It’s not only children of Autumn
who can make a bouquet of Memories
and write a November poem.

When the wind calmed down
I went to the garden.
I started by collecting
burnt orange and red leaves.
I pressed them between
the yellowed pages of an old dictionary.
I watched the trees,
I gazed at the Moon
and I thought of you.
I did not wait very long.
Then I put my ear
to the book.

BEAUTY
was the first word
that came to me.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: Autumn Leaves
(Georgia O’Keeffe, 1924)

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How nice to stand
in the morning light
as the oak leaves turn gold
and life comes to an end.

How nice to be
followed by a bird
when silence meets
Silence.

How nice to see
through the Veil space and time
surprisingly intertwined
with one another.

The Eye and the World.
The Beauty of Autumn.
Consciousness. Endlessness.
Emptiness.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: the Messenger of Autumn
(Paul Klee, 1922)

Soon a chill will come,
and soon true gold will abound.
Autumn, today is your birthday
and a bird is singing!

But soon the leaves,
falling aimlessly,
shall stop dreaming.
Autumn, I’m already grieving.

There is a time
when colours hide
a time when we leave and rise.
Autum, I’ll miss you!

© Frédéric Georges Martin

full-transparency

Day by day the Weaver patiently
weaves the tapestry of Time
and Destiny, and Summer achieves
Spring and Winter dreams

and the Autumn sun shines
through the leaves of the vibrant Tree
and so does Love in full transparency
through our thin and quivering souls.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Le chêne illuminé © 2016 – F.G.M.

by-the-stream-autumn

Arbres de feu aux ombres d’or,
lente brume incandescente,
lumière des eaux, eaux des couleurs,

Nuit noire, Nuit pure, matin doux,
matin bleu, Orion fidèle, jardin vermeil
ô Saison merveilleuse, belle, éternelle,

By the Stream,  Autumn – Dieu :
est-ce parce qu’il Te ressemble
que j’aime autant l’Automne ?

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Illustration : By the Stream, Autumn, Paul Gauguin (1885)

The nights get colder and colder.
Without a sound
the red oak leaves
are falling on the ground.

Snails and ferns
before they sleep or die
can now watch
faint stars in the sky.

Yesterday
Summer was buried.
The wind blew,
a pale flower worried.

© Frédéric Georges Martin