There will be no respite?

No respite from the floodgates opening from the heavens, wailing its woes, screaming its pain. Mot is not yet ready to submit and the boats tip dangerously, too many souls left in limbo, never a good sign for the lights down below. Fill the buckets and dishes, they say, before stealing them away, phosphorus alighting…

the altar of dignity

Bubblegum pinks and blues, barbe à papa streaked celestial beings around the burgeoning Selene these past few nights, after weeks of storms, rain pelting down on us all, announcing winter as Zéphyr thunders around, chasing me around, my hair whipping around sharply, as my fingers ache to beat down to the page word after word…

after the poppies, the vines

after the poppies, the vines tear away their beads of pearl shine blood orange in the winds of thunder and seastorm. their veins thy testament to existence ran out of whispers to scream. i forgot to take a photo until only a few diamonds remain, not blown off unweighted feathers in my hair. the treasures…

burnt alive without one articulation

In the midst of the first quarantine, in the midst of a sunny bright Parisian neighborhood, I held an olive tree closely, nurturing its potted roots and branches carefully . Little green and black pousses sprouted at some point . A certain pride slowly dawned within us .  Just this week, they tell me more…

vous êtes ici pour rester. restez.

ce weekend passé, les horloges ont eu leurs aiguilles forcés à nouveau, nous lassant lasses et désorientés encore une fois, est-ce la dernière fois, Ursula? les voiles du vide transparentes de plus en plus, les échos s’attachent à nous. Elles dansent comme les lucioles à travers les cercles des prêtresses toutes réunies autour du feu…

To keep bristling

In these past few years, my mother keeps repeating that we are witnessing the Apocalypse. She keeps staring down at fanatics in church with her best arched eyebrowed glare while reminding them “Thou shalt not kill, no, you don’t remember that?”. In these past few weeks, I keep stopping, bewildered in this French country, listening…

Clio in her mausoleum

I’m late and behind on all of my writings, worrying about people almost slightly halfway across the sea and several plains and mountains. In another direction, a pomegranate fell violently to the ground yesterday, someone wrote yesterday. The grapes were in less quantity this September. The vine is sick as many of them are. So…

possibilities on a cherries-red kitchen tablecloth

This morning I sliced the bread. I went out in the warm breeze of September before the children run outside mid-morning, after the coolness of the first day of classes is wearing out but the novelty is still in reach as the crying holds on vigorously, timidly. I came back home, bread under arm, questioning…

may the Furies have no limit

Gloomy days only come once a year, goes the myth, unless you live in black smoke, fireworks explosions, angry heat of tears and broken glass, blood splatters flowing through crevices of a soul, fractured at diamond points streaking through a sunset kissing the sea at a million rainbow declined intense acrylic pointillés, the only image…

I have seen

I’ve seen swirling black flames, ominous in rainbow neighborhood, roof alit with tragic smoke of miseries past, present, and looming danger. Screaming I hear, a fight concurs, a phone hammers to the pavement. I’ve seen concrete blocks in a road, checkpoint for security they say, as starving, sad, worried faces peer through thick forest walls….