There are those who prefer to live on their knees when others would die on their feet,
Chabu is dead, but his words still resound, like the echo of shots on the street.
He was a free man with no child and no wife. No attachments can be a mercy.
A man who has paid for his thoughts with his life is a martyr who sets others free.
Vengeance is natural and there are those who will spit on these gunmen and curse.
In the showdown between “faith” and ideas, the artist will always draw first.



Il ya ceux qui préfèrent vivre sur leurs genoux quand les autres mourraient sur leurs pieds,
Chabu est mort, mais ses paroles résonnent encore, comme l'écho de coups de feu dans la rue.
Il était un homme libre sans enfants et pas de femme. Pas de pièces jointes peuvent être une miséricorde.
Un homme qui a payé pour ses pensées de sa vie est un martyr qui met les autres libres.
Vengeance est naturel et il ya ceux qui vont cracher sur ces hommes armés et malédiction.
Dans la confrontation entre «foi» et des idées, l'artiste puisera toujours en premier.

Apparently Shakespeare got it all wrong
when he threatened the lawyers in verse.
The carnage in Paris proves he should have written:
"Let's **** all the cartoonists first!"

I have seen them in their majesty, in ultraviolet light.
They stretch across five light years’ space there in the dark of night.
They are the womb of newborn stars, the cradle and the nave.
The elements are present there, in aquamarine shade.
Within the Pillars there is light, the light of proto-stars,
Surrounded by the swirling dust which will be what we are.
Then, sometime in the yet to be, on such a starry night,
They may note the death of Sol, the star that gave us light.
As they see our old star swell then shrink as fuels run out.
They too may pause and think, in wonder at the sight.

He lies unconscious on the bed; his breathing raspy and uneven.
She is ever at his side, always there, still believing.
The monitor is the only sound; irregularly it counts the beat.
He has battled long and hard, only now he’ll face defeat.
The morphine drip is merciful; this man’s proud heart begins to slow.
This year he’d had dementia, what he feels we cannot know.
She holds his hand in both of hers and whispers there a silent prayer.
When she looks up at his face again his spirit is no longer there.
In private, she allows a tear, she had stayed strong; she was his rock.
No matter how prepared one is, this final moment is a shock,

Is hate too strong a word for what remains when Love has died?
They were for twenty years estranged before his suicide.
There he rests in his fine blue suit and his patriotic tie.
There she sits in her fine black dress ; her tears have long since dried.
Their marriage had been childless, then joyless towards the end,
Still she felt an obligation as he had no next of kin,
She handled his arrangements but his  few friends  thought it strange
Though he requested an internment, she consigned him to the flames.

My Daughter has a fitbit that records her every move.
She wears it daily on her wrist in her efforts to improve.
Her every step, lap and jump thus are duly noted.
To self-improvement and fitness, she surely is devoted.

Me? I can get tired watching football on T.V.
The treadmill in my basement is piled high with clean laundry.
I can’t resist a chocolate bar, my diet isn’t great.
Does rising from my easy chair still count as lifting weights?

Still, there should be a wearable for the chubby hubby set.
To monitor the quality of the sitting time we get.
To count each doughnut we consume, to list each chocolate bar.
To note the steps avoided when we choose to take the car.

Channel four of the BBC thinks An Gorta MOR fit comedy:
genocide of the Irish nation with laughter as the expectation?
A million dead, two million more forever vanished from Ireland’s shores.
What degenerate would be amused? This programing should be refused.
A starving race, the potato failed, their agony has been well detailed.
The land was rich and still they died as help was grudgingly supplied.
Those whom the reaper failed to grip escaped upon the coffin ships;
never again to see these shores, of kith and kin forever shorn.
How anyone finds this amusing I find to be a bit confusing.
Such a person, I surmise, would tear the wings off butterflies.
I presume a laugh track will be supplied….


as our dead don’t laugh but only smile.