I’ve had secrets
Rate not keep,
Some by and by
Merit not a peep,
And one or two
Made me so blue
I’d gave a bye…
But I’ve a secret
Shades my life,
I’m made to keep
Tho cannot share,
Thus held to bear
In futile weep,
Without concede
While I’m awake
Or in my sleep,
A secret gloats
As my soul bleeds,
Yet stays afloat
And implies feed
Upon its need,
To be a secret
I’ve to die with!
There are feelings
You’d wish press
With words astute,
To thus express
Desperate wanting
Would find redress…
Yet what ensues
Holds but stated
Morose meaning,
Beyond the reach
That now inhibits
Once motor habits,
Said nature’s alibi
For mental silence!
It matters not
Young minds
Be muddled
In bedim matter,
Pap if be told
Be less than bold
But a short time,
For soon ensues
The fated trigger
Of full-term old…
Alas that play
Will find its way
And so intrude,
To nudge you budge
Tho somewhat rude,
Meant best to loose
Your garrotte hold
On fighting old,
And start to taste
Its wine’s allure
As it unfolds,
Which age ensures
In a matter of time!
A little more time
To recall a mood
I’d left behind,
When early in life
I’d been too busy,
Save to mark time…
A little more time
To live with candour,
Discover my other,
Whom I’d forsaken
For visions of grandeur…
A little more time
To make room for soul,
Treated more kindly
More wisely than bold…
A little more time
To shake free shock
That life passes blindly,
Overriding the clock…
A little more time
To share a measure
Of neglected kindness,
And taste the pleasure
Of compassionateness…
A little more time
To recapture the scent
Of evocative memories,
With all of their follies
As life chose be meant!
I have a life
I wish to keep,
Tho may not live
Past my next sleep…
That I do try
To will its keep,
There be no bye
Or assured pass,
Nor of a morrow
Though I may ask,
Exceeds its stay
To so divine a way,
Beyond its fated day!
To sporadic measures
Of wistful pleasure,
Agleam wouldst seem
Alluding to contentment,
Said be for most
Achieved in but a dream…
Till now were times
I anxious to find,
Shared altruistic life
I’d want be blind
To feminine acuity,
Whose wisdom such
Would foster love,
Thru fate’s modality
Beyond the in-between,
A relevant contentment,
‘Tis but the hand
Of skepticism,
Politicos impart
The cryptic seed,
Which germinates
Its sorry feed
That instigates
Such pessimism,
While in the face
Of their betrayal
Cynicism flies,
To force impede
Inertia’s deed,
Chose let slide
Our trust naïve,
Turns to deride
Their legacy,
Now earth’s peril
Would see it turn
To lifeless dust,
Before the end
Of meager ride
Life did provide!
Nobody’s here
Or now remain,
Who can recall
A time you’d hear
That lonely call,
Of a wailing train…
Nobody hears
Of fallen men,
In silent fear
Chose to board,
A moving train
Taunt be scored,
By razzing peers…
Nobody recalls
The men aboard,
Living in tatters
Said their afford,
From 30’s disaster
To ride the rails,
Desperate to find
That new deal bail…
Nobody tended
To marginal man,
And few could hear
His hopeless stand,
As he rode the rails
In a half baked plan,
Save chance survive
By toil of some kind,
But to thus stay alive
In the terrible thirties!
ode to Uncle Joseph Bernier
of Valleyfield and Huntington PQ
imperiled by 1930’s depression
© Jean-Jacques Fournier
It’s a near duty
Beholding beauty,
This navel so bold
Of notable splendor,
A circular wonder
Enchanting this knot,
Be nature’s creation,
Alleged be assembled
A deliberate baffle,
Or should you insist
An abyss gone amiss…
I can but confess
The lady is blessed,
And fortune abides
Exposing with pride,
A mesmeric grin
And abdominal bide,
With all of the flair
Courage will bare,
To show ye therein
Her navel of beauty
Be not just a knot,
But rather a pearl
In the mist of a kiss,
Inlayed on the swirl
Of a velvety curl,
This umbilicus bliss!
In small cafes
I sit and watch
The sad array,
Of they who rove
And so abound
In scraggly drifts,
Each trying day
Seen as misfits,
Their daily round,
Whose sapping woes
Frames doleful lives…
I linger here
To write of life,
Might they rebound
The while describe
Their sad parade,
Save that they drown,
Has me compose
That, which defines,
Their faces fade,
In darkest shades
Said have you blind…
Alas this potpourri
I see a poor writ play,
Yet façade of reality
Of wretched beings
Moving mindlessly,
Searching for a soul
Desperate to be whole,
And on a likely ground
Where being lost
Be but for underground!
Poetry on a Canapé 