Born in September

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)

Legacy

You were ready to walk
through the Night with me
but you died on a Winter day
and left me Spring as a legacy.

Flowers and words in blue,
words and flowers from you:
now what is yours is mine
and what is mine is yours.

Mummy,
Love is not missing.
Thank you for
the Blessing.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

A Christmas Tale

snowflake GIF

A few Nights before Christmas
it snowed a lot in Peace Town.
As night fell a little snowflake
asked the Moon
why should I die?

It had fallen on a church roof.
A child was looking at the sky.
A bird was singing the Night.
And the trees seemed to shimmer
and murmur.

You will not die the Moon said
for you are the living Spring
the river of water of life and when
flowers start blooming in Springtime
you will flow into a Sea of Lights.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: Giphy

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.

Sad Song

Summer over here
has been hot and dry,
but tenants did not care.
In my neighbor’s garden
the young cherry tree
died.

White flowers tinted with pink,
Flakes of light in the wind:
last Spring, it snowed in Heaven.
But wingless angels
cannot fly in the sky.
Spring will never be the same

and I feel like crying.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

Birds are eternal

The day has begun
with a birdsong:
April speaks like an angel

and Spring told me
I was wrong.
This world is not Hell.

We’re not living
under the Devil’s spell.
The Night will never end

but birds are eternal
and I’m nearing
my destination.

Heaven is inside me.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

March 19th

The wind has blown
over the hills.
Snow covers daffodils.
Tiny violets kiss the ice.

Today was
the last day of Winter.

Will anger and despair
melt away
like snow in the sun?
I hope so.

Tomorrow is
the first day of Spring.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

How not to be a poet

I don’t write poems.
Primroses and the sky
do the hard work.

I don’t need a silver pen,
but I treasure words like Spring
and I listen to the shy wren.

Then I sit under the Tree
that grows from light to light
and the bird tells me

how not to describe
how not to be a poet
just how to sing in tune.

© Frédéric Georges Martin