Not Too Late

Instead of watching tv
I could have gone to your garden.
There you had grown sunflowers
and planted a walnut tree.

But I did not care at all
and didn’t try to cross the wall.
The walnut tree was cut down,
sunflowers turned all to dust,

and now, you’re so far away.
Unsaid words weighs heavy
on my heart. Yet I still dare
to hope it’s not too late.

Daddy! What a wonderful garden!

© Frédéric Georges Martin


illustration: the Gardener
Georges Seurat (1884-83)

Nevermore Lake


a tear in the sky
a rip in a canvas painting
Nevermore Lake
hurt by wars and years

and the blue ripples of time
and the song without words
willow trees used to sing
after Summer had gone

and a lover on the jetty
phantom waiting mutely
for the Night to reveal where
birds of yesterday found

a haven of peace

© Frédéric Georges Martin


Illustration: jetty on the lake (restoration)
(Johan Jacobsen 1883-1953)
private collection © 2017 – F.G.M.

Fathers always know

Time is a passer-by
as cruel as a spoiled boy,
but fathers never die,
and fathers always know.

He will never teach you
how to ride a bike
and will never say
you can choose whatever you like.

How long is an hour in Heaven?
Are you back in the world?
Prodigal sons can always ask the sky,
then try to hide their tears.

Is it really never too late?
What is stronger than fate?
Fathers never die,
fathers only know!

© Frédéric Georges Martin


I can’t see you.
I can’t hear you.
I can’t touch you.

But in the dead of Night
the stars get brighter,
the veil grows thinner,

and Words
build bridges of light
over the Darkness.

You live
in the true World, I wander
through the shadows

and they are the only way
to tell you
let’s meet halfway.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

60 Church Street


Clearings in the Woods
that please the Moon
Edelweiss Fields
adored by the Sun

the cradle of stars
the Sea of Tranquility
the Land of Spring
the Edge of Nothing

the Source of the Stream,
60 Church Street, Alpha Orionis:
these may be some of the places
where the time goes.

© Frédéric Georges Martin


L’Heure de l’Infini  © 2017 – F.G.M.

The Garden of Regrets

I went to the Garden of Regrets.
There were no birds,
trees had forgotten their names.

There was not even a trace of you,
the wind had blown out the candle.

Spring is patient and strong enough,
and Silence said all the words
I needed to hear:

no one is to blame,
Love is a flickering flame.

© Frédéric Georges Martin