As if by magic the words appear
like gentle whispers that I hear
they blend together like perfect paint
sometimes whispering ever so faint.
With each brush stroke or tip of pen
the magic flows like peaceful Zen
ink pirouettes upon my page
like a Prima ballerina upon her stage.
Stanzas created as words come to play
forming together like poetic ballet
sometimes moving with beautiful grace
sometimes running to another place.
Words dance and slowly unfold
like a ballet story that needs to be told
starting with a Plie, done with ease
Poems form and aim to please.
There may be days you want to stop
just like The Nutcracker was once a flop
but now it’s famous, shared worldwide
so keep on writing, chasse or glide.
Let words appear without the strain
gently does it, you don’t want pain
Choreography & dance all take time
never rush performance or rhyme.
Fleeing nefarious intent
As watched through a spyglass
Running for forest's protection
With fast steps of chasse
Rifle in his hands aimed, ready
Will the quick shot be heard?
What will he do with a body?
Suddenly vision blurred
How can murder be on his mind
Once his love for her shone
But now hardness upon his face
Matching his heart of stone
He'd lost control of her he knew
She was now in the way
Now she's beyond his reach
He'd find her in a few days
Escaped by magic so it seemed
His life now out of control
He could not rest in peace, eat, or
Think, his power she stole
How will this thickening plot end
I cannot really say
Only a snapshot of the scene shown
I think she got away
Written: December 30, 2022
Contest: Beyond Reach
Sponsor: Mystic Rose
De la croûte à la mie
Parvient l'essentiel de l'ambroisie;
De la préparation à la fourniture
Tournoie la belle tournure.
Miettes pêche en poudre,
Saupoudrées à la surface,
C'est son coup de foudre
Tout à votre chasse.
Taro, crème, lait, pêche bien assortis,
D'ensemble ouatées au sein,
C'était ce à quoi Euphrosyne mordit;
Sa joie se transmet à travers millénaire chemin.
Un bonbon chic au beau milieu,
Comme l'étoile la plus brillante au centre de cieux;
Volubiles velours au pourtours,
Comme l'entrain pour romance pour toujours.
Prenez-en une pincée
Et laissez caresser vos doigts par sa souplesse,
Prenez-en une bouchée
Et laissez adoucir votre palais par sa délicatesse.
Regardez-le souvent,
Que vous ayez la pêche permanente;
Savourez-le souvent,
Que la bonne santé soit à la suivante.
Never ending bombardment
Started an hour prior
To our surprise embarkment
Our lines a bright pyre
The order went and came
Over the top we go
To win the Fuhrer’s fame
Pain we would know
We met them immediately
Tank to tank, hand to hand
We fought them obediently
Fighting for the Fatherland
Outnumbered 3 to 1
Our lead tank hit
I got out grabbed my gun
Then our tank spit
Petrol pouring
Covering my ears
The explosion roaring
Counting my years
Into the grass
Our tank burning
My feet did a chasse
My heart yearning
The Russians are devils, and coming
My friends with pace, leaving
“He can’t be saved” they’re saying
I look down my body… grieving
Blank pages stare back at me
waiting for my mind to pour
its' heart out.
I grab my pen, throw on my
headphones wait, wait for my
mind to give my heart words
that need to be written.
I make my mark, withdraw my hand, I stare.
This is all you see _____
Months have passed since words have
been written, my mind is hesitant
to reveal what my heart tries to
conceal.
Music plays in my ears in hopes
of encouraging my mind to find
its hidden words.
I stop, quote Jonson in my head
an English dramatist & poet...
"Suns, that set, may rise again
But if once we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night. (Volpone)
Yet my mind still remains empty.
Perspiration runs down my face,
my temperature rises, frustration
runs through my veins.
I try yet again
I quote Apollinaire in my head
a French poet...
"Les souvenirs sont cors de chasse
Dont meunt le bruit parmi le vent"
My anger grows
My mind weary
My eyes tire.
As night falls, & its all over
my pages still remain empty
La Tombe d’arbre – Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal’s « Tree Grave » by T. Wignesan
Quand-t-il s’était parti, notre défunt,
Au-delà pour le Monde des Ombres,
Pendant que nous poussions des gémissements,
Nous lui avons enrobé dans d’écorce d’arbres,
Et nous lui avons porté, en récitant
Notre chante de mort lugubre,
Vers sa tombe dans un arbre isolé
Au bord de la Longue Lagune.
Même quand nous sommes bien éloignés
De nos feux de campements éparpillés
Nous ne l’oublions jamais
Ni de jour ni de nuit
En faisant face à l’endroit où il sommeil
Sous la lumière d’une lune blanche,
Au bord des eaux scintillantes
De la lagune silencieuse.
Sont déjà oublié ses exploits de chasse
Et les chansons qu’il avait composées ;
Le pauvre gars tout seul,
Il aura surement de la peur
Quand les vents de la nuit chuchotaient
Leurs aires d’épouvantes
Parmi les chênes marécageux hantés
Au bord de la Longue Lagune.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
When hearts are torn in sorrow
And days await weeks to borrow
A scented Eurasian herb called yarrow
I stand afar in glee;
When blessings are so nearby in mass
And hedgehogs hop upon the green-grass
On a melody for a dancer trying a chasse
I stand afar in glee;
When love is the surname of every being
Shimmering sincerity and guaranteeing
Its rank in holiness and power of freeing
I stand afar in glee!
© Guru Jad 2013
J'ai appris que jamais, les anges ne mentent
Car tout ce qui est faux, emprisonne nos âmes
Loin d'un ciel bien trop haut, dans un destin infame
Lié au sort mauvais, que la tristesse hante
Si tes mots s'effilochent dans de fourbes vibrations
Comme un pauvre instrument, au son désaccordé
En mon corps je ressens l'absence de vérité
Et chasse sans reproche ces affabulations
Je prie pour le pardon, que la grâce divine
Libère ainsi tes chaines et apporte la lumière
qu'au fond de toi reviennent, nobles paroles sincères
Et renoue le cordon à la paix d'origine
Et souviens toi que tricher, ralentit ton destin
Les anges ne mentent pas, ils ne pourraient pas voler
Le poids du mensonge est trop lourd à porter
Et désormais ta vie est entre tes mains.
The motorcycle rooooooooared~~~~~
Like a ravenous lion
Over fresh kill, prancing, charging, pacing
It
Moved through the hoard
Of migrating tourists, frightening the tamer
More passive vagabonds
Lumbering
Forward
On cruise-control
The nameless helmeted driver
Melded with his machine,
Head down. Spine arched,
arms extended on the throttles~~
Blue-jeaned thighs embrace the chasse
A lovers grip..
His forward charge parted the air
A back draft peeled the Harley black T-shirt from
His winter-white skin.
Spring had arrived late to New England.
Better late than never,
The road hog squealed
Sex merely a throbbing growl away
As our lance less Lothario leaves
His own testosterone trail
In an asphalt hail
On the road north.
I watched a lone frill -
flitter 'neath a crescent moon.
A chasse quite brief;
a waltz concluding too soon.
Dusk's nocturnal breath
whirls a foliferous heart.
A ron de jame leap
reinvents classical art.
The plume flits and floats
beyond a stilled rivulet -
one rebel osprey
escaping Swan Lake's ballet.
Tchaikovsky's cygni
are enchanted and enrapt;
as a chaste quill sleeps
'pon the brim of vesper's cap.