashing protagonists
paddle in the blood pool
where cadavers stagnate afloat.
The sweat of demented soldiers
portends the following spill
of blood, pride and saliva.
Nearby abodes awash in tears
for the dying away relatives.
Vaultures lilt over the dead,
fluttering and squawking in delight
of the laying down eats.
Fauna ans flora eye
powerlessly the devaluation
of the would-be superior species !





38. Smiling to the edge



Stabbing a smile
is a huge crime.
Especially the one
stemming from children.
How is a child's
smile stabbed?
By making him
prematurely orphan.
That's the outcome
of dehumanization,
underway and astray.
A world devoid
of children's smiles


39. Reveille



The thorns of sidewalks
have more pity than you,
flower of mid-winter.
Icicles of mornings
give more warmth than you,
sun of midday.
I eat once in three days,
to allow you eating
thrice a day; naturally.
All the sparrows
of the valley of the gardens
peck from my palms,
and you do bite my hands
by your killing silence.
Unending silence


40. Callous lips



Yellow and orange flowers
have pushed amidst garbage!
Yes, they're in small numbers,
but their significance is huge.
The hearts of humans
are seriously rotten,
at the exception of a little
of them struggling putrefaction
in a battle meant to be lost.
Fortunately, cheers
of innocent children
has come to bring flowers
back to their waived prairies.
I hope of healing
the hearts of adult people,
go on, children,
playing and toying,
for we're in need
of your providential baraka.
is doomed to devilry.


41. Fragile like eggs



At the edges of a highway,
scores of famished children
offer their modest goods:
farm white-shelled eggs!
The risks of dashing cars,
blowing their sad faces,
caressing them with, alas,
a puff of smoke and smell,
make us unaware of something:
those tots are more fragile
than the eggshells they sell!
None of the speedy drivers
does toss them a bit of smile;
burning mile after mile,
gifting tykes a shriek of tires!


42. Your best friend's dying



The old dog was run over
on the slippery highway,
lying there disembowelled,
befriending careless tires.


43. Gardener of Hell



She avoids
feeding hands,
sobering heart,
shy eyes,
to kill the fate.
Her heart
has no doors,
and no windows,
to let in some
light of love
or air of sigh.
If Hell
had gardens,
you'd be
the perfect gardener,
breathing fire
with utmost ire.
Life is Hell,
doesn't need
your tricks.
Keep away
of burning hearts.


44.
Disappointment.com



The fist was sworn in
to never open up again.
The palm found repose
from undeserved hands.

The heart was sworn in
to never love again.
Its warmth turned cold
towards moneyed tickers.

The sole was sworn in
to never spare poppies,
rippling at winds' whims
in the meadows of love.

The eye was sworn in
to never see thorny roses
wherever they showed off
in the treacherous paths.

The ear was sworn in
to never perceive lies
of unfaithful mouths
in rituals of lethal kisses.

The nose was sworn in
to never smell the scents
of betraying smooth flesh,
which rotted at last.

The tongue was sworn in
to never talk softly
in front of steel hearts,
sucking in tainted blood.

The memory was sworn in
to never remember you,
by creating a cemetery
for an unformal burial.

The sleep was sworn in
to never dream of you,
would rather see incubi
so loyal in their scenarios.

The paper was sworn in
to never let your name
make craters of ink
by way of your foxiness.

The pen was sworn in
to never scribble on
about you, she-Judas,
let alone versifying.


45. Straw



Homeless in my
homeland,
uprooted like a weed,
wish I were a gardener
by twilight in winter.


46. Straw



Homeless in my homeland,
uprooted like a weed,
wish I were a gardener
by twilight in winter.



47. Bill him not



The wet
December wind
took away beggar's coin
into a bank's courtyard,
closed for restoration



48.Naked
end


The airport was roaring.
Yet, no one dug a tomb
to the silent coffin,
athirst for the worm.


49. Sorry



Old woman is outside
roofing the grey sky dome
without the fire of home,
shrouded alive on tide.


50. Bones



Climate change has fame,
leaders have been so lame.
Millions of guts just claim
leftovers, but the shame.


51. Fake
sword



Bearded, he quit his seat,
asked the man behind
to mute the coy music,
not to free Palestine.


52.
Dried spring



An old wheelchaired man bade
farewell to an earthly
old garden,littered with
fresh cans of modernity


53. The rare raspberry



My blank torso
comes up with hair,
as your brown hair
slakes its drought
on Thursday's tryst.

Good morning Mr Blekacem Meghzouchene. These are simply amazing !
I am going to contact you about Straw , please check your Pm box.

Thank you so much indeed for the favourable response.
My warmest regards sir

54. Spin liars
An atomic bomb
is a real disaster
for our survival.
(Japanese remember.)
Three continents
have nukes in hands.
(A gift for humans?)
Short of bagging one,
Africa is a target
of the WMD-buzz.
Famine would fit
as a nuke head
to erase pouchy bellies.
(The chosen liars!)
The whole story is:
all-nuke world
or nuke-free world;
not "me, yes; you, niet."
55. Last sunup
In Algeria, the sun
shines year-round.
Lucky sky, ours!
Alas, our hearts
are sheer darkness.
Unlucky land, ours!
Today's sunless.
Every body's fogged
about the shift.
Darkness's flawless,
our flaws are dimmer.
Unchangingly.
56. Nascence
I was born
(my apologies, mum)
the red-letter day
my little heart
had in its inamorata.
And desiderata.
I was your baby,
crying and smiling.
I got strayed
in quinces' gully,
hanging like stalactites.
Away from your arms,
I disproved cradle's slumber.
When lights were out,
I felt your sighs
filling in the space
we were cluttering.
And shattering.
Then, fading out.

57. Crepuscule
She's a tall eyeful,
created from rare clay.
Hewed with utmost nicety.
Bachelors cut their inhalation
as you flit by, statuesquely.
Transparent envy revs up
so that I ask you appearing
just from crepuscule on dawn.
Only for me, to appreciate
the temptress you've become,
opposite the gratified I've become.
Two silhouettes light the room
where they're entwined
in a choreography of recoup.

58. The shill of love
A bunch of thirsty geezers
got harried by coquettes.
Meanwhile, galoots' progeny
were eating mashroomed bread
they'd fetched in rusty bins.
Poor housewives swept the floors
of generous neighbors,
while their debauched husbands
were gauging reawaken comes !
Starved children, unschooled,
were tagged the favelas' scavengers,
scambering around wastefully.
Such fathers had to be eunuched
to bring them back home.
And fixing up the wreckage
they'd left behind their nymphomania.


Belkacem Meghzouchene