death

Methodic Madness

Enslaving chains and wilderness pains 

are broken on healing heavenly domain 

plus graceful throne, envisioned. 

 

Method upholds this marauding madness 

aflicting us on earthly journeys through 

wounded wilderness, deadly disdain 

and frighful famine; distressing 

humankind and nature. 

 

Twisted minds and wicked souls  

torment humankind on this earthly  

journey through birth, life and death. 

Yet, we came with nothing; and with 

nothing, we depart to earth's dust.  

 

Hideous hypocrisy darkens love to 

hide this greatest reality from heaven's 

green pastures, meadows and 

river bed, unchained.  

 

We follow this river path to oceans 

lighted by divine mercy and unending 

salvation; healing broken hearts and 

bleeding, lost souls. 

 

Cold Rage

Scream, scream, screaming:

 

Help those drowning 

 

all around

 

and they look to their coffers,

and the piles fill into the coffins--

 

The tide is coming in and the flood

is just getting worse:

there's a rage building in the dead,

and we'll speak for them. 

 

Wretched bodies flung into a funeral pyre,

and the silence is deafening upon the pile,

and we see our love burned to ashes,

and we see their hands deep in pockets.

 

Cold hard cash for the winners and 

death sentences for everyone else. 

 

There's a cold rage building in the dead

and we'll speak for them. 

 

The march of the dead is coming and 

pitchforks are on our side this time.

 

Too big to fail too big to fall to big to take on

too big for their own good too big so

 

let's build ourselves and let them know

 

we're too big to ignore.

 

There's a cold rage building in the dead and

it just keeps growing and

we'll speak for them. 

 

If we're face down, six feet under, it doesn't matter

if their cash piles grow and grow

in the face of God they pray, bow, and pretend

it's fine as long as they say sorry

 

and it won't be. 

 

A cold rage is building in the dead,

am ember burning

threatening to blow it apart

and it just keeps growing

and

 

we'll speak for the dead. 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

There's a cold rage building in the dead. 

The Lay of Maranwe

Folder: 
Tales and Fables

Once upon a time, long ago,

enfurled in a land in which did flow

rivers of enormous size,

through great wolds and over the rise

of a cliff, grand and mystique,

on a mountain of which whose peak

looked out over the cold, cold sea

the mistress of sailors, the love of the free.

The sea! The sea! Oh, the sea.

Twas the sea that called Maranwe

to his wrack so long ago

when the sea swelled with melted snow.

 

He was born of the eldest son

of kingly sires who one-by-one

had met the sea and so did yearn

for it, waiving the sun's bright burn

and descended into the shadowy deep

never to rise, forever to sleep.

Doom, his father tried to avoid

for the sake of the son in which he enjoyed,

but strong was the blood that ran through his vein

and quick was he to find his own bane

at the cold hands of the death-thirsty sea,

never to rise, nevermore to be free.

 

Maranwe's bold life began that day

that his father died, and he was sped away

deep into the wold, far from the sea,

so that the bale of his forefathers may not be

his weird, and his mother bade

him loath the sea, upon which was laid

the curse of his fathers and of his kin,

and to love no more the mortal men -

men who were easily swayed by the sea

until they should die, no more to be.

He was then placed into an elf's care

until the house he no longer could share,

and so ran away into deep shaws,

away from men and his mother's laws.

 

A great hunter he soon came to be, 

under no law, forever free,

until the day he found his weird

in an old man with a gray beard

who stood in the way

on the dawn of that fateful day. 

A teacher the man claimed to be

and taught Maranwe sigaldry

of fiery magic with weildy blade

and when they were finished, he again bade

Maranwe to reject the sea

that the bane of his fathers may not be

the weird of a hero so noble and blest

but Maranwe grew wrathful and lay down to rest

the old man who had once been his friend

but the old man, while trying to fend

him off cried “Beware the sea my friend!

For the sea mews lonely cry can rend

a man to long for the sea's dark gray

to find his weird and prove him fey.”

But Maranwe did not heed his words

and under the sight of carrion birds

slew his friend and mentor true

but fearing the wrath of the gods, he flew.

On waking again he was alone

and running away, his face shone

with the sheen of one already fey

so his doom was full-sealed that day.

 

After untold travail, and finally ruth,

Maranwe decided to live forsooth

and bated by the cold freshets and frith 

chose to rid the world of the myth

of the resident naiad who lived in the river.

So taking up his sword, bow, and quiver,

he went to find her, to clear his name

and possibly take from him the bane 

of his forefathers, now almost forgotten

dead on the sea floor, blind and rotten.

But the nymph was know for creating bliss

and in the men stirred wantonness

and by keeping their attention all day 

their farms had all faded away.

 

So on went Maranwe to trap the poor girl,

first to capture, then to hurl

her out of the shaw, to trouble no more

the farmers and peasants who lived by the shore 

of her cool river which led out to the sea,

and then perhaps he would be free

of the bane of his house and the dirt of his name.

For his name ever brought to him shame

for 'Maranwe' means destiny in elvish they say,

and so he looked for her day after day,

to change his weird and live in bliss

and never again his name would miss.

 

He sought her through forest and fountain, glade and glen,

until he finally found her, but then

he stayed his hand and was entranced

by this beautiful nymph who danced

upon the green shore of her river home

far from the cold sea's frothy foam.

And while he stared, he caught her eye,

and her eyes appeared bluer than the bluest sky,

deeper than the ocean floor,

more precious to him than a diamond's core.

But away she swam, with him in pursuit

till they came to the river's root 

and then he stopped and cried to her

for like a fish, he had taken the lure.

She then looked back at the haggard man,

then into the forest she quickly ran

but the forest was Maranwe's home

the place where he always loved to roam.

 

After two days, she began to tire

and deep within her kindled a fire

for this man, so brave and wild

this incarnation of forest child.

And so she turned and welcomed him

the only child of mortal men

who had gained her love, though wild and fey,

her heart, he had finally captured that day.

And so they lived long, through sorrow and bliss 

until the sea claimed her, and then her he did miss

and followed to the edge of that sea

wishing that with her he would again be.

 

Walking the shore, looking out towards the sea

he was met by a very strange company

of men, and the friend who he killed long ago

ethereal spirits, alive but lo!

Maranwe's old friend had turned his head

and looking straight at him, he said,

“Beware, beware of the sea my friend! 

For the sea mews lonely cry can rend

a man to long for the sea's dark gray

to find his weird and prove himself fey.

For these, my friends who surround me yet

were once kings of old, men who let 

their desires fall to the cold, cold sea,

never to die, nevermore free.'

“Your forefathers these are, who I warned long ago,

I gave them each good counsel but lo!

They did not listen, and they became fey 

when they ignored my counsel the very first day.”

 

And Maranwe foreseeing his doom draw near,

ran from that place in bloodcurdling fear

that his doom may yet be completed that day

and that his life would soon fade away. 

So he ran up the shore, back to the stream

but coming upon it, he saw a small gleam

and turning to see from whence it came

saw only the spirit of that once-loved dame

and crying aloud, he wept bitter tears

and afraid of the drawing of his years

to a close, he ran back to the sea

as if able to confront his enemy,

but all he found was the calm sea and shore,

the ethereal spirits he saw no more.                                                                                                                                                                                 

 

For years after he lived by the sea

for in his heart he never was free

from the love of the nymph, whom he had loved dear

and filled with this love, he set away fear

and constructed a plan to sail the cold sea

to find his maid, and set her free

from the death-enveloping sea

and nevermore a thrall would she be.

But at the shore awaited his fate,

for although in his life it came late,

doom overcomes all that it calls,

and it caught Maranwe at the falls

of the great rivers that empty into the sea

at the edge of the lands of the free.

For as he approached, he heard the crying mews

and the battle of fate he knew he would lose

but nevertheless to the sea he went out

and stepping onto the shore with a shout

he cried “The sea! The sea! Oh the sea,

know that you do not own my destiny.

For I have lived long years without count

with the woman I loved, and at her fount

I lived like no man ever lived before,

and now gladly I come unto death's door.”

 

Then forsaking his life, and the sun's bright burn

to find his love for which he did yearn,

he descended into the shadowy deep

never to rise, forever to sleep.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Dated NOV25, 2009

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The Face

Folder: 
Tales and Fables

The saddest eyes in a world of gray

Full of hurt, and the weakest strength

Windows to a tortured brain

Courting madness to look sane

 

I see the darkness around your face

That you try to hide away

You've lost the will to live again

Subject to recurring pain

 

The wrinkles flow around your features

Like roiled and cracked imprints of creatures

Growing old while in your prime

Extenuate the charm of time

 

The mouth is small and bares it's teeth

Silent when it ought to speak

Chewing when it ought to stay

Cursing the good days away

 

Stepping back

Now I see

It's simply a mirror

Reflecting me...

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Twofold Times

Folder: 
Cute (G)

What a strange and twofold time

This hour of smiles and tears

When loved ones now and then all pluck

Mere moments from the years

 

When all recall not merely joy

But rancor, loss and pain

And somehow feel a common strength

When relived all again

 

The words that fill the whispers

That slip from trembling lips

May be all happiness and ire

All anger, fear and quips

 

Only now, this twofold time

This hour of smiles and tears

Do all the memories that we share

Come through the well-plucked years

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THIS MAN?

 

 

 

                              THIS MAN?

 

 

 

 

This is plainly unusual, a small trip to hold you on…still a true story…

Let no make it sad or happy but unusual, this is the word to start a revolution, I like it, I like to say…I should I say I dare to say?!

 

The music was pretty exotic at the time, a bit like me, a bit like the way I looks at the time, outer space they would says, I would disagree for the sake of it, and say with modesty, I was only be true to myself…. hehehhe…

 

Alcoholic brevages, alcohol smell, alcohol friends, alcohol everything, I would say…again, I know…shuttttttttt…

 

But here it was my only friend, or I should I say, a friend which was pretty much there at the time!

We were wondering the street, and find ourselves into this man house, more alcohol, more despair, more intellectual violence’s, god we love it!

 

The records was playing in the background, we thought we knew it all, my sweet friends did don’t we? Bless the innocence I say we were at least maybe naïve, but unspoiled!

What seems at the time, an old man, who had the time was a very good host, how should I say, a good punter, as we felt if we could save on life and eat someone else life we would save ourselves from the devil of this earth, I think?

 

I should leave the details off, by now and get to the juicy stuffs, I can hear you saying, or is it again this voices in my head, patience, I say, the ones who know who to wait, shall be reward, the lord spoke!

 

We are in 1988 I think, my memoirs ain’t this good this day…1988, I still wonder if I love you or hate you, I sure have a lot to speak about it…christelle, somehow you come to my mind again, as time grip my mind…

But I shall reserve you the best place of this story, be patient, I know, I recognised your call…I shall be there soon, time is only illusion…remember?

 

Have you ever been in bed with an abuser?

Do you know the touch of his flesh against yours?

The smell who fill the room?

The fear of your mind leaving you forever at the time?

Doesn’t it feel so warm today, when at the time it felt like death?

Maybe we were to feel this extreme, to feel alive, maybe we are already death, I like to think sometimes!

 

I like to think tonight of a shooting star, dead before the eyes of the human fellow could see it, I like this, it make it so easy to bare…the weight of it all, must be as heavy?

Do I have to say more? Wouldn’t be funny if it happen again, surely not!

Somehow the scenario repeated himself, the twisted of life I like to think, or maybe the sense of humour of the man without a face….

 

I can honestly, I forgive, I forget my human fellow, and in the process forgive my sins!

 

As long as I kown someone will find comfort to this words, I have find my destiny, I shall walk bare feet’s to my graves, naked, I shall embrace his grace, and please if you are listening, with no fear, I shall push the doors of the unknown…I am so ready for you, my sweet child.

 

This they could never robbed me, the innocence of the child is never lost, and the dying flesh should perish with him…

 

Therefore like the last days of summer, my story for tonight should end with melancholy…

Was I lying to myself, or fearing the unknown? Are they any justification for it? I shall leave it to him…

Many years have past, many pains and sorrow have flourish since, and joy and hope have won over it after all…

 

Maybe stories do finish well after all, maybe I just have not understand the end of it yet, or choose not too…doe it really matter, apart from the fact that in the end, I feel so alive as I type this words….?

I say not really.

 

 

                                          HERVE NAUDET DIT MARGOT.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

why not? the true is so sensual

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Midwinter poem

Why are you so forlorn my love
In this midwinter storm
Old man winter's half spent
His strength still formidable but diminished
And the days have started their slow climb towards the height of summers long day
 
The rains have come again though
They've not yet washed the earth
Of the ice and dirty snow
But the ground beneath is softened now
And its only a matter of time 
Til the birch-sap begins to flow
 
Keep laying out seeds of faith my love
For the sparrow and the chickadee
And let their chattering warm your heart
And do not begrudge the deer the cedar in the backyard
While all nature awaits in reverent silence
For the warmth and grace of spring
 
Last summer the gods blessed your garden
The tiny apple-tree nearly broke beneath the weight
A harvest to remember and apple pie for Christmas
The dahlias looked radiant in the midnight sun
And even still the parsley in your greenhouse hangs on
You must have known even then, the winter would be long
 
Tis the way of the world my love
This sacred circle of life and death 
Like the dry bulbs you have stored
Silent on a cold and dark cellar shelf
Carefully wrapped and stored in hope
Of the warmth and new life of spring
 
You and I have grown old my love
Our love like the gnarled old pine
Where your father's swing still hangs
There is yet strength enough in our limbs
To bear our children's children's weight
And the snows of winters yet to come

Cunning Stunt

Folder: 
Perverse & Bazaar

I love Mexico, and

I love China.....

But there’s nothing I love more

than Your....

 

Smile.

La forêt

Au dessus d'un cimetière aux tombes grises

Tombent les feuilles aux couleurs mortes 

Tandis que dégringolent au gré de la brise 

Des lambeaux de vie et d'espoir que l'on avorté

 

Le vent chante se sinistre mélodie, 

Soufflant les flammes de bougies heureuses 

Pendant que pleurent doucement à l'agonie

Les branches frêles de la sylve silencieuse 

 

Ne craint follement les feuilles qui tombent

Celui dont les pensées

Résonnent la nuit durant dans les catacombes 

 

Les plaintes de la forêt qui se meurt,

Seuls l'entendent ceux qui de la vie ont peur 

Et qui cherchent le sens à toute heure 

 

Du ballet de la chute des ombres brunes 

De la pâle froideur de la lune 

 

Alors sous le lierre et les ronces

On peut entendre un murmure, une sinistre réponse;

 

"Les morts ne parlent pas"

 

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