This old line,
‘That says it all’
Can but appal,
When combined,
With ‘sent from
My iPhone’
Or ‘sent from
My iPad’
Meant to define,
As an addendum
In today’s time,
Wants let you know
Some dumb thing
Has arrived,
Now on the line
And possibly alive!
I love my iThings !
In a world
Near bare,
Of consciences
And morals,
Where still alive
Will he survive,
As do so beings
That best depict
Dehumanized,
Who populate
To victimize,
As motivates
The wily wise,
To eradicate
An honest man! ode to a political protagonist
Ah to be free
Of obstreperous sounds,
Man’s din vociferous
That so abounds,
Ever torturing
An anguished ear
Implied inured,
We’re made to hear
Too far beyond,
Man meant endure…
Oh for the sound
Of deafening stillness,
A resounding calm
Of blissful pleasure,
In the healing balm
Of echoing silence,
You can almost hear
From the quiet whisper
Of a falling tear,
For the sound of silence!
On the run
From place
To place,
I search ahead
For space
Might be akin,
To the images
That populate
My spent head,
With a life spin
Of purpose clear,
For I’ve but left
A meagre stay,
And far too near
Be Reaper Grim
To dog my way,
Hence I hold run
To find a stead
Of lesser haste,
Afore fate ends
This journey’s race!
Tells of rejection
When for principle
Held not conform,
An illiberal mind
Spurns a prerogative,
Sufficient to regard
Be persons non grata,
Which begs question
The narrow dictate,
That judges blind
An emotive view,
Thus so to be ignored!
A mere extension
Of another
Be we creatures,
And so born
In shapes or form
That designate
Our species,
And said gender,
Who’s life extends
Until its need
To feed
Comes to an end,
And so will live
Until life gives
No more,
And then be gone
To make room
For another…
Ergo the extension
Of another,
Be life’s reality,
Without the trappings
Man’s designs so offer!
Fingering keys
For words that tell
Of thoughts
Meant to please,
Others may well
Point the way
That leads to hell,
Tho fingering keys
Spares bits of paper
Made of felled trees!
© Jean-Jacques Fournier
This old house
Has old bones,
With old slate
Roofs old stone,
On old wood,
That gives birth
To feel good,
As keen souls
Who are whole
Be such lovers,
Held together
Like this old house!
Leaves are here
All summer long,
But in the fall
They’re meant
Be gone,
And so do leave…
It’s spring now,
And I’m still here!
I said why
To someone,
Whose just reply
I should know better,
Suggests I try,
Yet has me there
Struggling,
Stuck on why,
Knowing be easy
To simply try!
Poetry on a Canapé 