silent-call

Passers-by hurry in the rain
and build castles in Spain
and no one listens to the little shepherd
perched on the fountain of Truth.

Walk slow! He says loud and clear.
Walk slow! As if you were going
to leave the world tomorrow,
and follow the Path of Awe!

And dead leaves only know
why sometimes in the Fall
some lambs still lost in the mist
can hear an angel’s silent Call.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

La Fontaine au Berger © 2016 – F.G.M.

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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

Dandelion

“Will I survive the Storm?”

the Dandelion Seed asked to the Spirit of the Wind

“No.” 

He said before adding warmly

“But the Flower will.”

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Dandelion seeds © 2016 – F.G.M.

Fluttering leaves.
Shades of orange and brown.
Autumnal holograms
illuminated from within.

Fall is a collage maker,
a painter of renown,
but it seems passers-by see
nothing.

I’m smiling, not really dreaming.
Time has been set free.
This is almost eternity,
and you are so close to me.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

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Plastered teddy bear, lifeless buddy,
you’re staring into space.
It’s like you were sitting patiently,
but what are you waiting for?

Sometimes Fate is unfair:
it leaves old friends all alone
and can suddenly wipe the smile off
a little boy’s face.

O sweet companion, forgotten friend,
your foam filled soul resembles mine!
Yesterday no one saw your tears,
but God knows that you were cold

when the sun went down over the sea
and the first stars in the darkening sky
silently began to align,
then died of grief!

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

ours en peluche oublié sur un banc de pierre © 2015 – F.G.M.

You left

like a small feather in the wind,
white feather in the wind
twirling and dancing
small feather in the wind.

You rose up in the sky then disappeared.
But who could ever doubt
a mother’s heart,
a small feather in the wind?

And now you are the light of stars,
a sonata of silent love,
the sweet reason
I never feel

alone.

© Frédéric Georges Martin