Heartbeat

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It is light and it is late

On the shores of black stone

Yet the soothing refuses me

For I am tired of the tide,

.

I may sigh and I may wait

Upon the dust, upon the bone;

I am the enemy

That I must cast aside.

.

Bellow the winds and the water,

Awaiting under a pale eye

Their passenger’s singing fare;

.

I am the Night’s daughter

Yet how my sun is but a lie

And only this smile knows the prayer.

.


When the sky is hurt, only the birds sing.

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Waving through a window

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The fly does not move, it does not breathe;

One wing spread, the other torn,

Who deeply yearns for a crown never worn

As the blade, dulled by ages, slips on its sheath.

The scene is over, the act is ended,

And while the moment, sunlit into clay,

Is allowed to stretch on and on and play

This Carmen is vague and faint, rather scrawl;

Hearty guts or gutted heart? They are offended.

Fortunately, all is ebbed away apiece at curtain-fall.

.


Counting one’s treasure is the true.

Lighthouse in the storm

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I cannot feel the sea anymore;

The wild soothing breath of the waves

Shaking me at my very core,

And the fires in the misty caves

Casting shadows over cold walls

For lonely hearts to feed their visions.

I cannot hear its ancient calls;

How then will this grim indecision

Plaguing vessels which carry life

Be lifted over Poseidon’s house

If Day and Night play cat and mouse

And husbands can’t yet see their wife…?

Where have you gone my dear mother?

Of your flowing gown and all its pearls

Remains nothing after the ebb…

In the mirror of the sky’s infinite web

Twisting, turning, it spins and whirls,

Proudly patient, ever waiting for each other.

.


Love your craft and conversely.

Z

.

Il n’y a plus d’après tant il y a de l’avant;

Qu’elle est douce la victoire

En ce dimanche de novembre.

Echo d’un siècle ou un siècle de co ?

La question peut faire sourire,

Mais quand passe un an en une unique seconde

Et qu’un instant dure une éternité,

Lorsque vient le moment, fatidique et puissant,

Nul n’est préparé pour une telle réalité;

Un homme qui pleure est considéré

Comme la plus belle des douleurs.

.

Après l’épopée, la longue bataille,

Si les gouttes de pluie et de soleil

Partagent à chacun de ses soldats

Le goût doux-amer de la quête achevée,

Ce sont des membres endoloris

Qui giguent dans une marre de sens

Que l’on supplie, que l’on somme, de saluer en passant

Pour entrendre, juste une dernière fois, leur voix s’élever.

.

De cet amas de terres et pierres –

Assis, debouts – merveilles se sont dressées.

On eût beau n’espérer que le tier

De ces poings fièrement levés

Que ni badaud ni roi ni dieu

N’eût vu son sourire se tarir,

Mais quand l’or des fous coule à flot

Dans les vivants murmures des vents

Et qu’un million de pièces d’âmes

Se lâchent corps en cris de coeurs,

C’est la force d’un peuple qui se clâme.

.

Un peuple au armes de nature

Veillant sur mille et une nuit,

Resplendissant de ces rares couleurs

Qui dépassent les contours,

En un endroit, en un moment,

Vivant les aides, chassant l’ennui.

.

L’incroyable s’est produit,

Que de zéros, que de héros.

.


Pour des gens nuls qui font des trucs nuls pour d’autres gens nuls. C’est nul. <3

Un choeur en chantier

.

L’écho d’un pas sur le pavé

Suffit à l’oreille attentive,

Nul besoin du cri entravé

De l’âme un moment encore vive,

.

Pourtant l’esprit doute du coeur

Qui déjà a sonné l’alarme,

Et c’est sous le glas de la peur

Que la voix devient si belle arme;

.

Si près et si incroyablement for

Pourtant trop loin pour nous être crédible,

Tramblante est la belle sous l’effort

S’agenouillant devant l’inaudible.

.


Qui prie sous le poids d’une foi ne plie sous celui d’une autre. – Inconnu

Hemlock

.

Hemlock in a bind, torn about the wrists,

Trapped in a gilded safe shackled to ropes of stone,

A black horse of turns and twists enthralls the frightened waif

Attempting to atone for her struggles and strife.

Tis freedom chased from life,

There are those of one mind whose faithless soul has gone,

What visage do they adorn? A silent lake of water still

Brings a strange glow to the mire,

The great hunt shall again go on far into the lights of morn;

To those whom chase beyond free will

Hope shall never be but fire.

*

Guarded is the lone heart against freedom tossed

However at what cost ?

.


Ghost riders in the sky follow the red sun.

Invitation au repos

.

Oh qu’elles sont belles nos amours échouées sur le sable chaud

Lorsque la marée vient lécher doucement nos pieds,

Qu’elles sont orgueilleuses les délices de l’été

A la lumière diaphane des flots sur le ciel reflétée,

Et quelles délicieuses orgues de félicité

Que les barbaries qui roucoulent à mes oreilles

Alors que la plus belle des reines, la douce abeille

Qui butine mes nuits et virevolte pareille

Au crayon de rouille et de suie dansant sur du papier,

Boit les gouttes de pluie qui filent entre les feuilles de mon coeur artichaut,

Nous enlaçons nous ? Nous en lassons-nous ? Nous en laissons-nous ?

Que de fils à délier, que de fils à tisser, pour cette mer qui nous dénoue.

.


Il y a parfois, en quelques mots, plus de beauté cachée aux sens se révélant l’âme, qu’en cent tirades ascérées ou en mille pages éclairées.

Alas, well…

*

This one is for the lost wherever they be found

This one is for the tossed from heavens to the ground

This one is a simple call to the better days

A bandage on the scar that has long not opened

It is as ominous to those who are threatened

As it is life-saving to the great fool that prays

There is little to be yet still less said than gone

This one is for those who seek the unseekable

And for all of those who sink the unthinkable

This is the legacy of all that has been done

By the poet, in truth, by their hand and their heart

Despite the gears of steel that revolve moon and sun

Around the earthy plain in attempts to outsmart

The reader and their no-good, very bad sense of fun…

*


♪ It’s made of teeny tiny nothings ♫

*

In the life-threads of Charlotte

.

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…

.


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: