I’m haunted by the ghost of you
It’s true maybe I’ve had a few
But what am I supposed to do
When my heart is broken into two
I’m chasing a ghost through a bottle of blue
Trying to remember who I was without you
But the more that I try to forget your face
The more I’m attuned to this empty space
The silence is loud, the shadows are deep
I can’t escape you, not even in my sleep
I’m tracing the outline of where you once stood
I’d erase the memory of you right now if I could
I’m wearing your silence like Yves Saint Laurent
My head echoes memories only you seem to haunt
I’ll pour one more glass for the ghost in the room
And let the scent of your absence become my perfume.
Nurse Nicole, with calmest eyes,
Moves through halls where silence lies—
Right hand steady, strong, and sure,
To Dr. Gabriel, she is pure.
Level-headed in the fray,
Guiding hearts from night to day,
With hands that heal and words that mend,
A fierce protector, faithful friend.
In every room, her kindness glows,
Like rivers where the soft wind blows,
Or streams that twist through shaded land—
She reaches out with healing hands.
She speaks in tones both firm and low,
Where pain and panic often grow,
And patients, lost in weary hours,
Feel her strength like sudden flowers.
Among green leaves and tangled trees,
She finds her peace in ocean breeze,
But never shuns the blood or bone,
The mess of life—she stands alone.
Empathy flows like summer rain,
Through aching hearts, through fear and strain,
And though the world may spin and call,
She’s busy, still, among us all.
A light in white, with soul so wide,
She walks where mortal hearts collide,
A woman made of will and grace—
The world feels safer in her place.
A name that whispers on the breath,
A healer in the halls of care,
Where shadows cling and fear holds death,
His steady presence lingers there.
With gentle hands and knowing gaze,
He charts the heart's uncertain sway,
Through intricate and hidden ways,
Where life can falter and decay.
Compassion, like a quiet stream,
Flows from his touch, serene and deep,
An empathy, a waking dream,
For those whose weary secrets sleep.
The holder of life, at times it seems,
When fragile pulses ebb and fade,
A heart beats softly in his dreams,
A life upon his skill is laid.
He sees the rivers, swift and strong,
The steady rhythm, clear and bright,
And when the currents turn out wrong,
He guides them back towards the light.
The ocean's vastness, deep and wide,
Reflects the mysteries he knows,
The surging of the inner tide,
Where health and hope again arose.
And in that space, where tensions cease,
A grateful breath, a whispered plea,
He brings a fragile heart to peace.
"The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever." ~ Jacques-Yves Cousteau
When Cupid’s wishes surf on the tail of a comet,
eventide envelops the tender skyline in stillness,
mirroring sparks of neon stardust on the shore.
Stroking the salt-laced sand in silken rhythm,
while hushed leaves surrender to the sea’s songs,
curating a silent reverie of drifting dreamers,
filling the amethyst air with indigo blooms,
as wind and waves merge, echoing secrets~
like heartbeats aching for a kiss of moonbeams,
amidst fluorescent tides twinkling in tune,
erasing tears in the blush of forgotten sunsets.
Yves Klein trademark IKB
for 'happenings' he loved to see
Influential&a high profile game
achieving '15 minutes of fame'
Selftaught Surrealist Yves Tanguy
you may indeed wonder why
A style more weird than scary
is so so imaginary
Let’s use Majorelle blue, okay?
I nodded.
Knowing nothing of it.
Morocco botanical garden blue.
Named for Jaques Majorelle.
French painter.
Nuturerer of gardens for forty years.
Eighteen years after his death.
Yves St. Laurent and Pierre Berge’ restored it.
A glorious lively cobalt blue.
‘Do I look good in this and I want the honest truth?’
‘Well honey it would help if you stepped outside the booth.’
‘The zip’s a little tight’ she said, so I knew the task ahead,
But I couldn’t really tell her to choose something else instead.
‘What do you think? Is the colour right and what about the length?’
‘I’m not Yves Saint Laurent’ I said, someone give me strength.
There are women all around the place, there are women everywhere,
Being outside the changing rooms, where’s appropriate to stare?
A hundred outfits later and not a single item bought,
Despite vocal approval of the complimentary sort.
And so alas we return to the item at the start,
‘This is my favoured choice’ she said. At least now we can depart!!
The Virgin Maid of Orleans, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s La Pucelle
To Robert Caze*
Even as the blaze crackled around the stake’s pyre,
Joan was deafened by the clergy’s brutal chanting,
Harsh eyes with hate from all the windows demeaning,
She felt her flesh quiver and her soul budge on fire.
And like lambs that resold to the butcher expire
The shepherd roamed with country airs whistling
She reflected in earnest on things and being
And met her lord who ungrateful did conspire.
« It’s wrong, gentle Bastard, sweet Charles*, good Xaintrailles,
To let the English take charge of her funeral
She who forced them to abandon the siege of Orleans. »
And as for Lorraine, the very thought of that injury,
While death clasped in its arms the non-believers,
Weary ! She cried out just as another creature formerly.
• Acc. to Yves-Alain Favre, a journalist (1853-1886), slain in a duel.
• Charles the VII, crowned King at Rheims on July 17, 1429, with the help of Joan of Arc who was then aged 15. It was thought Charles VII may not have been the son of his father, Charles VI, owing to an extra-marital affaire with a Bavarian monarch.
• © T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
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