Wandering Thought # 92

Poets love intensely because they invent their love long before they live it. Their lover is an active fire that brews in the marrow of their soul. Their carnality is an animal ferocity softened, spiritualized and intensified by their imagination and longing. Poets are the animals of the soul.


Haiku # 648

His words in her ears…
Seashells divulging
the secret of the sea
A la table du poète
devant l’encrier
songe le vieux papier
Ses cheveux noirs
maison aux eaux coulants
au fond de la terre
Matin brisé
par la brume…
Le souffle de la mer
A l’abri du silence
la chandelle fane
lentement la nuit
Peignant la nuit
le noir
de ses cheveux.
Notre amour
dans dix milles ans…
Etoile sur la mer
Eight to five job…
the bird at my window
teasing with his smile
Haiku pond
the shadow of a bird
passing at dusk
Fallen in love…
The changed color
of her eyes

Wandering Thought # 50

The invention of aviation was not a utilitarian invention. Reading through its history one realizes that its root and outgrowth came the human imagination, from an irrational fixation on the reveries where man saw himself flying, felt himself in flight, and so ached to achieve flying that from the profundity of a love that persisted through millennia he was finally able to materialize his dream.
In the end, much of our modern inventions with which we pride ourselves owe themselves to this — poetry and witchcraft, the ability to imagine new things, impossible things. For all his rationality, man, more than he knows, will always be close to the poet’s heart — his passions, which are inescapable, will make sure of this.

Prière de Minuit

La chandelle brûle,
sa flamme toute la nuit
ses soupirs
des oiseaux de feu
imprégnant mon corps,
des souffle d’amours
prenant pour nid
l’océan de mon cœur,
île de soleil,
fontaine de lumière
coulant vers l’infini rive
de ses lèvres,
l’éternel azure
de ses yeux,
voulant en elle
devenir poème sacré,
rosée d’aube,
et pureté incarne.

Free Verse # 313 (singing the eternity of love and life)

In the gray of dawn
my heart tolls,
its chime rolling
through veils of mist,
and tolling it calls
my vanquished tears
in the breaking light
to unfurl like flowers.


In the sky of dawn
the poem awakens,
its wings of light
across the earth stretching,
shaking the stardust
from the drowsy eyes.


Silent star-flower
my touch on her skin
glowing through the night,
its burning nectar
across her hills flowing
in liquid wingbeats
of fiery wine.


My poem
a tree in the forest
awaiting the return
of your fire-birds
to dwell like stars
amid my branches
and sing the eternity
of love of life