Jungle ‘scape

Lime green, jardin de jungle.A pair of legging trousers, a tunicor is it a dress?Little girl, on a beam, without a beam, on a vitesse à tres longue distance, trees at the moment zipping by in my lens like no tomorrow. She’s a ballerina, the type another little girl could have if the brain damage…

Stages

3 stages of grief 3 stages of trauma 3 stages of anger I am the 4th stage. I carry all the stages of my lineage. It’s been a while… We took a little break from the blog. We’re not quite there yet but we think we’re ready to write again. Poppies symbolise remembrance and these…

rays of sun.

Rays of a typical NYC afternoon down upon us and I go my own way. We came to pay a visit to our history. What we found were just a few reminders of a town I have not seen again. A few reminders of something more recent, a war in secret, half still shrouded in…

RED.

She twirls around and around, fancy sandals, nude, ready for that dazzling soirée in the sun. Red is her image. She has never felt this free since that long time ago. And yet, today, she is red. She is vibrant. She is flowery.  The men will all see. But sadly, once again, they will not…

A pot of lavender

Always, never, almost waiting? A prowl through the lavender, or perhaps, another stage of life, previous. How to turn back time when we cannot? I left New York. I wonder, did I leave you too? No baggage claim fixes what we wait for, yesterday, today, tomorrow, this evening. my cat Seems to be ever mute…

untitled. for him. for them.

A crime against humanity my ancestors never asked for. The bells are ringing, warning in his ears, rockets, a pink cloud of fire. Tonight is the night he thinks. I can’t die yet.  Dust clouds thick here for days on end. Never stops. All we want is a savoury manouché, kick around the ball, dabke…

La grêle

De la grêle. Encore et encore et encore. Non mais ENCORE?! Les oiseaux disparaissent aussi soudainement. Même pas un foutu pigeon dans le scénario. Et ce pays qui crève. Ou qui va crever. Allez! On entre dans nos prisons, nos quatre murs ! “Faut pas sortir ma petite dame!” crie le poids lourds à la…

democracy, or that muted radio.

If you look hard enough, in the corner of your eye…. You see it. A blue standard, they call a symbol…    it’s a fickle one, I say. But…. They said this was democracy, one step forward to better, one more injustice fought,all because of a victory, which was no victory, but apparently no one asked…

She knows.

She has her father’s smile. Even,probably,in pain, her smile is wide. I peer at her, my gnarled knotted hands have held her curious gaze again and again.Only a month old,what a feisty little one.Like that red bear ball on the couch. Reach for it. Reach for it now. Reach –––––– and she babbled to it….

Wallflower

The wallflower screams yet no one hears her. Yet she keeps in touch with everyone she cares about. Her opinion still matters but her voice is invisible, a little bit like the mute cat she hugs every night. He’s barely there, always there, completely useless as he’s mute. That’s her opinion. Muted. She relished in…