Mother Earth

Mother Earth is crying
tears of salt and blood.
Disregard burns her face,

rivers of blue flowers run dry,
and fearsome shadows haunt
the Gardens of the Alhambra.

Do we really want to hear
the Song of the World’s last Whale?
This is not a morality Tale.

Uncaring children
do not know what they are doing.
Who will look after orphans?

Mother Earth is dying!

© Frédéric Georges Martin

November Poem

It’s not only children of Autumn
who can make a bouquet of Memories
and write a November poem.

When the wind calmed down
I went to the garden.
I started by collecting
burnt orange and red leaves.
I pressed them between
the yellowed pages of an old dictionary.
I watched the trees,
I gazed at the Moon
and I thought of you.
I did not wait very long.
Then I put my ear
to the book.

BEAUTY
was the first word
that came to me.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: Autumn Leaves
(Georgia O’Keeffe, 1924)

Promised Land

Slow lights
on the bare mountains,
scattered white villages
unknown roads,

invisible bridges,
floating clouds,
time suspended,
wild dreams in the wind.

The Infinite does not reveal
all its secrets at once
but if you understand
the language of stars

and finally dare
to let your heart talk
you’ll certainly find
the most important one.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Terre Promise © 2018– F.G.M.

Fallen Angel

I am a fallen angel.
In Heaven
I had a good job.
I was a gardener.

But I killed snails
and God fired me.
“They eat flowers!”
I said, but God replied

“That’s no excuse!”

Since that time
I’ve crawled around
the wide world
with my broken shell

and gardens after the rain
are the only place
where I can find
peace.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

The Beauty of Autumn

How nice to stand
in the morning light
as the oak leaves turn gold
and life comes to an end.

How nice to be
followed by a bird
when silence meets
Silence.

How nice to see
through the Veil space and time
surprisingly intertwined
with one another.

The Eye and the World.
The Beauty of Autumn.
Consciousness. Endlessness.
Emptiness.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: the Messenger of Autumn
(Paul Klee, 1922)

September Farewell / Adieu Septembre

It’s not springtime
yet Spring is in the air.

Birds seem not to care
and roses confuse
dreams with reality.

But shadows lengthen
and the robin’s heart
beats faster and faster.

September farewell.
There so little time left.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Un air de printemps
flotte sur le jardin.

L’oiseau semble indifférent
et la rose prend
ses rêves pour la réalité.

Mais les ombres s’allongent
et le cœur du rouge gorge
bat la chamade.

Adieu Septembre.
Il reste si peu de temps.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Ombre© 2018– F.G.M.