Bad omen

What a dread dream I had as a child
to be once one of the dead poets
seeing no remedial meaning in life
as I’ve been followed up with bad omens.

Now, as grown up, I couldn’t be more childish
to think I could change those bad omens
trying to bring the never had happiness to others’ life,
only luring them to mourn one of the dead poets.

The sadness doesn’t come from my failure,
neither from that I’m alone,
but rather that I’m seeing those lives’ remedy
in my absence; as I was the bad omen after all.

Benyamin Bensalah

03.04.2020

Wavery writing

I grab the pen,
In the sand.
On the beach.

As all the pens,
It depends,
How it ends.

The words just land,
In my hand,
Through the waves.

They try to mend,
My heart’s wound,
By their sound.

It madly sends,
Crazy bends,
Waves and graves.

The murmurs end,
When the wind,
Ends its trend.

The waves are grand,
Once God’s grant,
Then graves (a)gain.

My skin is brand,
I’m well tanned,
Though unplanned.

The pain must end,
What I planned,
Wave Goodbye.

The thoughts are banned,
It’s the end,
I can’t stand.

I drop the pen,
In the sand,
On the beach.

Benyamin Bensalah

10.08.2017

My prince-apples

The wordly world is doggy-doggy,
You need a choice, oki-doki?
Boring bloke whose flavor’s labour,
Or just choose, to be daily lazy.

Life is ocean, harshing hardship,
Who gets on its board, gets bored,
But who are the king of larking,
Whose life’s used as the fund of fun.

Be polar, bipolar, open to the new,
No focus on hocus pocus of the news,
Otherwise, you’re wise nevermore,
You are not, to believe in every lore.

Be an absurb bird, absorbe you heard,
But select the fact without affect,
No attach! Not on a word, nor the world,
Be alone without a loan of anybody.

Give an “X” to the things you learnt,
Give no appearance to give up to learn,
Be the expert of experience, hence,
Your vitality is wit with crazy mentality.

Though the worldy world is doggy-doggy,
Health is before wealth oki-doki?
Choose a real mate, really anti-material,
You, Priceless Prince of Supriseness.

Guard your garden’s Prince-apples,
They are golden pieces of your world,
Through ’em you may throw more poems,
Since all you were right in is to keep writin’.

Benyamin Bensalah

10.05.2016

Metaphormosis

It bugged me from the very beginning
that I wanted to be wanted,
listened to others who didn’t listen,
nor stopped for a while
to ask: what do you want?

Even so, I never got bugged in the ol’ routine,
doing and doing again and again
what has been said,
and hoping that it led
me, somewhere.

Debugging the truth, it did have led
as well as anything would have
because if I learnt something
is definitely that
it will always be someway.

So, the bug wasn’t in the system,
but rather it was me;
for what reason I would see
elsehow, while no one
disagrees?

This attitude turned me to a big bug
of nihilism and other ism,
anything related to carelessness;
to show up: you can ignore me,
I’m always the one who cares less.

Benyamin Bensalah

12.03.2020

Deposits

Like sprinkling dust on the paper,
Moulding itself into mud;
Sound the words of the pauper,
Forming his tears into flood.

His need is not a bigger pocket,
Or a fam of a good blood;
His thirst made him a bitter poet,
Being lost in the flood.

Flood of a baby’s first cry to the world,
Seeing everything newly indifferent;
He wishes for a straight world unwhirled,
Wishing not being so different.

Dirting the paper with stolen words,
From sloppy worlds of others;
The pauper gets deeper in his thirst,
And goner in others’.

Sodden paper-pieces in the mud,
Like flood-brought thrashes;
But they didn’t came with the flood,
Just from a former poet’s ashes.

Benyamin Bensalah

17.09.2018

A rhymeless gentleman

The first morning beams of the shining giant’s
Chased my train and its hundred clients,
Dying on their face a golden curiosity:

Their beany questions might disdain Horace;
What treasure is the day hiding for us?
How we enslave ourselves to succeed?

They might be the opiated words of the daylight
While others’ shady face merged with the night;
Their eyes were in sleepy marsupium.

The trancelike music of the wheels’ tuc-tuc
Choked and chopped up the time’s tic-tac;
Asken asleep: what time is it?

The cockeyed carriage with many Sir and Madam
Of Sun-and-Moon, Dead-and-Alive amalgam
Ended by a gentleman’s advent.

The man flashed up frighteningly brightening;
Noble whiteness, but eyes with black cunning.
What omen has brought him to this world?

He aimed the corner, though there were seats,
He was frozen, though his presence seethes
The air and the atmosphere.

Misty curiousity raised around the Mysterious Man;
Teacher? Agent? Man of letters and pen?
He caused a misery.

He looked beyond the crowd once, scanning
As if he memorized all at once the setting;
He retired to the shade of his crown.

Oh no! Surely, he must pretend or it’s an accident.
Why is he so insanely confident,
Has a Special Force?

With blueish, cold-blooded jeans, shoes and vest,
Reddish, vehement beard borne as his crest;
He was the manly elegance.

The long white collar under his beard
Made ways to other words unheard:
East? West? What continent?

The gentleman kept his corner as a throne;
A store of wisdom under his hat’s dome,
All hidden in his closed eyes.

Does he see me while I’m committing the crime,
Watching him and looking for a fitting rhyme?
Were his eyes ever-seeing?

Since I could feel anything but his eyes
As a magician who can hypnotize;
I daydreamt about him.

Difficult, tho I describe him just as myself;
I close my eyes and imagine myself,
As a person who’s able to rhyme.

Writing in the corner is truly priceless!
Even if I’m somewhat rhymeless.
Could I forget who I am?

A rhymeless gentleman.

Benyamin Bensalah

10.10.2017