I walk a steady and long pace

While you prefer to slowly trace

The small alley, the tall building

Thus I end up often biding…


A short poem prompted during creative writing class today. It was supposed to be about a trait/a habit that unnerves us in an other person we know or knew. This is what came to mind…


Glints of acid


She dances, though not for them,

Gracefully and skillfully,

And from this such great strengths stem,

A forged softness, painfully,

She dances not for others,

Oh the sake is purely hers,

For the simple joy of life

Endlessly she turns and twirls,

Faithfully she jumps in whirls,

All is shared with her soul wife,

The bright smiles and the loud laughs,

The sad frowns and tearful weeps,

The blisters and the small coughs,

The failures in boundless heaps,

Sometimes she runs and she shouts

When there simply are no outs,

When her groans are desperate calls,

When she stumbles and she falls,

Oh the eyes are not the worst,

She has long learned to close hers,

No the pain comes from the first

Still too far from her fingers,

Yet she cannot remain still,

She can never have her fill,

The passion is in her veins

And the steps break all the chains,

They may throw poisonous stings,

They may whisper in the dark,

They may mock her for her lack,

But an angel’s broken wings

Need only a single spark

To ever keep growing back.


What a feeling! ♪

Broken And Ended


When night is dark and full of terrors

When you are alone with your errors

When all will and strength have long vanished

And you are all but tired and famished

Broken into a million pieces

Ended by a somber world of pain

And pressure that always increases

When you missed the passage of the train

And must walk alone a thousand miles

Then your salvation becomes those smiles

No matter who they are or must be

Of the world-bush, they are the berry.


Probably a bit too short, rough and incomprehensible but heartfelt. At the image of the muse.



A silent stroll on plains of sand

Alone with the wind and the clouds

As the mind explores newfound land

And the soul bleeds away from crowds,

A moment lying on the sheets

Beautiful music playing loud

As avatars accomplish feats

That make hearts swell and spirits proud,

In a chapel of empty seats

Only the faith keeps up the shroud

And to a world of flat-out cheats

Nothing matters but those who bowed,

At night under the far dreamland

One reaps what the sunlight has sowed

And in those moments feels the hand

To which their own being is vowed.


Sometimes it is important to be a wanderer above the sea of fog.

Bear necessities


In the distance – but never far away – I can hear the tick

Tacking away, as eternal and constant as a heartbeat,

Time is running out, I can feel it pouring out of my veins,

Yet I must not falter, keep on building, slowly, brick by brick,

No matter the hardships, the torments and their lasting stains,

Were I to ever stop the tower would crumble to the ground,

From dust back to dust, I am he who gives meaning to it all,

Oh how often have I given up? How often have I drowned?

Countless times I have woken, countless more slumbered, and repeat…

Will the world, this old mother of ours, on day answer my call?


Bear minimum: the smallest amount of bears possible, a.k.a. a single bear.



The hands are small and pale

But oh so far from frail

Delicately they trace

Firm words upon the page

As if the greatest race

Was to be won by age

Should I take on the task

Or sigh behind my mask

Of course responds your voice

Not giving me a choice





Sugar rolls sweet upon my tongue

And once again I feel so young,

Back to the age when leaves were green

And the world had a lustrous sheen,

Back to the times of simple joy

When we could all truly be coy,

Labyrinth of precious pleasure,

Whence have I buried this treasure?

What a spoonful of white powder

Can conjure up in an instant,

How it can make old songs louder

And remote years no more distant

Than the silver under your thumb,

I cannot say nor can explain

But beware that it makes one numb

To the world which then becomes plain…

It is as treacherous as snow

Even to those that think they know,

Sinister wolf in sheep’s clothing

Seed of endless, painful loathing,

Beware for this lady of death

Tightens her claws with each new breath,

Sugar rolled sweet onto my tongue

And once again I wake and long…


O immerse a dear rug.



Voices running so far and near,

Footsteps seeking their goal with haste,

A few glances ever so chaste

And hair flowing from there to here,

Some hands are fast to the making

Others equally to taking,

A tongue is strong, a nose is sharp,

Some words are wrong, some try to warp,

Gold and silver rain down faster

Than water and reign true master,

Trophy hearts and loved jewels

Followed by old enamoured mules

Cross path with spirits marveling

At the fruit of their travelling,

And in the middle of this crowd

A pair of ears tries to listen

To all those musics which glisten

Even though their own is so loud.


The greatest loneliness is surrounded by a thousand voices that you know.

Here ‘loved’ is to be said ‘lo-vèd’, sort of a diaeresis but not exactly.



Le manoir de l’intrigant


Aux anges improvisés rêvant à la gloire

Je dis sans prétention qu’à toujours trop vouloir

Eux qui volent si haut risquent aussi de choir

Car dans ce joli monde au delà du miroir

Il existe une lente ronde triste et noire

Que dansent les immondes ombres de l’espoir

Sans fin et sans repos autour du grand manoir

Où liquide rubis, élixir défouloir,

Se mêle à l’envie et coule à flot du ciboire,

Les éternels fleuves, éphémères mémoires,

Jaillissent du poison et l’on ne peut y boire,

Sous l’œil plein de questions – en somme inquisitoire –

De l’aigle de raison au bec de pur ivoire

L’homme comme les autres cherche un exutoire

En des chants déchaînés à voie expiatoire,

L’air y est si brûlant que l’on ne peut y voir

Et des cris déchirants venant des abattoirs

Couvrent de leur bruyant les uniques dortoirs,

Berceuse apaisante pour épris d’illusoire,

Il est de ces chimères aux dents blanc rasoir

Que, malgré tous les dieux et paroles des Moires,

Dévots ou sceptiques se refusent à croire

Préférant se cacher de leurs peurs dérisoires

Dans une infinité de portes et couloirs;

Alors quand toi, lecteur, arrivera ton soir,

Quand tu me rejoindras au bout de ce couloir,

Quand je t’accueillerai dans mon humble boudoir

Un grand sourire aux lèvres et l’œil plein d’espoir

Me laisseras-tu t’offrir quelque philtre à boire

Et me conteras-tu ta belle et triste histoire ?



Le saviez-tu ? Une écumoire (nom féminin) est un ustensile, le plus souvent de cuisine, servant à enlever l’écume, les impuretés. Je voulais en faire l’une de mes dernières rimes mais je n’ai trouvé d’endroit où la placer…



[Les éphémères fleuves, éternels de mémoire,]


[Apaisante berceuse pour épris d’illusoire,]

formes modifiées pour des raisons de forme mais appréciées dans le style.

Here I preach


Ancient though precious


Do not worship all that is new

Do not dismiss all that is old

For all that glitters is not gold

And can hurt what you never knew

Do not follow all that is bold

Do not forget all that is due

Don’t trust many over a few

Nor take for granted what is told

Do not limit to basic hue

Do not force to fit in the mold

And don’t let yourself shipped and sold

If it’s not what is truly you

You may break but must never fold

For one can sew pieces anew

But if a pillar is askew

It can give way to worse than mold

Finally if you have no clue

As to the speech I try to hold

Here: no matter how lost or cold

Your own voice will always ring true…


Knowledge is important but intelligence is essential.