My Church

My church has no wall
my church has no roof,
birds of freedom fly through,
so many stars shine inside,

my church has neither doors
nor stained glass windows,
it is the Lifeblood of Spring,
the golden paintings of Fall.

As simple as a mountain flower,
as strong as a mother,
my church is wider than the sky,
and higher than cathedrals,

for it is the Good in everyone,
the never-ending breath of Life,
the Faith in Love,
my church is Love itself.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

Seventh Life

In a former life I was a cat,
or maybe a carefree chickadee
twirling through the air,
I don’t remember very well.

Centuries later I became
a ghost poet whose dark soul
was riding the Night wind,
chasing stars and winged words.

Since I woke in a world of dreams,
I have been seeking
the path on the rainbow,
but this is my seventh life,

and God only knows
whether tomorrow I’ll be like
shadow turned into Light,
or Light turned into darkness,

and all I can say today is that
I love the way the bird of Hope
sings at twilight and seems to say
I am still not ready to die.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

Clair Matin

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul – and sings the tunes without the words – and never stops at all. (Emily Dickinson)

La Vérité se tait,
le mensonge est bavard.
Aussi devons-nous
chérir le Silence,

endurer, aimer, espérer
et surtout
ne jamais dire du Temps
qu’il est un assassin

car toujours un Clair Matin
plus brillant qu’une étoile
vient pour nous mener
vers d’autres lendemains.

© Frédéric Georges Martin