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Chaque fois que j 'escalade
Les parois des mots vers les pics inviolés
J 'emmène avec moi dans l'expédition
Mon éclaireuse d'élite.

Ma sherpa me guide et me prévient
Des chutes de sérac et des avalanches,
Cuisine les rimes embrassées, porte les alexandrins
Installe le campement des rimes embrassantes.

Alors elle se repose sous sa tente
Et, satisfaite, cure sa pipe
Tout en fredonnant inconsciemment
Ses deux quatrains suivis de  deux tercets
Tandis que que moi je suçote
Mes surelles poétiques confites.
.
Ma pisteuse pose ses pitons et ses broches à glace
Dans l 'ombre des cimes
Sans oxygène sans assistance
Dans les nuages de la haute poésie.

Nous avons ainsi planté nos sonnets
Dans les vingt-et-un sommets continentaux
Ma sherpa c'est mieux qu 'un sur-homme
C'est une sur-femme, une sur-muse
Une sur-déesse
Une vieille briscarde
C'est Junko Tabei et Bachendri Pal
Et après chaque sommet qu 'elle franchit
Sans désagrément
Elle se retire sous sa tente
Et, satisfaite, cure sa pipe
Tout en fredonnant inconsciemment
Ses deux quatrains suivis de deux tercets
Tandis que moi je suçote
Mes surelles poétiques confites.

Parfois la chute d'un sérac imprévisible
Nous emporte, nous ensevelit et nous broie presque
Mais jamais ma sherpa ne se départit de sa pipe
Ni moi de mes surelles
Dans nos joutes poétiques.
Annie Sep 2018
Proudly standing, rigid trees
   Swaying gently in the breeze
We watch the shadows fall
   Switches whip, the twigs are severed
   Yet the mighty wood persevers
Awaiting its next call
   Day becomes night; sunshine ends
   Branches soon begin to bend
Raw bark peels in strips.
   Autumn comes; the trees must fight
   For each burning speck of light
Drudged from unwilling lips.
   We watch them quiver in the breeze
   The axe-man comes to fell the trees
The thinnest shall go first.
   Year by year, the seasons change
   We ignore the passing strange
Stiff bodies, in one hearse.
   No one knows if it shall end
   The loss of foe, alike with friend
Means sunlight for the living.
   “What shall happen to them all?”
   Still we watch the shadows fall
A gift that keeps on giving.
archana Jun 2017
passions were my strong point. every breath lined with a deeper meaning that makes you embrace any emotion including sadness is a blessing.
i can sit and stare at the clouds endlessly. distance myself from human infestation, so i can spend some time alone marvelling the cosmic manifestation.
i read books, conjure up worlds and press pages with fragile paper wings that let me fly in the summer air making me feel as light as a butterfly.
i stay up at nights and end up painting faces of unrecognisable angels and demons that live inside my head. i'm constantly torn between prose and poetry. one lets me live, and the other helps me to get lost.
i am a girl living on wishbones and rusted blood. a girl covered in an ever-glowing soil. a girl toiled with ashes. but i am reborn every time a part of me is scathed. i reappear till i'm completed.
till i'm finite because i was held by strong points:
passions.
Cecelia Francis Jan 2017
A moon princess
prepares
for her coronation:

She wakes early
every morning to
chant ancient songs,

remains a light turned
on, a bright good morning
from winter to spring;

leaves offerings of her
tears and laughter
at the alter with care;

fasted, washed her face
and hair and danced naked
in the stream from day to night.

After turning away from
herself she turns
back with rosy cheeks:

A moon princess
prepares
for her crown:

she wears the webbed
melody of singing
stars strung together,

she hums and resonates
her body begins to harmonize
her voice turns to gravity:

she can speak
she can think
she can hear;

her hand outstretched
to the people, her
love refined
Andrew Lees Oct 2016
Eyes left wide, for
Now I've seen
The vanguard of my fevered dreams and

Jungle cats pace in my brain.
Paws alight, their
Claws aflame

And sinews
Incandescent white--
Seamless, green, their glowing eyes

Constellate where shadows heap.
Enough! My skull,
The marrow creaks...

What hells we weave
Through. Bitter dreams,
Awake, asleep or caught between.
One of my favourite forms is triplets, with a syllable count of 4/4/8 (or thereabouts). In this piece, I tried inverting every second stanza: 4/4/8, 8/4/4 et al. I think the inversion worked, it provides a nice visual and metric link between each stanza and lends the piece improved flow. It's a worthwhile device I'll definitely be exploring further in upcoming pieces.
Cecelia Francis Apr 2016
Where is the oui
in we-- in yesness
or togetherness?

There may be a
sense of you and I
a semblance like

a reflection of the
self in the mirror
in a place in time

If oui tried to be
we could be a way
without you and I
Cecelia Francis Mar 2016
She's changed and
much more sensitive
than she used to be like:

She'll cry if something
is sad enough to cry
about and say "how sad!"

To herself, she says
softness can be a reverse
blade sword that cannot ****

It says "I will not ****," with
a murderous strike: a representation
of a murderous stroke, twice

Removed from a first killing
swing a springtime of ******
youth and creative expression

Exists in the ego only and
the line between signs a
flash of the you in the universe

How natural and harsh, such
lovely waste: an amazing
mazing system of constructing
Idk a weird combination of influences
Cecelia Francis Feb 2016
You say things like:
"Caw caw!" and "llamo"
with a hard L

As a statement
you ask: "You my baby?"
Despite the holes in my body

Our shared presence a chaotic
good and I, beside myself, at your
"We love each other, don't we?"
Cecelia Francis Feb 2016
Two generations
removed from
the Good

But Good
is not the point
of poetry
Cecelia Francis Jan 2016
We all wear clothes,
and lick our lips
against the cold.

As a child things close
with a ziplock zip, and grass
made you a woodland nymph.

A sentiment arises on the first
day of school—and you say: never
let me go or let me go at once—

With a stubborn tug
in the passionate bones
long gone by lunch
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