No one sings in the rain.
Colors have died out.
The widowed sky mourns.

Time again to bid
a sad farewell
to the lights of Spring.

How could I hold on?
Angels have flown away.
The rainbow is gone!

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: The Voyage of Life (Old Age) – detail
(Thomas Cole, 1842)

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Blessed are those
who hide their name
and humbly kneel before a dog rose
for they spread the Father’s fame.

Blessed are those
who give a candlelight to the Night
for they shall receive the Dawn
as a reward for their gift.

Blessed are those
who ignite the Spark of Love
for the Spark becomes Fire
and the Fire becomes Light,

and the Light is the Word
and the Word never dies:
blessed are those who love
and believe in Life!

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Heureux ceux qui cachent leur nom
et humblement s’agenouillent
devant une rose de chien
car il œuvrent à la renommée du Père.

Heureux ceux qui offrent à la Nuit
la lueur d’une chandelle
car ils recevront l’Aurore
en récompense de leur présent.

Heureux ceux qui allument
la flamme de l’Amour
car la flamme devient Feu
et le Feu devient Lumière

et la Lumière est le Verbe
et le Verbe ne meurt jamais.
Heureux ceux qui aiment
et croient en la Vie !

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: Christ in the Sepulchre
(William Blake)

Imagination is a lace maker,
so when you feel down,
go to the seaside of your dreams
and walk along the tallest cliff.

Make a small white handkerchief
from the cotton clouds.
Think about worries and grief, gather
all the little black pebbles you find.

Wrap them in your handkerchief,
then throw it up in the air.
The Wind hears every prayer.
Make a wish, kiss a clover leaf.

You are lighter than a cloud
floating above the Sea.
Now you feel relieved,
now you can wake up.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: Falaises à Fécamp
(Claude Monet, 1881)

I build crystal cathedrals
then I take a special delight
in destroying all of them.

I like when sharp shards
hurt my child heart.
I love when it aches and bleeds.

Yes, I have to concede
I’m a bit of a masochist.
Besides, Someone told me

you are your own worst enemy.
But what wouldn’t I do to grasp
the beauty of suicide poetry?

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: the Death of Ophelia
(Odilon Redon, 1905)

rain makers, old dreamers
bird watchers needing to know

we come from an island
not far beyond the sea

we are shades of blue and gold
brush strokes by Gauguin

and we are going to
the land of the Living

a world in a grain of sand
so very close at hand

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?Right part of the painting (Paul Gauguin, 1897-1898)

Go where ferns shiver with delight
and walk among the trees
until you hear their verdant breath.

Trees can read your mind.
Trees all share their dreams.
Choose the One who chooses you.

Encircle your tree with your arms,
then gently press your cheek
to its rough trunk.

Your heart beats.
So does the heartwood.
Stop questioning!

All is understood.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: Gothic Forest (Eyvind Earle, 1980)

In the still of the Night
I think I heard the sound of light.

Somewhere by the sea of Tranquility
my soul’s shadow surfed the White Wave

and I tried to write a wordless poem,
but I could not.

Nothingness is a nameless Sanctuary:
Silence belongs to God.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: the White Wave (Eyvind Earle)