When we reach the age of reason
every one of us is given
a piggy bank.

It is a treasure box, a porcelain Heart
destined to be broken
on our last Day.

I wish I could fill up mine
with jingling words like
caring and sharingspring and beginning

and not with coins of bitterness,
for Love is the true richness
the only wealth that really matters!

© Frédéric Georges Martin

ferns-by-the-water

Ce poème est un jardin,
un jardin derrière un mur,
un mur si facile à franchir
si l’on reste un enfant.

On peut y voir
tout de lumière, l’iris blanc
et même le noyer,
celui qu’avait planté mon père,

et aussi des violettes,
celles qu’aimait ma mère,
et de grandes fougères
qui gardent une Source.

Dans ce jardin,
quelque part entre ces mots,
n’en doutez pas,
je suis et resterai vivant.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: Ferns by the water
Isaac Levitan (1895)

december

He dips His brush
into the light of winter
and paints naked trees on water
and the world trembles in the wind:

the Painter loves December.
He is the Master of illusions
and children guided by emotions
ask themselves questions like

How do clouds float in the sky?
Why do we have to die?
But He holds their little lives
in the cold palm of His hand.

How could they understand?

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Le Pinceau © 2016 – F.G.M.

Footsteps in the snow,
silhouettes in the rain,
a father’s smile
or a mother’s voice:

nothing,
nothing is really lost.
Clear lakes have
a good memory for faces,

empty spaces
aren’t actually empty.
The light of stars
keeps everything in mind,

the sky is neither blind
nor deaf,
believe these words:
the world will not forget us.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

vers-le-soleil

the Weak and the Strong
the Wise and the Fool
the Guilty and the Innocent
the Rich and the Poor

students, teachers and day dreamers
wrinkled old souls as well as youngsters
we all are heading straight
for the Kingdom we come from

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Vers le Soleil © 2016 – F.G.M.

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