still

“Touch has memory.”   –  John Keats

 

“So she thoroughly taught him that one cannot take pleasure without giving pleasure, and that every gesture, every caress, every touch, every glance, every last bit of the body has its secret, which brings happiness to the person who knows how to wake it. She taught him that after a celebration of love the lovers should not part without admiring each other, without being conquered or having conquered, so that neither is bleak or glutted or has the bad feeling of being used or misused.”   –  Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha

 

“Who taught you to write in blood on my back? Who taught you to use your hands as branding irons? You have scored your name into my shoulders, referenced me with your mark. The pads of your fingers have become printing blocks, you tap a message on to my skin, tap meaning into my body. Your morse code interferes with my heartbeat. I had a steady heart before I met you, I relied upon it, it had seen active service and grown strong. Now you alter its pace with your own rhythm, you play upon me, drumming me taut.”  

Jeanette Winterson,  Written on the Body

 

 

still

*

i lie in your

arms

watching you sleep

not wanting to wake

you

yet this appetite

this hunger

for more

you

grows

with each breath

you take

*

still

i want to touch

you

to

rèpondez à plusieurs

reprises

to the cool

then searing

brand you leave

on my flesh

inside

a chorus of

cells

echo the mantra

you, you, you

jusque-là

i remain

under your spell

*

bisous,

léa

Victory in Europe

Victory in Europe

No

I was not

Even a gleam

In my father’s eye

As he marched into

Paris

Teeth clenched

Jaw drawn tight

It was years

Before

*

Yet today

I stood with

My village

And thought of

Him

And others

I would never

Know

*

Many laid down

Their lives

Others carried their

Scars back home

Like my father’s

A war he never

stopped fighting

Not all scars

Can be seen

*

Another war

Many years before

Both grandfathers

Trod this precious soil

Though they never knew

Each other

Both went home

With damaged lungs

TB and the other

Mustard gas

*

One I was never

To meet

Yet today

As Europe

Honours those

Who sacrificed

I stood with my village

In the land they fought for

The land that I love

And remembered

Them

*

Bisous,

Léa

Résonance de la vie

“The leaves of memory seemed to make
A mournful rustling in the dark.”
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Résonance de la vie

They say

Hearing is the last sense

To close down

As we die

I have always had

Sensitive hearing

Will the echo of

The flames

Lapping at me

Carry me off

From this life

To what lies

Ahead

Résonance

Of a child’s cry

The lover’s threat

Crashing of waves

Ricochet

Accompany me now

And evermore

Better the laughter

And tears

Than no sounds

At all

Bisous,

Léa

cheveux

“Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.”

– Kahlil Gibran

” I’m not offended by all the dumb-blonde jokes because I know that I’m not dumb. I also know I’m not a blonde.”

– Dolly Parton

“Long hair is considered bohemian, which may be why I grew it, but I keep it long because I love the way it feels, part cloak, part fan, part mane, part security blanket.”

– Marge Piercy

 

cheveux

first appears as down
changing on her own
to anemic gold
braided, ponytail,
teased, bleached,
coiffed
losing her virginité
to clairol
at thirteen – noir
anything was better
than blonde
in those days anyway
teased, sprayed, curled
which never lasted
permanents: a study in frizz
pulled, yanked,
the rope he drug her by
cut over and over
not always by choice
re-cast as RED (more than once)
post divorce
a middle age frosting
decked out for sons wedding
she appears grey
as it grows out
the greys are few
you must look close
thin, fair, straight
shiny
fringed to the lash
imprisoned
by a clip
for her crimes

bisous,

léa

Mirror Mirror

“Blessed are they who see beautiful things in humble places where other people see nothing.” – Camille Pissarro

Mirror, Mirror

I embark on a journey

To find out just who is this person

Buried inside my eyelids

The one who lurks in front of the bathroom mirror

As I blow-dry my hair each morning

She mimics my movements

While I brush my teeth and short reddish hair

Thank you Clariol

Or is she mocking me?

We share a wardrobe

It is debatable whom the clothes fit better

I prefer to think the mirror is the one

Telling the tall tales

A mirror should never be believed

If it were kinder

Perhaps I wouldn’t avoid its glare

Bisous,

Léa