We’ll never fly
unless we watch the Bird.

We’ll never dream
unless we follow the Moonbeam.

We’ll never shine
unless we walk in the Sun,

and Love won’t be given
a chance to blossom

unless we learn
a little bit of Wisdom.

How to give. How to receive.
How to live. How to die.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

a-boat

une barque de pêcheur
abandonnée à la mer

voile sur l’horizon
caressée par le vent
guidée par les étoiles
emportée par les vagues

c’est ainsi que je la vois
ma dernière demeure

~

a small fishing boat
given to the sea

sail on the horizon
caressed by the wind
guided by the stars
carried away by the waves

this is how I see
my last resting place

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: A Boat
Odilon Redon (1840-1916)

Stars glitter gifs

I, little soul in the Winter wind,

do solemnly swear
that I will try again
to walk barefoot
in powder snow

just for fun.

I will never doubt
that teddy bears can do a somersault
when you don’t look at them
and that they all have

a living soul.

I will ever regard
falling stars
as stirring signs from Elsewhere
and will stay a child at heart

forever.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

animated-teddy-image-0070

* * * JOYEUX NOËL ! MERRY CHRISTMAS! * * *

If I had only one year left to live
I would thank Spring
for bluebells woods and rainbows,
seen and unseen.

I would tell Summer
it means the world to me.
In Fall, I would plant a tree
under the silent stars.

Leaf on the wind,
I would ask Winter
to give me for Christmas
only one Night more,

and like a child
enthralled by the Lights
I would write in the snow
love letters with many forevers.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

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)