Yesterday in the morn

Before the sun was born

I saw the world of dog.

My mother used to say

It was white, black and grey,

And nothing for a sprog.

I know better now, though,

For never before this

Had I felt high and low

Or such colourful bliss.


Yesterday in the morn

Before the sun was born

I saw the world of dog.

My mother used to say

It was white, black and grey,

And nothing for a sprog.

I know better now, though,

For always after this

I must feel that I grow

And both forever miss.


Am I the child within me?




A name is but a name

Until it rolls on the tongue

As day and night roll in the sky;

A game is but a game

Yet still tolls the bell that wrung

What play and wright attempt to imply.

Rince my face as I float around

And the bubble of my past upon my heart.

Pop goes it, washing away the care

Flowing in weariness of travels far in time,

Too far for such small arms

To reach and grab around.

What have my dreams come to?

What am I to become?

May I still become yet?

Is the world ready to see me now

Or must I wait until sickness breathes it away?

The fabric has been worn to the bone

And so have I, I feel,

Despite the endless call of the sea

Still resonating far within.

Sometimes I can sense under my skin

The timeless threads pulling, giving,

Sails setting under a sun young still,

And other moments the flowers

Of Spring not yet withered

Beginning to falter under the summer breeze.

Must Autumn take this Fall?


As above so below,

As within so without.

La Rose


Loin de son noble amant parti pour d’autres étoiles

La belle et fière rose préserve en son bocal

Un palais de lumière où filtre son parfum,

Ses beaux et fiers pétales mirent le firmament

Et proposent au vide bien belles métamorphoses.

Elle n’est pas coutumière de contempler la faim,

Pourtant là est le terme dont elle n’a plus le goût –

Il quitte la terre ferme sans le moindre dégoût

Suivant le séraphin vers ses amours premières;

Et si l’âme est avide quand l’eau va à la toile

Voilà que l’univers attend avec patience

La rose sous son verre et l’heure de son essence.


Il paraît, dit-on, qu’il y en a neuf. Voilà la dernière.

Instant – VI


Depuis un cadre de chêne

Où trône son portrait,

Taillé, poli, et sans écharde,

Sous une dorure de plomb,

Les couleurs l’enchaînent

Prévenant tout retrait,

Et son regard vous darde

En cet innénarable surplomb.


Instant – V


Il touche mais ne goûte à la terre

Sous bien des siècles noyé,

Le marbre froid qui l’enserre

Est depuis toujours son foyer;

Lui, si loin de sa terre natale,

Arbhorre à jamais ce sourire

Car si blessure n’est pas fatale

Jamais ne se verra guérir.


Instant – IV


Dans une pièce vide

Sans fenêtre ni cloison

Depuis longtemps réside

Le prisonnier de foison,

Si ce n’est dans l’espace

C’est tout au moins du temps

Que son coeur se déplace

A mesure qu’il attend.




There stands the such as which I’d like to know

Words come in myriads yet breathe no meaning

Akin to the miner that digs

With only majors for leagues

Finger clicking good at random until winter is well come


I relish love this art though it is not my type

For whatever is touched is lead to become gold

And were this poetry

About ever such poem

One might expect some charm and be disappointed


The pen is mightier than the ink, for the word is but a page in the book of thoughts.

First draft


The proverbial chisel awaits for the hammer

To fall and to give shape to a body of mind,

None ever has before seen anything of kind

Yet the heart hesitates letting the hand stammer.

A moment not as such comes but once per eon

Awaiting to be grasped, for ever too soon gone,

By the sun, by the clouds, by the rain or by dark,

Through silence, through great bangs, through Man and its kind hell.

So when the creaking raft lowers anchor to dwell

Believe not dry feet words, trust yourself and embark

For if this journey costs it is yet worth it all;

Hesitance may ponder over the need to stall

But the hand may not stop just as the heart must beat,

So shall the eye still see despite all Life’s blankets

Reminding who forgets of work still to complete;

The mind is a glutton and the soul its banquet.


Perfection à dessein, à action, à moyen.



Du sang et des larmes

Coule un temps orageux;

Des sans et des armes,

Coût du pain et des jeux.


Il a l’air d’être dans l’air du temps

Pour l’hère qui ère et qui attend

De RER en heureuses aires, d’être content;

Héros de colère et de contraires instants.


Si monseigneur lapin se retrouve prit en chasse

C’est parce qu’il refuse l’honneur de la Cour

A ceux qui jouent piano et ceux qui jouent la basse

Et – soi-disant – restent à mi-parcours.


Pansez bien vos mots à défaut de les penser

Car à force de bals, de pas à posséder,

Ne soyez étonnés si tous viennent y danser

Forçant loups et chasseurs à se de peau céder.


De la politique et de tous ses filets,

Le plus sournois et le plus saisissant

Est encore celui dont le gilet

Tente de se départir en réfléchissant.



The experiment


In a drop of water: the world. In a grain of sand, cosmos.

Sitting on the table is the penultimate patient,

The mind has been gently blown to pieces of sentient

And the body grounded into a ficticious pulp

From lack of atmosphere by a mishapened gulp

All to unexist in creation of enthropic osmose.


Proposition: let it be sewn back and together by silver threads.

Once shape has been restored to this primordial clay

Thunder shall begin the first scene of the first act of this new play;

Puppets once actors could be moved back in place,

Could be pushed back in time through clever-patterned lace,

Mayhap even luck might turn back busts and turn back heads.


Observations enlighten but scatter – automation is of the latter.

What wood cannot bend and steel cannot perceive,

Flesh may replace as living avatar of what means to deceive;

Inconclusive results permit no absolute truth to be breached

Yet hope remains, lighting the way towards new heights to be reached.

Time is running out, night is waltzing in, shall this even matter?


To the idealist who has none, and to the realist who is done, look at the pessimist: he is gone.