Le Rêve

“A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest.”  – Oscar Wilde

“All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible.”  – T. E. Lawrence

“The most pitiful among men is he who turns his dreams into silver and gold.”  – Khalil Gibran

le rêve

what is?

what was

the dream?

did it look

feel

taste

like this?

was it here?

were these people

in the dream?

since earliest

childhood

i knew that i

needed to leave

needed out

escape?

NO, to be where

i BELONGED

for the very

first time

along the way

there was some travel

and existing in other states

california, new york even

the mid-west

summers in

canada

seattle and more

none of them were

home

later travels

to england

holland, belgium

thailand, vietnam

each filled with

delight and

wonder

albeit

lacking

throughout this

journey my

internal compass

drew me to

europe

was it because

roots were there

yet there never were

any roots

until

i came to

FRANCE

finding home

belonging

despite fledgling

tongue

a knowing

before i

arrived

coming home

dreams can

and do

come

true

*

bisous,

léa

le prophète

“The sun, with all those planets revolving around it and dependent on it, can still ripen a bunch of grapes as if it had nothing else in the universe to do.”  – Galileo Galilei

“If I had to choose a religion, the sun as the universal giver of life would be my god.”  – Napoleon Bonaparte

“Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.”  – Budda

le prophète

to the east

lie switzerland

l’italie et allemand

we caress borders

lumière de soleil

inches her journey

closer to me

my eyes wide

open

awaiting her

arrival

le choeur des oiseaux

extol her arrival

i feel each ray

as she approaches

warming me

nourishing the vines, lavender,

figs

gaining speed

knowing

how quickly she will

leave

across the atlantic

pacific

till all is quiet here

in her wake she

scatters crumbs

starlight

echoing whispers

we are not

alone, and

a promise of

tomorrow

Bisous,

Léa

surrender

“At fifteen life had taught me undeniably that surrender, in its place, was as honorable as resistance, especially if one had no choice.”  – Maya Angelou

“The creative process is a process of surrender, not control.”  – Julia Cameron

“Growth demands a temporary surrender of security.”  – Gail Sheehy

surrender 

resistance

was mine

hours of

hand-cramping

as I strangled

numerous pens

pencils and other

weapons of war

filling journals

notebooks

scraps of paper

as I found them

believing that words

must come from

soul to paper

undisturbed by

typewriters,

computers, anything

non-organic

the source must

flow free

years of scribbling

illegible

even to me

frustration builds

technology and i

never friends

could not be

trusted to convey

bleeding of the heart

to prove my point

white flag raised

provisional truce

a torrent of words

unconstrained

by the impediment of

bad penmanship

my surrender now

complete

Bisous,

Léa

Operative Definition

“Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. There is no happiness like mine. I have been eating poetry.”

– Mark Strand

“Poetry is what gets lost in translation.”  – Robert Frost

“Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry.”

– W.B. Yeats

Operative Definition:

The poet is a cannibal

She must gnaw all the meat from the bones

Then suck up the marrow

 

Bisous,

Léa

 

Pied fâchés

Instead of the usual quotes, today’s blog is to give a nod to the delightfully creative woman, Sandy Ackers. This is the second poem I have posted that came directly from one of her creative inspirations. You don’t need to have writer’s block to benefit from her “creative bursts”. Just accept the challenge and enjoy the ride. You can find Sandy at Strangling My Muse or http://stranglingmymuse.wordpress.com  Come play in the sandbox!

Pied fâchés

Once again

Came the argument

First there were

The whimpering

Complaints

But as always

They grew louder

You hate that

I have imprisoned

You

In those heavy boots

Thick socks

As we walk

The beautiful hills

That surrounds us

You don’t believe

I do it to protect you

From all the stones

And other detritus

You beg and plead

For sandals

Or total exposure

As always

I make sweet promises

To coax you onward

Afternoon

Having your way with

warm sand

seductively massaging

Prelude to full pardon

Revival at

Sea

Bisous,

Léa

self-help

“Anxiety is part of creativity, the need to get something out, the need to be rid of something or to get in touch with something within.”
– David Duchovny

“Creativity is just connecting things. When you ask creative people how they did something, they feel a little guilty because they didn’t really do it, they just saw something. It seemed obvious to them after a while. That’s because they were able to connect experiences they’ve had and synthesize new things.” – Steve Jobs

self-help

writing like painting

the machine at the boardwalk

pulling taffy

no matter the toughness

of the material

all is brought to the surface

to be examined

in the light

if I pause

stand back

reflect on my work

my interest is vested

before rendering

judgment

Bisous,

Léa

Wounded

“Parents wonder why the streams are bitter, when they themselves have poisoned the fountain.” – John Locke

“There can be no keener revelation of a society’s soul than the way in which it treats its children.” – Nelson Mandela

“A person’s a person, no matter how small.” – Dr. Seuss

Wounded

The tiny blonde woman wails like a banshee

Invoking her curse that I not see my children again

Since the Courts ruled she can’t see her children again

Says she will take me out like Rambo

Court orders sever familial ties

As Reunification services are terminated

A three-year-old boy

Whose name she doesn’t remember “You know, the one I hit.”

And social workers are left to assess detriment

For future visits with this parent

There will be no contact

And Jeffery learns he doesn’t have to hide

Each time he hears footsteps

Doesn’t cower at the knock on the door

The door is not after him It won’t slam him down

As when momma calls from the other side

His vocabulary multiplies each day

His now chubby freckled cheeks widen

As a grin spreads across his face

He runs to the waiting arms of his foster mother

Learning to trust – there are no tricks here

No fist hidden behind her back

Waiting to strike out

Like the eerie hissing of the snake

Whose incantations are lifted from my voice mail

Voice printing

As the sheriff’s department collects evidence

My office building covered with her picture

Covered with warnings – Do not approach

Report sightings immediately

She says that it is her daughter that she loves

The one with the heart condition … her name is Brittany

Does she remember?

Does she remember the names of any of the others?

Six others – each who have different homes

In different states across the country

Altered states

Is time healing their wounds? Do the scars show?

The deepest ones rarely do

Thousands of miles from here

Other social workers are dealing with scars

From the tiny blonde woman

Who wails like a banshee

On my voice mail

In their nightmares

In the quiet of my room

Late at night

Back at the office

I hesitate Before answering the phone

At work they tell me to be careful

“Watch your back” “get an escort to your car”

Reassurance that law enforcement is looking

For the tiny blonde woman

Is obtaining a warrant

They lie in wait for her

As she lie in wait for Jeffery

On the other side of the door

As she lies in wait for me

Wailing

This wounded animal

Lies in wait

Waiting to strike

And I wonder about the animal

That wailed lying in wait for her

Ripping its claws deep inside

Shredding her mind, her soul

Wounded, wailing

The tiny blonde woman

Wails and

Waits

Bisous,

Léa

blocked

“Ideas may drift into other minds, but they do not drift my way.
I have to go and fetch them. I know no work manual or mental to equal the
appalling heart-breaking anguish of fetching an idea from nowhere.”

– A. A. Milne

blocked

will tortured lines appear
stuttering fingers tremble across
the keyboard
an exercise in hit and miss
the empty mind hopes
perhaps the laws of probability
would be kind
smiling in verse

fingers shudder, spasm and freeze
from a distance, grey matter bounces
thought and metaphor
till they coagulate
in cerebral jelly
synapse arrested
white pages glare
laughingly at me

Bisous,

Léa

Meditations on Friendship

“In everyone’s life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.”
– Albert Schweitzer

Written after being invited in for tea at Rita’s …

She lives her days and nights in the cooler part of town

Coaxing life out of clay, fabric and wood

Her long flowing robes announce she will not cave in

To the demands of fashion

Better homes and gardens do not call for a photo shoot

Too many books, movies, cd’s and collections

Too many bits and pieces waiting to be conscripted

Into her next masterpiece

We all have but a few precious days in this incarnation

She chooses differently than many

Did I tell you she is wise?

Travel is her opium and she will have it

Feeding her habit in far away lands

She knows the beauty of each different face

Raising the chalice of adventure and drinking her fill

I sing delirious from the exposure

Her mantra – the eternal YES!

French café beat, the rhythm thunders through her

A meditation in dance

Bisous,

Léa

Birds of Prey – Saigon

This is my simple religion. There is no need for temples; no need for complicated philosophy. Our own brain, our own heart is our temple; the philosophy is kindness.
– Dalai Lama

birds of prey

the priest and huyen

sit across from the dying mother-in-law

tham, she is Buddhist

and afraid

they smell the rotting meat

of fear

tham is afraid to die

the priest –  eager to convert her

in her time of fear

they hover eagerly

will she take their bait?

a precaution added insurance for

her journey

leaving it behind

whatever use it might be

discarded in a heap with silken pajamas

left behind

as she crosses through the final exit

what remains of 53 years

of traditions

rituals handed down

from her ancestors

will they pick those

bones clean

they chant as they recite the beads

and count her among those caught

in their net

Bisous,

Léa