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Il se cache

dans l’ombre

tisser des feuilles

vert camouflage

au-dessous d’une arbre

Debout, flottant

esprit habille en homme

il m’attende

dans l’ombre

des mes rêves…



I dream of sleep

as snow falls

and butterflies






the sun is killing me

shining right into the wound

spilling the pain for all to see

its glare merciless



the rays like daggers

and sweet all the same

loving and hating

while dying




the longing came suddenly

alighting like a bird

wings spread as far

as the heart could see

and in the silence

that followed

the great revelation

it spoke –

your name


alabaster sky

church bells


dusk folding into night

Sunrise over Lake Superior



It was quiet on the day the door closed.

The morning rose grey and still. There was no sound, as if the wind lost its voice. The sky was gone, replaced by clouds that obliterated shapes and stifled all sound.There was no need to get up. Suddenly there was no need to struggle, no need to live.

Yet life was all there was.

Even the silence breathed.

But you had to be dead to hear it.

Or alive enough.


What horrors will our off-spring see

in the miasma of futurity?

Their prospects go from bad to worse

as degradation runs its course.

When hope looks like self deception

and positives like mad delusion,

how to stem the lemming crush,

resist the tides of mass confusion?

What chances do our children have

to right the wrongs of history,

to find an unobstructed path

from the charnel house of destiny?

What wonders of the great wide world

will be denied our progeny,

the English Elm, the western Pine,

the elephant, the honey bee?

What poisoned remnants will remain,

what maladjusted misery?

What might they blame for what they see,

where lies responsibility?

We’re un-accepting of the truth

of how it starts with you and me.

How else might we stagger on

in the stench of such perversity?

We’re satisfied with leaders who

confess they don’t know what to do,

that wouldn’t dock our bank accounts

of un-acceptable amounts.

And thus tomorrows loom ahead

with promise overwhelmed by dread;

with life and beauty sacrificed,

our children’s futures overpriced.


Poem by Michael G. Hawkes

English elm

honey bee


western pine


I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you

Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,

The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed

With a hollow rumbling of wings, with a movement of dark-

ness on darkness, (…)

I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope

For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without


For love would be love of the wrong thing; (…)

Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thoughts;

So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the



Excerpt from Four Quartets, T.S. Eliot

In the lonely depth

In the sinking sun

With a silent movement

Moth wings against the night

A shadow falls like a dry leaf

And the earth sighs

A kiss of death on her lips

Shrouded mirrors beg for light

Lost images scratched on silver

With a silent movement

The end announces a new beginning.




Under the full moon

Nothing stirs

Under the full moon

Oceans rise

Under the full moon

Fear departs

Under the full moon

Nature sleeps


Under the full moon

Soul rejoices

Under the full moon

Love is born

Under the full moon

Lovers sigh

Under the full moon

Lovers die


Under the full moon

Body lies still

Under the full moon

Heartbeat subsides

Under the full moon

The future is here

Under the full moon

The past revives


Under the full moon

All is as is

Under the full moon

Nothing leaves

Under the full moon

Darkness reigns

Under the full moon

Light remains.





Open me

Let me breathe

Open me

So I see

Open the wounds tear the scars

Release into the wind

Pain that turned me to stone

Open me

Save me

Let me Be





Conversation with a Stone

By Wislawa Szymborska


I knock at the stone’s front door

“It’s only me, let me come in.

I want to enter your insides,

have a look around,

breathe my fill of you.”

“Go away,” says the stone.

“I’m shut tight.

Even if you break me to pieces,

we’ll all still be closed.

You can grind us to sand,

we still won’t let you in.”

I knock at the stone’s front door.

“It’s only me, let me come in.

I’ve come out of pure curiosity.

Only life can quench it.

I mean to stroll through your palace,

then go calling on a leaf, a drop of water.

I don’t have much time.

My mortality should touch you.”

“I’m made of stone,” says the stone.

“And must therefore keep a straight face.

Go away.

I don’t have the muscles to laugh.”

I knock at the stone’s front door.

“It’s only me, let me come in.

I hear you have great empty halls inside you,

unseen, their beauty in vain,

soundless, not echoing anyone’s steps.

Admit you don’t know them well yourself.

“Great and empty, true enough,” says the stone,

“but there isn’t any room.

Beautiful, perhaps, but not to the taste

of your poor senses.

You may get to know me but you’ll never know me through.

My whole surface is turned toward you,

all my insides turned away.”

I knock at the stone’s front door.

“It’s only me, let me come in.

I don’t seek refuge for eternity.

I’m not unhappy.

I’m not homeless.

My world is worth returning to.

I’ll enter and exit empty-handed.

And my proof I was there

will be only words,

which no one will believe.”

“You shall not enter,” says the stone.

“You lack the sense of taking part.

No other sense can make up for your missing sense of taking part.

Even sight heightened to become all-seeing

will do you no good without a sense of taking part.

You shall not enter, you have only a sense of what that sense should be,

only its seed, imagination.”

I knock at the stone’s front door.

“It’s only me, let me come in.

I haven’t got two thousand centuries,

so let me come under your roof.”

“If you don’t believe me,” says the stone,

“just ask the leaf, it will tell you the same.

Ask a drop of water, it will say what the leaf has said.

And, finally, ask a hair from your own head.

I am bursting from laughter, yes, laughter, vast laughter,

although I don’t know how to laugh.”

I knock at the stone’s front door.

“It’s only me, let me come in.

“I don’t have a door,” says the stone.

From “Poems New and Collected: 1957-1997” by Wislawa Szymborska, translated from the Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh (Harcourt Brace: 274 pp., $27)