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,
Inhale,
Isabel sweeps
her inundated sneeze,
Cleans the
bleeding thumb,
Exhale,
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,
Questions
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
Hurricane
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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