This is too beautiful not to share it would be dereliction on my part.
Snowflakes of memory fall Kissing the gentle night, Melting on my skin In the moonlight. I remember winter, Sunlight on frozen hills When I sought summer In the pale eyes of spring, And found the gold of autumn Waiting in the silence As the seasons turned.
Due to WordPress issues, this site (http://foundinfrance) is currently in hiatus and its fate undecided as of yet.Therefore, I have reblogged it onto the poetry blog. However, you are most welcome to visit this other site, https://poetryphotosandmusingsohmy.wordpress.com
As you may notice this a reblog from the past but relevant. Both have been active since 2011 and many posts to choose from. Thank you.
La Fête du Muguet, La Fête du Travail, May Day in France is a public holiday to campaign for and celebrate workers’ rights. It is also an occasion to present Muguet, lily-of-the-valley, or dog rose flowers to loved ones. Often it is just a single sprig of Muguet with a few leaves. However, some will incorporate a rose or even add several sprigs of Muguet to a much larger arrangement or plant.
How is the day celebrated: People across France give bouquets (or a single sprig) to their loved ones. In some areas, families will get up early to go into the woods to pick the flowers. Labor organizations will sell the flowers on the streets on May 1. Special regulations enable individuals and some groups to sell the flowers on May 1 without complying with retail regulations or paying a tax.
Parades and demonstrations to campaign for the rights…
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1 The Depth under the Moon Moonlight melts languidly on liquid lakes like suds on dishes like snow on windows like thicker skin over age-old scars. Moonlight floats momentarily on rippling reflections like the tingle after kisses like the scent after sex like the pain after parting. Moonlight flirts on the water to divine […]
If you do not understand Portuguese, this is well worth clicking the translation button for.
Há palavras de vulgar despojo,
Pois porque o normal é dar, logo
Eu me dou, de mim próprio, tal
Como choro ou respiro e me redimo,
Mortal despojo, nome de guerra, nojo,
Guerreiro de latão, charlatão, só de incerteza
Tenho pose chaves e certidão; desejo é
Bom-porto, Porto-bom tem Zenão,
O silêncio é absurdo e o meu espírito
Paira longe ao longo, pois já não é só o pensar
Que me foge, eu que fujo de me pensar
Morto e mudo, cego debruçado em via-estreita,
Consciente da derrota, fama é lama e o facto
De ser dissemelhante a algum outro
Espécime de peixe-monge, faringe desfeita
E traqueia, difíceis de engolir, de pesar,
Há palavras de vulgar despojo, nojo
Porém me dá a fala sem emoção, “fio-prumo”,
Por isso choro, quando respiro
De fora para dentro…e me dou,
Cego debruçado em via-estreita e oblonga,
Vivo metaforicamente falando pra fora
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Thank you again Tony. Your work never fails to inspire me.
Originally written in 1999.
In the year I turned thirty nine
the peonies did not die
quite the same way
as the peonies always had before
In the year I was thirty-eight
the fragile man I was then
looked at the peonies
in the backyard
The progress of the year
seemed so fast
I thought about how quickly
those pink and white heads
would droop and drop their petals
fade and decay
I feared that if the year of thirty-eight
continued this pace into
my years of forty forty-one forty-two and beyond
every thing I had learned
by putting myself together
would come undone
But then in the year
I was thirty nine
I learned that in remembering
the scent of peony
the heat of their pink
the regal ice of their white
in all these memories
there was enough of youth to make
my mortality irrelevant
I learned that thirty nine was an opening and not
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If you are not familiar with the work of Randall Collis, please do yourself a favor and read through this post.
I’ve never welcomed the darkness as much as tonight. The isolation clears my head; this solitude of nothingness, paraphrasing the philosophy of the Dao de Jing, …holds everything.
Such silence is rare here on the streets of one of Europe’s oldest cities, where in the daytime each passing second arrives quicker than the last. At this hour, however, time essentially stands still.
The shadow of night creeps through my body, its blackness cloaking my soul to reveal a calmness lacking the past few months. The lights, blinding during the day, become relief at this hour. An hour of perception. An hour of contrast, of paradox.
All encasing a world I seldom visit; deep into the night where elegance and vulgarity sit side-by-side on a curb, fused together through their unique naïveté by the darkness that surrounds.
The grace and coarseness of their melody illuminates who I was, who…
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1- The Silent Tree These birds love the silent tree and like to perch on that bough. You know; the love is unexplained thing but we know it very well. From that lovely bough, the leaves and feathers had fallen with a quarrelsome smile. This was a heavy thing for that tired tree which is filled […]
“In one of those stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night. And when your sorrow is comforted (time soothes all sorrows) you will be content that you have known me. You will always be my friend…I shall not leave you.”
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
“Aim for the moon. If you miss, you may hit a star.”
– W. Clement Stone
“Here is my secret. It’s quite simple: One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eyes.”
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
I curl up
There is no man
It is difficult
“Mirror is my best friend, because when I cry, it never laughs.” – Sir Charles Chaplin
“Blessed are they who see beautiful things in humble places where other people see nothing.” – Camille Pissarro
“If only our eyes saw souls instead of bodies how very different our ideals of beauty would be.” – author unknown
“People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in their true beauty is revealed only if there is light from within.”
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