Bleu

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Armand in his atelier
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Le croix de Cathar

Bleu

Cobalt

As the tiny rivers

Winding beneath

Papery thin skin

I watch as they have slowed

But remember their faster pace                                                    

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Armand et Auguste

Cerulean

As the plastic cannula

From oxygen tank

To your nasal orifice 

Easing each breath

Your hands reach for me

Offering each cheek to be kissed

Royal

As the dancer

In the flames

As you welded and forged

Iron and steel into magnificent forms

Gates, railings but also art

A band of musicians

Prominent upon your mantel

My own, croix de Cathar

A gift like your friendship

Armand

Bleu shall forever

Be the colour of you

Increasingly fragile

As you reach out for Auguste

The great-grandson who shares

Your sparkle from cobalt eyes  

Bisous,

Léa

GIGI ET LE CHAT

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Le chat

*

“I cannot interest myself in anything that is not life.”

“Look for a long time at what pleases you, and longer still at what pains you.”

   Sidonie Gabrielle Colette – Gigi and The Cat

*

Bisous,

Léa

Untitled

Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” – E.L. Doctorow

I get intrigued by a first line and I write to find out why it means something to me. You make discoveries just the way the reader does, so you’re simultaneously the writer and the reader.”                     – E.L. Doctorow

*

Untitled

No

it isn’t like that

not at all

I never set out

to create an

unwanted, unloved

poem

one that would

not be named

it just doesn’t work

that way

I don’t write

a title

for a poem

that grows out

from that name

but let a series

of words take me

on the journey

they have in mind

when they are ready

the words have voice

will tell me who

they are

where they are

leading me

I remain

their humble

servant

*

Bisous,

Léa

Just the facts…

Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative.
– Oscar Wilde

Just the facts…

You are the brightest point of the candles flame

The dandelions in my clover

The first bite of cheesecake

And the solstice of my summer

*

You are the oasis I’ve searched for In my forty years wandering

The checkered flag and hurrahs

At the finish line

You will never be the chip in my teacup

The croutons in my salad

Nor a frog croaking by the pond

*

And you are not the stapler on my desk

You are the warmth of the fire

Chasing away my chill

And the conductor of the symphony

Spilling from my harp strings

*

Perhaps you are the lavender sachet

Tucked beneath my pillow – scenting my dreams

The rhubarb in my pie

And the vibrant oils layered on my canvas

*

Did you realize that I am the foam

Riding the crashing waves, spilling across your rocks,

Pilings and coastlines

the chocolate in your milk

And the peanut butter for your jelly

*

I am the wick for your lantern

The molasses in the gingerbread; full, thickly sweet

With a kick

And the firefly when you lose your way

*

But more than all of this

I will be the suede patch on the sleeve

Of your tweed coat

Hoisting a pint at the Everyman Bistro near

The Mercy River while Beatles on the jukebox take you back in time

I will be the Eleanor Rigby of your memories

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

“When asked , ‘how do you write?’ I invariably answer ‘one word at a time.”                                                     – Stephen King

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

I believe his name is Pablo

Perhaps it is because cats do not live by human patterns, do not fit themselves into prescribed behavior, that they are so united to creative people.” – Andre Norton

“I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little, they become its visible soul.”                            –  Jean Cocteau

“Always the cat remains a little beyond the limits we try to set for him in our blind folly.”                     –  Andre Norton

Perhaps Pablo?
Perhaps Pablo?

I believe his name is Pablo

not just for the artist

but also the poet

the one whose silvery

tongue, slides in and out

of my dreams

*

le petit chat noir

 curled up in

my palm creating

his own corner

de coeur

*

only three weeks old

the eyes still dark like

the gloss of his fur

too soon yet

to bring him home

*

it’s been a decade

since i’ve lived

with a cat

my youngest son took

his – when he parted

*

a niche

caché à mon coeur

arms open, waiting

longing to stroke

his silky black fur

*

hypnotic opus whispers

bestowing solace

allowing me to adore you

prompting my behaviors

putting me in my place

*

j’attends

divine inspiration

mysterious muse

oh passionate one

chez moi est chez toi

*

Bisous,

Léa

My not so secret addiction

“Let us remember: One book, one pen, one child, and one teacher can change the world.”                                 – Malala Yousafzai

“The reading of all good books is like a conversation with the finest minds of past centuries.”                        – Rene Descartes

“There are three kinds of men. The one that learns by reading. The few who learn by observation. The rest of them have to pee on the electric fence for themselves.” – Will Rogers

*

My not so secret addiction

The reasons themselves

Do not matter

Somehow I never got

Around to reading

Vonnegut – yet

Today one of his books

A Man Without a Country

Appeared at my door

Via la poste

*

Scanning a few pages

A quote or two catches

My eye – arousing

Inherent curiosity

My inner cat alerted

The treat is in store

Lying in wait –

Ready to pounce

*

Such is the life

Of the reader

There are always books

Demanding to be read

Authors to discover

Stories to be told – alas

So many books and

Life – gone in a flash

Or a whimper

*

Heady with Sir Chaplin

Halfway through his life

The tower of coming attractions

Beckon seductively

  Cocooned in his story

Yet a restlessness – a whisper

Fear that the lights may darken

Before the next front-runner

Has exposed itself –

Reveal its secrets

Intoxication of the

Literary sensibility

Bisous,

Léa

Magical smart phone

“Technology can be our best friend, and technology can also be the biggest party pooper of our lives. It interrupts our own story, interrupts our ability to have a thought or a daydream, to imagine something wonderful, because we’re too busy bridging the walk from the cafeteria back to the office on the cell phone.” – Steven Spielberg

*

Magical smart phone

Only two apps I think
Invisibility cloak
And time traveling

*

No, I do not have a ‘smart phone’ and am technically challenged. But if I had the above two applications to choose from, I will admit there would be temptation. I would start at The Algonquin Hotel and search out Mrs. Parker and friends then off to visit with Jonathan Swift… Where would such applications take you? What apps would you want or create and where would they take you?

Bisous,

Léa

Mortalitié – tripping the light fantastic

No art is possible without a dance with death.” – Ericka Ostrovsky

The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.”            -Alan Watts

Work like you don’t need the money. Love like you’ve never been hurt. Dance like nobody’s watching.” – Satchel Paige

*

Mortalitié – tripping the light fantastic

Every day of our lives

Each of us dances

Never are we alone

Biding time

Awaiting our dance –

Ballet, tango, Line

Waltzing, flamenco, regardless

The melody may be fast

We may move slowly

Across the floor

Down life’s corridors

Delusions of solitude

When things are darkest

Yet she is always there

Waiting her grand performance

Death is always

With us, a partner

From our birth

Some will dance briefly

In its unshakeable embrace

Nuchal cord – un, deux, trois

Accidents, illness, suicide

Her fluidity – a mask

Caché – she often takes

Partners by surprise

That which doesn’t kill us

We are told – makes us

stronger, for some it does

Some take it – make of it

Conception d’art

Dance each day

As if you were

Nijinsky, Taglioni,

Alvin Ailey

Each to your tune

Remember – mon ami

With each dance, each step

Choreograph your life

Danse avec le coeur

Each step of your life

Bisous,

Léa

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

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Bisous,

Léa