“ Sent From ” ~ my iThing ~

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 !

“ An Honest Man ” ~ will he survive ~

In a world

Near bare,

Of consciences

And morals,

Where still alive

Will he survive,

As do so beings

That best depict


Who populate

To victimize,

As motivates

The wily wise,

To eradicate

An honest man!                                          ode to a political protagonist


“ The Sound of Silence ” ~ a blissful pleasure ~

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 ” ~ to find a stead ~


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!


“ The Extension ” ~ life’s reality ~

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!


“ The Clavier ” ~ and felling trees ~


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