By |

Alice’s dream within a dream
and the far side of the Moon
and the big blue tree
and a Spark of Love.

A sprig of heather
has fallen from the sky.
What is it called
when you see in the dark?

Shadows in the Night
love the shade of stars.
How is it that they die
each time a child awakens?

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Illustration: The Blue Tree (Ernst Ludwig Kirchner)

By |

The song of forgotten springs have reached
the dreamer’s heart:
today is the first day of a dream in color.

Last to arrive and last to go is the pale rose’s way.
When it fades butterflies and light will perform
a wonderful mime.

Autumn! Even though we both die at the end
something deep in me will love you
till the end of time!

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Illustration: Afternoon Light, Dogwood (Thomas Kinkade, 1985)

By |

Trees weigh words and light,
and colors drown in the river.
Summer has lost its memory
but gardens remember Spring.

How strange! It seems to me
I am one thousand years old
and I feel like playing again
hide-and-seek with Fall.

I love those ember days
in the breath of the sun.
My soul was born in September:
today is forever.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Illustration: Bridge at Montfoucault (Camille Pissaro, 1874)

By |

In a small white village
on a lovely sunny morning
I met a funny old lady.

She talked about her life
and we laughed a lot.
How beautiful Taormina was!

But everything ends.
“I have a malignant tumor.”
she said with a smile.

In a small white village
I met a friend of the Sun
and my heart is heavy,

so very heavy.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Illustration: Blossoming Almonds in Taormina (Tivadar Kosztka Csontvary, 1902)

By |

ten
let’s try the word

nine
existence

eight
there is a light

seven
in the distance

six
no matter if

five
it’s raining

four
remember

three
the beauty of a rose

two
not eveything ends

one
there we go

zero
come into the rainbow!

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: Rainbow
(Arkhip Kuindzhi)

By |

Torn-up letters of disdain.
Manuscripts thrown in the bin.
You say you are sorry.

But it is no so easy.
And I must close the book
on printed rainbows.

Raindrop words will never find
their place in the sun.
I give up. You have won.

Success will never come.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: The Book
(Juan Gris, 1913)