Tuesday, August 1, 2023



Old Story


Stella is still telling the same old stories,

Her jaw keeps releasing words, to and fro,

Up and down, forward and backward,

Evacuating dangerous scenes

Of a man, sober and obscene,

Of fairies, dreamy and serene,


Her mind is crammed with the same folk tale,


Her contemplating eyes, fixed like the gaze of a starving tiger or a famished whale,

Her hands, wavering in the air like an orchestra man, exalted with nostalgia

At the sight of the ballet dancer


Like a dreamer, on cloud nine,

Stuck to the redundant fumes of utopia,


Isabel sweeps her inundated sneeze,

Cleans the bleeding thumb,



The tragic disappearance of the dupe numb,

The extinction of the innocent nymph,

Amid that bushy forest,

This witch, with a sparkling garment, a sordid cane, a magic spell,


An organic spit on those poisoned mushrooms, on sale,

Travels nonstop,

Preserves the sour shop,

Avoids an approaching drop,

As an acrobat, on the woody bench,


Like an amateur actor, stuttering the long script,

A new adventurer in hip-hop,

With an amazing desire to Sing even in nearer public closet,

Dance in tunnels,




She’s lost appetite to think or aspire,

She’s been caught into the chain of regret,

She’s asked herself so many questions

About that fleeting time,

When she dreamt to be the most beautiful Bride in the neighborhood,


When flowers were dispersed

at the Protestant Church,

When guests were smiling to her beaming face,

When her groom was holding her hand as warm as he wants,

Whispering to her: “I love you, Sweetheart. You look gorgeous today. From now on you are mine, my soul mate, My darling, my everything”


She’s inquired about this moment,

When the ring suits her delicate finger

In the depth of December

When the mutual vows crept out from Their throats


Only then did she kiss her mom

Bade her farewell

Sheer panic,

Not angelic,


Like the disheartening love Story on board the Titanic

She spoiled her day before it comes true


Hurry, Cane



Hurry, Cane

Sturm und Drang

Von Goethe with Herder

Shakespeare on fictive plane


Hurry Cane,

Get closer to Harry Kane,

A ball geek,

Hurry Harry Kane,

Hold that iron-made cane

Beckett was in an earthly hurry,

Weaving street pebbles with sand,

At the wooden gates of the satanic campaign

Tells me Jane

Tells me, Jane

Tells me, Jane




On this chilling day,

On this virgin page,

By the high valley

I can see the smoke of rain,

The dew of the hurricane,

Creeping into that ink,

Effacing every single word,

Wrapped in drizzly silk

This secret reporter

Saw something unpredictable:


The devastating storm

Sets woody norms,

Water rushes into

Some grizzly buildings,

Crushed rooms,

Weeping roofs,

Walls, shedding tears,

People, sending desperate pleas

Blocked by the basement cane


On this page,

I can see the end of the world

The story of the crazy wars,

The toll of the pandemic martyrs,

The unending sound of working women,

desperate househusbands,

Deformed faces,

new brand bodies with no charm,

Scattered all over an apocalyptic city,


Awaiting wolves to grind

Those soaking scapegoats


Dr. ANISSA SBOUI -A University teacher and poet from Sousse, Tunisia-The writer of Rebirth, Transcend, Hurricane, The Co-Avid Breath, Number One, Halycon and the Screaming Earth, three volumes in Arabic and three short-stories: “Alone”, “The Moody Bookworm” and “Coincidence”



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