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)

I was a shadow child,
prodigal son guided by
the careful hands of Forgiveness,

lost soul made of star dust,
younger brother of words like
orphan and light.

I learned little by little
both from short lives
and long silences.

I finally became
a man of no importance:
I was everyone

and everyone was me.
The starry sky had reminded me
who I really am.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: Star of the Hero
(Nicholas Roerich 1936)

 

the sky is art paper
a soul is a hand
and words are drawings

God is a watercolorist
you are a Night rainbow
I am a paintbrush mark

Poetry can define
everything
and everyone

but nothing
or no one will ever
define Poetry

© Frédéric Georges Martin