“ The Almighty Time ” – the god to whom mortals pray –

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“ The Almighty Time ”

– the god to whom mortals pray –

A prerequisite is to be friends,

And so of our Almighty Time

Held we the naïve would tend,

Ne’er fall short to toe his line

Or fail not err that so offends,

To suffer alas its cruel assign

As this god an ultimate killer,

On a whim may find consign

Ye now be but mortal sinner,

Piteous to the Almighty Time,

The god to whom mortals pray

Tho fated their peace of mind,

Ever so far from extended stay

For an apathetic god sees deign,

If The Almighty Time gives way!

                     © Jean-Jacques Fournier

                                     ode to all we who seek to stall time…

Music – exerpt of As time Goes By, by Dexter Gordon …

Photos – Independent collection…                                   

                                    written in Sweetsburg

                                        September 6, 2020

“ Sandboxes ” – and rainbows –

                                                   Listen to audio

“ Sandboxes ”

              – and rainbows –

                              revisited –

Time played us so

Carefree of puerile,

As though forever

We’d live the while,

In wishful rainbows

That so beguiled,

Till hint of shadow

When of a sudden,

We’re cast adrift

Of childhood days,

Denied of sandboxes

Thus to find our way…

Now adult vision

Edges to fashion,

Of chance choices

In unlike passions,

Be soon worn thin

Held best assume,

Find remote whim

Of wearisome spins…

Yet period plagues

With insipid wishes,

And easy daydreams

Of undying rainbows,

In sandbox dwellings!

                        © Jean-Jacques Fournier

                                    o.v. 1^st written Summer of 1983, in LA, California

         Painting, Children playing in a sandbox by James Le Jeune

                     Music, Kevin MacLeod – Incompetech Air Prelude #15

“ Clouds for Dreaming ” – of ethereal things –

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On a whim I can fly 

In a dream,

As I soar on wings

It thus seems,

Of ethereal things

Be a flight so real,

The ascent I can feel…

 

As I ride on the wind

I hear Zephyr sing,

Yet could not tell

If it spoke of Phoenix,

And his trip to hell

When rashly he’d fly,

Which I’ll ne’er risk

As so high he did fry,

For my soaring is fixed

In the dream I so fly…

 

Now on billowy clouds

Soft feathery things,

Their gentle pull bides

The while one clings,

To this surreal ride

Said fabric for dreams,

That dresses the skies,

In clouds made for dreaming!

 

           written at Amsterdam Airport

                                             © Jean-Jacques Fournier

                                                                   April 10, 2002

 

 

“ The Wind ” ~ that whispers ~

 

Listen to the wind,

Softly whisper

Its chagrin,

Anxious tales

Harbouring sins

Of men for sale,

Who wile us in,

Won’t hesitate

On but a whim

To devastate,

Hid in the whispers

Of an angry wind…

 

Thus as wind wails

In mock reply,

A sadly echo

Of tortured cry,

Tells be destined

Meant soon to die,

While a final whisper

Be the wind’s good-bye!

 

“ An Angel ” ~ without wings ~

There are angels

Not of seraphim

Nor a cherubim,

An angel that be

Decidedly a she

Of secular whim, 

Angelic to the eye

Will candidly  imply,

She’s not immune to sin…

 

An angel just the same

Without need of wings,

In a curvaceous frame

Made of earthly things,

A siren yet so graceful

Gliding in the rhythm  

Of a tantalizing state,         

Where angels the like

Shan’t likely populate,

In a world of seraphim!

“ Frustrations ” ~ a taste of limbo ~

Said to describe

Sagacious scribes,                                              

A sorry carcass

Frustrates to contrive,

Yet means survive

To thus achieve,

The while sauces sin

And regurgitates

What he sucks in,

To satiate ones taste                                                   

By feeding every whim…                                          

  

Save frustrations

Be constant threat

To ones resolve,

With words akin

To be so wrought,                                                                              

As to be limboed      

In a dead man’s lot,

Robbed of musing light,

To write in mindful state

Of scribe’s relentless chase!