Thigh-high

monsieur Aristead et Claude

Monsieur Aristead et Claude

 

Villeseque below

Villeseque below

“It’s not just a question of conquering a summit previously unknown, but of tracing, step by step, a new pathway to it.” – Gustav Mahler

“Keep close to Nature’s heart… and break clear away, once in awhile, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean.” – John Muir

 

 

 

 

 

Thigh-high

I was thigh-high in

Brambles

Claude, monsieur Aristead et moi

Climbing mount Saint Pierre

The sun beat down on us

Le ciel jamais plus bleu

Thorns scratched at me

Tearing my shirt

And flesh

Till blood trickled

Down my arms

Warm, sticky – yet

Feeling no pain

Still higher we climbed

Un trône de pierre

We have reached its

Crown – our reward

Villeseque et Durban

Tranquility beneath our feet

Intoxicated – together we

Revel in the sunshine

Reluctantly – mais ensemble

We begin our descent

*

Bisous,

Léa 

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Procrastination

“Time passes irrevocably.”   – Virgil

 

“Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone.”

  • - Pablo Picasso

 

“Procrastination is like masturbation. At first it feels good, but in the end you’re only screwing yourself.” – Author unknown, possibly from Monty Python?

 *

Procrastination

 

It can wait until

Tomorrow – that idea

Spinning around in my head

I just have to run these errands

I shall write that poem

Later – sometime next week

I shall have plenty of time

Once this season has ended

There will be no excuses

For getting back to the project

Long awaited novel – I will

Get to it soon – have you

Ever noticed how swiftly

Time dissipates? There is

Never enough of it to

Accomplish what I want

No, that will have to wait

Perhaps I can get to it

Next week, or better yet

After the New Year?

And once again I’ve

Lost another opportunity

When does it end?

C’est fini avec moi!

*

Bisous,

Léa

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La flâneuse

“The writer should never be ashamed of staring. There is nothing that does not require his attention.”    – Flannery O’Conner

 

“Poetry fettered, fetters the human race. Nations are destroyed or flourish in proportion as their poetry, painting, and music are destroyed or flourish.”   - William Blake

 

“The voice of passion is better than the voice of reason. The passionless cannot change history.”   – Czeslaw Milosz

 

*

 

La flâneuse

 

C’est moi –  la flâneuse ( le flâneur)

Moth eaten – béret noir

My imperial crown

Climbing, descending

Village to village

All about town

Meandering the streets,

Villages and cities of

La belle France

Like Walt Whitman

Declarations of poetry

Observations – running

Commentary of my

Scrutiny – meditations,

Entreaties, prayers, odes,

Declarations in verse

Poetry – my creed

*

If you look up the word today flâneuse – feminine of flâneur, the dictionary would give the word stroll. Yet recently I read a brief passage describing 19th century poets in Paris as a flâneur – one who strolled about the streets of Paris crying out in verse much as the American poet, Walt Whitman was known to do on the streets of Manhattan.

Bisous,

Léa

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Mots errant / Wandering words

“Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves.”   - Henry David Thoreau

 

“Not all those who wander are lost.”   – J.R.R. Tolkien

 

“Wandering re-establishes the original harmony which once existed between man and the universe.”   – Anatole France

 

 

Mots errant / Wandering words

 

I love taking words

For a walk

Seeing where they

Will go and even better

Where they will take me

 

A simple phrase or word

Like a launching pad

Recycled by me or

Truth be told

Merely taking me along

 

Les mots – soyez résilient

Creating both map and path

Like a child’s puzzle

C’est moi – connecter les points

To get lost – is to find oneself

*

Bisous,

Léa

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Affair with Hemingway

“I didn’t want to kiss you goodbye – that was the trouble – I wanted to kiss you good night – and there’s a lot of difference.”  –  Ernest Hemingway

“They love me like a pack of wolves.”   – Ernest Hemingway

“Love is forever. Lust is for the moment. Got a moment?

 –  Michael Gorman

 

Affair with Hemingway

 

Remote corners of café

Closerie des Lilas

Summer evenings beneath stars

Sidewalk tables and stories

Late at night – mon chambre

I take you to my bed

Crawl deep inside your stories

I have my way with you

You reach out through time

Together, we do Paris

Huddled in corners

Sipping wine and champagne

Dark Smokey tables shared

Avec Fitzgerald, Ezra et

Ford Madox Ford

War stories, the bulls

Nights at Bricktops

Josephine’s rocking the joint

Gertrude’s salon

Champagne et art du jour

Picasso, Modigliani

Breathless with anticipation

I surrender and plead for more

It is the life – it is life

C’est magnifique!

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The other side of the story – National Adoption Month

After reading an article on National Adoption Month, I wrote the following poem. The author of the article blames adoption for her issues. I remember as a young child praying each night that either my ‘real’ mother appear as ‘the mother’ hated me so and couldn’t actually be my mother or that my father would find someone kind who would have us both. After my unanswered prayers, I would cry myself to sleep.

My steps took me to university where I majored in Psychology obtaining my Master’s Degree and as a single parent then began working at a private therapy clinic and with Child Protection.

I do acknowledge the woman’s pain. However, she appears to have other issues and is so focused on ‘being adopted’ she cannot put a foot forward. I’ve been the kid that should have been surrendered for adoption. I’ve also worked with both sides both as a private therapist and in Child Protection. I know how bad the system is and often the kids end up with relatives who are not far from the parent/s they were removed from and/or do not protect them from said parent/s. 
When I was about four, I began going to the next door neighbors home to help with her clients. Mrs. Jones was a speech therapist for the Crippled Children’s Society. There were often children sitting in her living room waiting to be seen or siblings that needed to be distracted while they waited. Helping with these children and being an early reader helped me to focus outside a situation that was out of my control.

The poem below is offered to all those parents who put the child first and to all those children adopted or not who are survivors of some of life’s harshest realities. This piece is also for those brave individuals who step forward and make a difference in the life of these children.  In the end, it is all about love. Some never have been on the receiving end and don’t have love to give. Some have love in abundance. My sincere wish that all would find peace. I know from personal experience that my peace came from learning, understanding and perhaps most of all, reaching out to others who were or are still in pain.

 

“Biology is the least of what makes someone a mother.” – Oprah Winfrey

*

The other side of the story

 

Yes! I’ve no doubt

How painful it must be

Finding out your mother

Didn’t want, didn’t keep

You

Always knowing that she

Didn’t want you

Couldn’t keep you

Left you to the care

Of others

Whoever they may be

Searching crowds

For genetic similarities

Are they a part of me?

Where do I belong?

That eternal search

For home, acceptance,

Unconditional love

 

From my earliest memories

I would pray that my “real”

Mother would find me

I must have been put

Here by mistake

Yet her proof – horrific

Caesarean scar – my crime

Fragmentizing for a girl of three

Prayers for my father to

Find someone else who

Would be kind to us both

Hatred by – the mother

The word ‘mother’ still

Makes me queasy

 

Target for her rage

Making sure bruises didn’t show

Sold off to the grandma’s

Boyfriend – deacon of the church

For him to scatter his holy seeds

And cleanse my wickedness

Father unable to defend him self

Becoming his defender

Deflecting her rage onto myself

Believing he wouldn’t survive

And I would be alone, yet

I was always on my own

Never a kind word, nor

Gentle touch

 

I tell my story not for pity

Now at last I’m free

If you were adopted

Perhaps that mother

You search for

Spared you from my fate

And others who suffered more

Knowing she was not able

Perhaps the choice was not hers?

If you were treated kindly

You’ve much to be grateful for

Try forgiving – we never forget

It is on the road to healing

Then reach out to

Those who still suffer

Taking the focus off ourselves

Catharsis for healing

*

Bisous,

Léa

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You are what you read…

 

“Every day we should hear at least one little song, read one good poem, see one exquisite picture, and, if possible, speak a few sensible words.”  

  • - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

 

“I must say I find television very educational. The minute somebody turns it on, I go to the library and read a good book.”   – Groucho Marx

 

“I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.”   – Oscar Wilde

 

*

 

You are what you read

 

That is what he said

I read it today

On his blog

One of the lines

On his blog post

Re-reading Borges

Caught my attention

Waved that carrot

Of taking a line

For a walk

Across a snowy white sheet

Virginal papers – now splattered

With specks of black – letters

Letters forming words

Tony’s poem puts it out there

You are what you read

I think back to the diet of this year

My summer sustained by

Hemingway – a little light reading

Then on to Sinclair Lewis

Earlier in the year there were

Antoine Saint Exupery

The Little Prince – resplendent

En français et anglais

Speaking to me in my

Annual reading of each

Jasper Fforde for humor

There is always a generous

Helping of poetry on the menu

Baudelaire, Paul Éluard, en français

Recently discovered, Serge Roy

With a generous helping

Of Dorothy Parker and Neruda,

Razor sharp wit and passion

Books about writing – reminding

Me, to just write

Journal of a Swedish ancestor

Crossing the plains circa 1890’s

The book thief, several memoirs

Biographies of the great and everyday people

Tony, it is just as you say

You are what you read

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