Hearth’s Ong

.

Look how they tear down our clouds, they steal our rivers,

They say we should be proud that we are such givers,

They eat our old forests and they burn out our sun,

Saying we cannot rest, that we have had our fun,

They drown out the oceans and scatter the deserts,

They consume the wild winds as main course and dessert,

They dry out the fountain and they empty the horn,

They melt down the mountains and they thaw of the thorn,

They claim the horizon and then reach far beyond,

They slow twist the reason and makeshift the respond,

They say that our great minds have found a solution

Then believe they make death in live threads, and needles,

They count away our breaths in innocent wheedles

As they brandish notions such as absolution,

They take away our land, they shackle our freedom,

But do not try to leave, but do not try to come,

They say they firmly stand for universal peace,

Oh watch them as they grieve, tearing it piece by piece,

They loan our deaths away, they trade the future now,

They make the whole world sway with all that they allow,

They see and take and break as children make a fuss,

Leaving ___ in their wake; but, see you not? They are Us.

.


I feel this still needs a bit of work to reach the impact I want to give it and for it to give to others, but I needed to get it out. I shall reflect on it later.

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In a room

.

In a room covered in dust

Where evening’s light shines its warmth,

As in a heart covered in rust

That fears tears and their cold harmth,

Sits a family of old friends

– Remnants of a past era -,

Each of them portrait of bold trends

From lonely Azrael to ambitious Mira,

In a corner of the wooden chest

The cheap yet colorful drum lies silent

And atop the highest shelf sits a nest

Full of birds of passion, lovingly violent,

It once felt as though they observed

Their eyes judging and intentions devious,

But now he knows they are forever preserved

And shall not make him again Prometheus,

His life reads in the hundred books

To which he now rarely looks,

His hopes hidden away

In his peculiar moods and their secret sway,

Behind a false piano, opposite to the flowery drawing

Behind a thin and yet unmoving threefold door

The dreams of this child, the children of his dreams, have long been thawing

And if all is well they will thaw evermore;

The trophies, the medals, the cups and dozen charms

Are scattered in the wind of stillness that echoes,

He stands there, remembering the hundred thousand harms,

The secret of his thoughts is that only he knows.

.


“There is a house in my street, there is a room in my house…”

C

.

Inside a cold, frightening room

In the deeps of an old castle

This body lies on a table,

Having surrendered to its doom;

Above, in the wuthering heights

Where phantasms and howling ghosts,

Ghouls and phantoms in wretched hosts,

Dance this night to a hundred frights,

Storm and thunder befog the air

As maddened laughter fills the lair,

In days of yore rain kept apart

The loving mind and his workshop,

Soon now the steps will near and stop

And folly will kickstart my heart.

.


A poem based on the prompt “Kickstart my heart“.

Aimless

.

Beware the silent calmness of the sand

Over the dead sea loom fire and ice

Under the myriad of gems slithers life

That which the eye cannot see is nowhere

Immaculate yet perverse west winds blow

Quoth the stars to the lost traveller

Undo what has been done free this lost heart

End suffering to embrace the renew

.


The prompt was “boutique”. Totally random. This is what I came up with. My mind works in strange ways sometimes.

The Classical Age

.

In a maze of twist and turn

Echo the cries of a beast;

Although a human heart beats,

In these dull, wicked eyes burn

.

The flames consuming its wings,

Blood thread trails limply behind

Swaying to the sirens’ songs,

Waiting on a virgin mind

.

To wish away all the wrongs,

But the labyrinth’s wall

Is strong and cold, dark and tall,

.

‘Tis made of a thousand strings

Played by the gods at a cost:

An eternal tempest-tossed.

.


Il y a d’une ode ici.

Rabbit in a Snowstorm

.

I sit there and wait to be inspired,

Reflecting on things I once aspired

To, things of my childhood, of years past,

And of things yet to come, at long last.

Upon the walls of white of my cell

I see great sceneries and portraits,

Fevered visions of those I shall fell

And secret glimpses to my dark traits.

I can feel her there, right by my side,

The spicy perfume floats in the room,

I can feel her stare over me loom

Recalling the time when I last cried;

Knowing not why now I remember,

I let this whirlwind fan my ember.

.


He dares the evil deeds.

Quand je serai un enfant

 

Quand je serai un enfant

Je te dédierai maman

Une chanson toute entière,

Un’ chanson dont tu s’ras fière !

Y’aura des parol’s tout plein

Avec de belles images,

Des histoir’s de chevaliers,

Des princesses dans des cages,

Et des dragons à tuer !

Quand je serai un gamin

Je te donnerai ma main

Et on ira s’ballader

Le longs des vers et des rimes,

Je te f’rais escalader

Les monts et leurs plus haut’s cîmes,

Au rythme de longues strophes,

Au fil dodécasyllabes

De vain pieds en apostrophes,

Tu verras, cet astrolabe

Je l’ai construit de mes mots

Au long des années passant

A forc’ de lir’ Maupassant,

N’as-tu pas eu le mémo ?

Je suis dev’nu z’un poète !

Quand je serai un bambin

Et qu’tu me donn’ras un bain

Je te soufflerai les bulles

Que j’ai soufflé jusqu’alors,

T’as compris ? Parc’que je bulle,

Mêm’ pas en Technicolor

Just’ en noir et blanc passé

Parc’que j’aime pas travailler –

Oh ! Je préfère révailler –

Mais qu’j’ai peur de me casser.

Quand je s’rai à nouveau mioche

Je te dédierai chèr’ mère,

Par ma pelle et par ma pioche,

Un cadeau goût doux-amer

Qu’j’aurai cuisiné moi-même

Dans un plat tout préparé,

Et tu diras que tu aimes

Mais faudra pas comparer

Parc’que moi, mon truc, maman,

C’est l’émo et c’est l’émoi,

C’est les mois et c’est les maux,

Je ne suis que l’humble amant

De mon âme et de mon cœur,

Mon esprit est vagabond

Et moi j’suis un bon gars, va !

Mais je suis pas bon à rien,

Ni non plus mauvais en tout,

Je sais juste faire des rimes

Pour le ‘kick’ et pour la frime,

Ouais, parc’qu’aussi j’parle anglais

Et mêm’ si j’suis un peu laid

J’ai un sourire qui s’partage

Sauf qu’il s’effrite avec l’âge;

Alors, maman, quand j’srai p’tit

J’te jur’ je f’rai un effort,

Je s’rai p’tet ni grand ni fort

Mais j’aurai de l’appétit !

Je mang’rai tes bons p’tits plats

Et je s’rai plus souvent là,

Je f’rai parfois la vaisselle

Et j’me lav’rai les aisselles,

Mais surtout ma p’tite maman

Je t’écrirai un’ chanson

Avec plein d’parol’s et d’lignes

Et d’images, de métaphores…

J’dessinerai le firmament

Sur une feuille Canson

Et tu t’tiendras belle et digne

Et brillant tell’ment si fort !

Alors maman laiss’ moi faire,

J’ai p’tet’ pas d’destination

Mais ça j’en fais mon affaire

A grands coups d’obstination,

J’finirai par y’arriver !

Alors garde les yeux rivés

Et les oreill’s grand’ ouvertes,

Tout le mond’ sonn’ra l’alarme,

Tout’s tes copin’s seront vertes

Et toi tu vers’ras une larme

Et j’te jur’ tu seras fière !

Et j’te jur’ tu seras fière…

.


Inspiré je ne sais trop pourquoi par l’écoute de “Étudiant, poil aux dents !” de Renaud.

Je dédie ce poème à ma maman.

Détour

.

Qu’est long le détour de ces quelques lignes

Tracées par mon doigt à l’ancre de sens,

Sanglantes tâches de vin, cœur décent;

Qu’est douloureux l’acte de rester digne

Alors même que le monde s’effondre

Autour de réalités alternées,

Autant de douces icônes mal ternies

Tel neige chaude refusant de fondre;

Nombreux les esprits voyant le tryptique

De ces sons, des sens et de l’intention

Comme une si mystérieuse invention

Que les sourds messages en restent cryptiques;

Au delà de l’obscure sémantique

Pourtant, la transparence de mes maux

Fait écho l’apparence de mes mots,

Car, vraiment, je ne suis qu’un romantique

Qui dore ses fines lettres de plomb,

Fuyant la transparence de son âme

Dont jadis Damoclès perçut la lame,

Par peur, par faiblesse et manque d’aplomb.

.


La poétique des mots est mon seul courage,

Mon épée, mon bouclier, ainsi que ma rage.

Why do you follow me?

I know that this might be another message in a bottle and that it might take years, if not centuries, for it to reach civilization but I have been wondering for a while now, marvelling at the fact that so many people (more than two hundred to this day) have decided to follow this website, and I would like to know:

Why do you follow me?

What has piqued your interest? Fueled your curiosity?

What made you click on my posts and what did you think of them?

I would really like to know all this, I am really, truly, genuinely curious to know the reasons that have made you want to know or to see more!

Also, is there anything else you would like to see here, something I have not done yet or something you would like me to explore again?

Or do you have any question you would like to ask me? Something you are itching to know or to discover about me, my works or this website?

Don’t hesitate, ask away, I will be glad to answer all of them! (Very happy and proud too!)

I don’t know, I am curious and I wanted to take the time to get to know you, whoever you might be, better and perhaps to understand what makes me, me, what make you, you, and why you enjoy what I do…

Thank you for the time you have given me these past months and years, see you soon! ;)