I sowed tiny seeds of words
like aspen, maple, rowan
and got three magnificent trees.

I thought of lilies and bees
and wrote a few lines
about rosemary and thyme,

then I drew an alley and a Door
where ivy hadn’t crept the wall
and goldenrod was standing tall,

and this was neither art nor poetry
but rather a garden beyond memory,
such a pretty place to see you again.

© Frédéric Georges Martin


Illustration: the Kitchen Garden, Gustave Caillebotte (1877)

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

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

Round and round the Garden
I’m sure years didn’t harden
your heart

and you were strong enough
to go
through the wind and the rain.

But I know words
will never relieve
your pain.

One step
two step
unsmiling little tin soldier,

open your small rusty hand
and sing, sing, sing
this is the best way to regain

the will to breathe
the will to live
the will to love!

© Frédéric Georges Martin


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.

Entendre du merveilleux Mystère
l’écho bleu, musical, infini.

Deviner dans nos cœurs, îles dans l’Océan,
l’immensité du Ciel au dessus du ciel.

Apercevoir les étoiles sans nombre
et quand elle brillent dans la Nuit, Dieu.

Et nous savoir héritiers de l’Amour,
plus que nous-mêmes, plus que lumière,

enfants aimés à qui fut donnée dès l’Aube du monde
l’éternité pour apprendre.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

It is not a leather-bound book
standing proudly on a rosewood shelf.
It does not curse at misbelievers,
and cannot be used as an excuse.

Manuscript penned for every child of God,
calligraphy on silk paper,
it is the Bible of the Poor and consists of
only one word written in all languages.

Both the Blind and the Illiterate
can read those simple lines of light
for the Heart already knows
the Word revealed in the Bible of the Poor,

the only way that we can live,
the only way that we can grow,
the Bible of the Poor,
la Bible de l’Amour.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

J’aime une île rouge et noire où des fleurs fragiles
avec courage défient le basalte et la Mort.
Une île où la mer inlassablement
chante l’immensité, Dieu, l’éternité,

et j’en fais ma patrie, celle que j’ai choisie.
Ainsi, je me rêve en Exil, loin de toi,
triste Nation dont la langue pourtant,
ce sang brûlant, coule jusque dans mon âme.

Et je sais que Liberté et Fraternité,
sont deux étoiles étincelantes
qui dans mon coeur, en souvenir de toi,
jamais ne s’éteindront.

© Frédéric Georges Martin