Writing

Poetry


En Français


Playing with more than language
as I tourne les mots
singing my observations with undulations
that mimic the Alps' jagged cuts and lake's ebb and flow.

I become my self's double -
the anglophone hovering in a reflecting
energy - a surrounding orb -
that contains the beast
which grows exponentially
as its senses are overstimulated
be a white asparagus, crisply clean with earthly odor,
a creamsicle painted sixteenth century facade, leaning
at eighty-five degrees, away from the sun,
an irregular stone's perfect placement in a wall
of what could have been reject construction items -
here all fit together in complementing harmony.

Sipping the tiny concentration of bitter, fragrant caffeine,
I am surrounded by storytellers, philosophers, mothers -
sitting with a listener, a book, a child -
all creating a perfect space at the square
tiled table and weaved wicker chairs they occupy.

I see myself sitting there
simultaneously isolating and blending -
smoke then the waiter's interaction break the frame.

Harmonies in minor chords chanting
transcendent notes, mixing two tones -
the soft hues of my dreams, like a still wet oil canvas,
and the saturated acrylics of hyper reality.


August 1, 2012
Café Curt, Annecy, France

Le Matin, Dijon

C'est pour reveiller naturellement
Life comes to me
Calm - paisible
In Dijon - the façades are blanc
It is a stone city, not even stagnant trees
Rectangular pavage
Empty silky cemented streets
that glise in the coming rain
Archways frame solid wooden doors
Solitary colors: red, turquoise, emerald...
They breathe - the only sighs in the city
As if channeling the souls of Dijon's interiors.

I look up at a sky in cloud cover
The same colors of the buildings
White, gray, beige - making me
Look closer here and at the stones'
Dissonant tones - rainbows of white
In constant conversation.


August 12, 2012
Dijon, France

Chez Chateau d'Island


Reentering the chateau gates
after a walk - imagining home's approach.

It would look this way in the past
six centuries - the same
chestnut trees lining the back
entryway - the same stones carefully
laid in flat walls and curved formation
along the tour, with key holed windows
and spiral staircases the archer would descend
counter clockwise to channel the strength
of his right sword-bound arm.

But now, not even a guard dog protects
this peaceful domain in Bourgogne -
donkeys and cows welcome visitors
with curious large eyes and a trot
toward barbed wire fences.

Eating my bread and mirabelle jam,
I explore the rafters and strange interior
with my gaze - looking for the ghosts that woke me
several times during the night.  Their breaths
just loud enough to be felt as they linger
in timeless topography, never-
ending harmony.

August 13, 2012
Near Vezellay, France