In the life-threads of Charlotte

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On the roof of my old house,

Atop the rows of red tiles,

There lived a spider for a while.

It wasn’t quite big, nor small,

Just the right size, all in all,

It had eyes like the night sky

And strong legs shaped like eyebrows,

It could jump real mighty high

And it was as dark as crows.

Sometimes I would find art weaves

Made of the finest of silks

And of pearled water and leaves,

It tasted as sweet as milk

In the morning at sunrise;

During summer, the soft breeze

Would make the finer threads hum;

During winter it would freeze,

Break away under my thumb.

But when the next day awoke

To the warming sound of smoke,

The strange art would be reborn

Without anger, without scorn;

This had always been routine

From early childhood to teen,

So imagine my surprise

When on my great big birthday

No singing portrait shone down

For, much to my own dismay,

The roof spider and her gown

Had left long before morn dowse…

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Many years later,

I have heard say that my old friend, after moving from roof to roof,

had found one of her own.

*

Very proudly written with a heart beating to the sound of this small wonder:

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Through an icy eye I see the sea.

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Not quite a harsh pain this firework of the chest,

Although the myriad of colour cannot be seen

The melody echoes throughout the silent space.

Rows upon rows of madness-in-a-box

Where void fills void during the long twilight,

Industrial and forgettable instantaneity –

Fingers upon a chalkboard and bleeding nails.

Somewhere, somewhen, an Asphodelian wails

But it does not move the heart of such a deity;

Look! there comes the rest in a queer half-flight,

Eyes aflame or stolen by the wicked Nox,

There is this eerie gash in their romantic pace

As they seek but may never truly convene;

Ruby and silver and gold weigh nothing to those who rest.

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Sigrid – High Five

Who am I?

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I take what is full and give back emptiness,

I give out what is warm and take back the cold,

Some follow me, some chase me,

To the ends of the world and back,

Others flee at my sight, some weep

And some cry, some laugh

And some try to capture me

But as the golden cage around the young bird

It is they who are trapped,

And though they know nothing of it

They still despair.

I give all that is mine, yet always reclaim it,

I ferry the lost souls along this harsh journey

Yet reap the ripened fruits with silky fingers

Until the lands are barren

And only salted rivers are left.

Always away, always there,

I am Life, I am Death, I am War, I am Time,

Never far, never near,

I am many-faced, I am almighty,

Though yet I am feeble as an old woman

And all that look at me know who I am,

Sometimes perhaps, but surely ever,

I am Space, I am Love, I am True, I am More,

Very indeed, or whatever in-between,

I am; and there you are.

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The answer you seek, you will find it in the question you ask.

Sic transit gloria mundi

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Sous un pont de pierre noire

Arquebouté vers les cieux

Étincelle un vivant miroir

D’un oeil quoique vif et malicieux,

Caché dans ses belles entrailles

Un vieil esprit se meut parmi les flots

Et dépose sur le vitrail

A l’azur nacré, son blanc halo –

La charrue des ans trace son chemin

Et la pierre s’effrite à chaque demain,

Pourtant l’ouvrage millénaire

Dans un galant et lent élan

Courbe l’échine sous la masse

De la poix imaginaire

Sans arrêt exhalant

Ses douces-heureuses amours contumaces

Mais, tel même que le roseau de la fable,

Il ne rompt point –

Nul ne prétend savoir avec certitude

Mais d’aucuns disent qu’il fut oint

Jadis d’eau sacrée et de rais célestes,

Et que depuis, de son infinie altitude,

Le fier astre en atteste.

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Gare au troll qui y vit…

To kill a mockingbird

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A bullet to the head

Might be the easy way,

A dagger to the heart

Would test your sanity,

As they lie on the bed

And in your hands held sway

Complete and true as art,

Blossoms a vanity

Never quite before felt

Or surely never thought,

A firm hand to the throat

Or this forsaken belt

Tied in a swift, firm knot –

One last ironic note –

The paths ahead are score

And their ways still wilder,

Yet only one, no more,

May reach the Great Builder;

A good rope to the feet

Could drag them to their meet…

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No pithy for the pain whirl.

Molten

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Molten glass becomes a heart

If breathed into carefully,

Hope wakes it up with a start

For the whole world to discover;

Molten heart becomes aglass

Waiting to be filled with folly,

What should think then the young lass

Of the promised grand lover?

Every beat into pieces

Lay shattered on the ground,

Neither shall know what peace is

Until they recognize the sound

Of what has yet to be broken –

Within the vale truth lies spoken.

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They shall bite or be bitten, they shall smite or be smitten, they shall write or be written.

Entre vous et moi

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ça va, ça vient,

c’est fait de tout

et de tout petits riens,

la où la clé est passe partout;

il fait si froid dehors,

l’hiver semble installé,

ou bien est-ce mon corps

qui devient cheminée ?

je sens le feu brûler

dans ce profond bassin,

les bûches se consument,

crépitant toutes en chœur,

et le grand feu qu’allume

à tort, ou a dessein,

l’index dissimulé

me promet sa liqueur –

car si l’accord majeur

est formulé en soupir

par des lèvres enfiévrées,

tes mots sont bien songeurs

et lorsque tu respires

je te sens enivrée

par toute la douceur

que je peux délivrer

des chaînes de tissus

que chers ont recouvré;

suis-je un bon danseur ?

car de nous est issu

ce bon et franc parler,

de ces incantations

mille fois répétées

des océans perlés

d’îles aux frais vergers

naissent sans s’arrêter

et j’y vois, reflétées,

passions et tentations

en myriades de coloris

mûrir sous la main du berger…

pour un, pour deux,

pour trois, pour cent,

pour tous, pour eux,

avec ou sans,

je les vois qui chantent et rient

et gardent précieusement ce toit

également pour vous émois.

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Tout à fait.

Me, afloat

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I’ll find my way

I shall never give up

 

Over mounts and valleys

As high as the heavens

As deep as the old well,

Across forests and seas,

 

Never, I shall never give up

And I will find my way

 

Through days by the sevens

Nights even deeper still

And minutes born to kill,

Like a bat out of hell;

Upon a creaking stage

Runs this desertly ink

In sinews of fever

Carried by the young page.

 

I swear I’ll find my way

Down this path or the next

I can never give up

 

Along each, every link

Of this prisonless cell

– Gone, gone, gone, with the bell –

‘Cause I’m a believer…

 

Never, I want never give up

I’ll find my way to you…

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See ya later, ‘gator.

O

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The beach is mirror of my soul

For just as the waves calmly caress

Over and over, with passionate patience,

It’s soft yet coarse shapeless skin

And help the sands forget

That it runs as it flies,

Out of time and in the eyes,

That it breaks in the hands of a child

And tears away in brine and salt

Under the smile of the sun,

I cannot remember when I was born.

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The Thing

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No shape or form

Has the monster under the bed,

Both light and shadow it has shed;

Never quite here, never quite there,

Never quite seen, as thin as air,

Yet there is something in the dark,

There must be, there has to;

A haunting ghost or a clown-shark

Watching me – it is true,

Waiting and biding time, soundlessly.

Because if it is not, if it is a lie,

If it is not there or if it has gone,

If it has never been, essentially, sly,

Then I am mad or a fool, boundlessly…

And strangely I would rather believe

This odd, scary story that I weave

Rather than there be none

To keep me warm.

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When there’s something strange

In the neighbourhood…

who?