Amy L. Boukair

Author of the time-travel romance novel Indigo


The Lightest Pink

the rose in my hand so fragile
being careful not to prick my fingers as I
marvel at the lightest pink I've ever seen

the bloom wide open and fragrant
the scent permeates the air and reminds me of something
it's one of those sensory things with me
a scent can take me back to a time or place in an instant

in a flash I'm in the backyard of my youth
admiring similar roses
tearing one away to proudly give to my Mom as a gift

the lightest pink
almost white
so fragile

another flash and this rose reminds me of other flowers
both given and received
the meaning or lack of meaning behind all of them recalled

brings me to you
and flowers of a year ago received damaged and dead
was it an omen of things to come?

a portend of a future apparently not meant to be
or was it?
I sometimes wonder, but flash back again to now
and how it is.

the lightest pink
almost white
so fragile

(c) 2008 Amy L. Boukair



sliding down the glass
the rain falls
into my eyes
my smile gets dampened
and my tears blur
the page before me
streaks with rage
from the smear.

(c) 1989 Amy L. Boukair


Filling The Blank Page

Staring at a blank page
waiting for emotion to bubble up.
Which one will come first?
Anger? Frustration? Joy?
I patiently wait for one to surface,
and yet I feel dread.

I don't want to face the negative.
And I can't deal with the good
for it's time is bittersweet.

All of my silver linings
eventually tarnish...

So despair rears its ugly head first.
How are ya?
I'd say "long time no see"
but I'd be a liar.

You've become my bosom buddy.
My despair, my friend.

Feeling lost and alone,
with no one to comfort me
no one to hold me
no one to fight for me
no one to care one way or the other.

Just me.

Me & my despair.

I wear it like a cloak
to comfort me and keep others out.

Funny thing, comfort.
You find it in the strangest places.

Utter despair. No hope. All is lost.
But yet I go on.

What a dichotomy.
What irony.
What's the point?

Maybe life is just like a long,
arduous Seinfeld episode.
There is no point,
but you watch and laugh anyway.

(c) 1998 Amy L. Boukair


Turn Around

Come here little girl, I need to talk to you.
No, I need to talk AT you. 
With our age gap, there's probably not much of an exchange of meaningful banter about to happen. 

Look over there (pointing), see that street sign? (nodding) 
See what it says? (more nodding) It says ONE WAY. 

But look - we're both on it, only problem is I'm following the arrow. 
You? You're going against traffic missy. You're going the wrong way. 

You think you're such a rebel. Bitch, please. 
Been there. Done that. 

You think you're in love? Sugar hush. 
That there ain't love. No way. No how. 

You think you got it all straight. A grand plan ahead of you. 
But you don't know shit little one. 

You think I don't know? Don't know what it's like to be you? 
Honey, I've been you. I AM you later on. 
After the world was promised, but hell delivered. 
After so many empty promises. 
After all hopes were crushed. 

It's taken me a long time to straighten out my path. 
Get goin' in the right direction for a change. 
But it can be done. 

Heed my words little girl. Your whole life is in front of you. 
Don't waste it. 
Turn around while you still can. 

Turn around.

(c) 2008 Amy L. Boukair


What Does a Boy Know Of Love?

What does a boy know of love?
He knows not of loss,
or grief, or sorrow.
He can never feel the
ache of loneliness.
That place beyond solitude.
He knows of scouts and
fraternities, loyalty wasted.
Wasted. He remains.
Teach them early lest
their mothers' milk
will be spoiled...on them.
What can a boy know of love?
He knows nothing.

(c) 1998 Amy L. Boukair


Little Boy

Little boy.
Innocent, naive.
Trusting and bold.
Full of absolute glee.
Asleep, precious.
Snoring, but precious
just the same.
Awake, so full of life.
Limited, but life just the same.
Trains. You sure love trains.
Trains when you dream,
trains when you wake.
You sure love your trains.
Little boy.
Not so little anymore.
My little boy.
So giving, yet shy.
In awe of a world
that you know nothing of.
I know the world,
and am taken by your awe.
Little boy.
Seeing things through your eyes
makes it all so simple.
Things are what they are,
nothing more, nothing less.
How easy!
Little boy.
My precious little boy...
Who's raising who?

(c) 1998 Amy L. Boukair



Flickering in the moonlight
The breeze reminds me of a time
and I can't put my finger on it.
For someone I don't know
Not sure when they're coming
But I'll be here when they do.
For a sign to let me know
What I need to know.
Everything I don't have
Everything I don't need.
Why, I don't know
But it's all I have
Right now.

(c) 1989 Amy L. Boukair



Wrinkles. Tons of wrinkles...
Needing ironing.
I'm tired of ironing.
Exhausted from the constant
force of crashing waves.
Fighting, kicking, screaming,
to stay afloat.
Just keep my head above water.
Just above. That's all I ask.
My dreams are filled with
warm, white sanded beaches.
But alas, only dreams.
No control, chaos.
No peace, confusion, din.
Loud in my ears - quiet!
Bubbles of air just out of grasp.
almost touch...floating...

(c) 1998 Amy L. Boukair



I'm sitting in my dreary hotel room in Podunk, Virginia.
I can never seem to get that thermostat under the window to blow the right temperature. 
It's either too damned hot, or too damned cold.

It reminds me of my life.
It's either crazy ass stress or dragging waiting for the storm.

I can't seem to find a happy medium.
I can't find peace of mind.

This is supposed to be a quiet getaway.
This is supposed to be vacation.

But I can't stop the worry.
Will it rain again tomorrow, and make driving hell?
What was that sound my car was making?
Will Josh's sugar crash in the middle of the night here?
Will the tumor on my tailbone ever stop stabbing?

My shoulders ache from the stress of driving, 
and I'm afraid to use this shower.

I'm hungry.
I'm tired.

I'm on vacation…

(c) 2008 Amy L. Boukair


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