Free Verse # 410 (my life)

My heart at dawn
soundlessly breaking;
in the forest
a swoosh of leaves,
and the song of a bird
that spent the night
searching for its nest.

~

In a blind world
I press my poem
to the wound of the sky

~

All the poetry I wrote
and you did not read
I’ll burn and blow,
fireflies in the night.

~

The sun has set;
of one cloth are weaved
my soul and the sky’s.

~

The sun,
blood red as it sinks;
my heart a coal
of untamed desire.

~

I live alone
at the edge of dawn
and no one
save a poem and a bird
comes to knock on my door.

~

Her and me –
the two wings of a bird gliding
in the silence of dawn.

~

I think of you the way silence spreads through the bosom of the night.

~

In the wave of his longing
she slept,
a leaf folded
in the silence of the sky.

~

My life,
little absences
converging
in the great heart
of the sea.

My life,
a great absence,
a thin ink line
of fading poetry.

~

J’ai beaucoup vie dans ton ombre. Je brille de ta lumière.

~

Trying to forget her whom I never met.

~

The aura of her light
enticing me to touch her
with the ray of poetry

~

Somewhere
in a secret place of her heart
I once loved,
I once lost.

Free Verse # 409 (the breath of a candle)

My touch in her skin…
the breath of a candle
whispering to the stars

~

Ce que la nuit étouffe, l’amour rallumera  – instinct du poète.

~

To touch her
with the heart of poetry ;
to touch her
and hear the poem
go silent,
pregnant
with the light of dawn.

~

Love is a state that wants to be secure in its vulnerability.

~

In the silence
I am painting you again,
brush dipped
in the tea breath,
pen in the ink
of a thousand kissing lovers.

~

In the fading light of dusk
as the fog trembled
like a blanket over the forest
a deer came and went swiftly
and my startled heart
found itself again
inside the poetry

~

La soie de sa peau,
le feu de mon encre –
promesse de poésie

~

The fingers of the night
strum her dark hair,
with each plucked string
the jasmine scent wafts
and goes everywhere, everywhere.

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.