C'est un sous bois ou coule une rivière 

Tout est calme et on sent dans l'air

Une odeur de mousse, très légère


La passoire des arbres filtre le liquide soleil, 

Parfois une feuille tombe, vermeille

On ferme les yeux, on entend une abeille


Mollement, une salamandre comateuse

Du haut de sa souche creuse

Observe avec envie une bonne limace juteuse


Tout est calme, tout est tranquille

On sent dans l'air le parfum d'Avril

Pendant que loin, très loin, le temps file.

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Vert émeraude

Au fond d'un vaste lac turquoise

Entre deux rocs et la tanière d'un vieux mérou

Git, sur un fonc couleur ardoise

Une pierre d'un vert oeil de loup.


Le fond des eaux éclairé par un soleil d'émeraude

Devent paisible, le sable dessinant 

Des silhouettes en dansant.


Les algues, au plus profond

Ondulent paisiblement au gré du courant,

Maternant les alevins en les protégeant


Ah ! Il tarde à ces frais nouveaux nés

De partir explorer, vagabonder

Et découvrir sans plus tarder


Les eaux pûres, paisibles

D'un lac turquoise, vert au fond

Sous l'égide d'un gardien e son abnégation.

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Une frêle silhouette domine la vallée


Du haut d’un petit pic enneigé


Elle glisse, frôle, dévale les prés verts


Et on murmure son nom : « hiver »




Tout se fige lentement sur la plaine


Le ruisseau se transforme en miroir d’argent


Tandis que les arbres se teintent de blanc


Et que les fleurs se couvrent de chaines  




Le givre lentement tombe du ciel


Et couvre la vie d’un manteau de gel


Mitraille le peuple des prés de grêle




Puis tout s’arrête, lourd silence


Le blizzard, de sa formidable lance,


Figea le vie d’un calme éternel

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Le petit monde des prés du vent

Dans les prés où les papillons batifolent

On s’allonge dans l’herbe, regardant le ciel

On entend quelque chose, un battement d’aile

Les yeux se ferment. Un oiseau s’envole


Sur son audacieux brin d’herbe

Une fourmi tient tête à la fraiche brise

Tandis que sur les cerises

Déambulent ses nombreux petits frères


En contrebas, un petit ruisseau

Assiste au ballet des libellules,

Qui, excitées par le bruit de l’eau


Consument cet amour qui les brulent

Et s’en vont vite, gaiement vers les cieux

Illuminées par les rayons d’argent d’un soleil de feu.

Author's Notes/Comments: 


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Land-Borne Contours

This is not a landscape I would abuse.

Its uses are probably infinite,

marred only by the limits of my mind.

Time's good eye would cast a bleak, doubtful glance

towards me, or any man with torch held

at a lilting or menacing angle.

Here is but one, unforested canyon

that bulges over a bare horizon

and it calls to me by way of mirage;

shivering and quivering in tandem

with the day's heat, whilst modest twin peaks rise

intermittently with each chilling gust.

Thick and pallid reeds sway impotently,

protesting their anchorage and station.

They form a brilliant, patterned sheen when splayed

to greet the atmosphere's indifference.

The whole of these great, rolling plains fears light,

and silently requests a canopy

to form as a barrier against they

who would reap without reciprocity.

Its wish is granted by a great cocoon

dyed a gravel-borne grey and draped in swathes

across this bare beauty, now barred from sight.

And only in the trenches of midnight

can the silk be unraveled by the moon,

familiar as he is with this great tract.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I'm not entirely sure that the 'E' is even appropriate in the title but I like it so I'm keeping it.


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A Landscape: One of Glen's Corners

Fat white clouds rolled through the blue and
obscured the sun.
Against the haunted blue skyline sat
a cyclops poised
on a rail. His centered ruby stare
emblazoned like
a fire coaxed into embers beneath
glass. Released,
capsules on wheels, containing
slow-to-rot sort,
slide into play through field and
through paved way.

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An American Autumn

The sunbeams shine around and partly through the translucent leaves
The leaves are tinted orange like a beautiful aura waiting to be discovered
The branches of unique trees spread towards each other in an abstract arch
The amber leaves reflect the dew over the quietly emerging fractal limbs making for heavenly beams of light shooting through the crevices of the canopy
In relaxed nature the true beauty is delivered
The sunset connects to the suburbanised prairielands along with the adjacent maple leaves
The details are everywhere and on every tree, plant, object, sidewalk, road, plain
Its simplicity, yet so complex
Like a snapshot, I can only look back
For this day, this second is on another world half a decade in the past
My old life has left...
And yet ...
I’m still here

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I did this in year 7. (:

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More Than Just A Girl

There is such a grace when I see her smile
Such a beauty when she talks
I can imagine being able to touch her hand...
Hold it and show her I can take off the mask
One day I will tell her how I feel
But maybe she'll tell me how she feels
Or maybe one day we will be caught alone...
Watching the stars over a lake at night...
Witnessing the sunset atop of a hill...
Feeling a cold wind on a warm evening in a large grass plain under a blue sky...
In a snowy night under an incandescent street lamp...
I would clear my throat and look at her eyes...
Maybe, if I'm lucky, I won't need words...
Maybe we'll just meet in the middle...
She always seems to condensate my thoughts so they can come together
In her soul capturing eyes I just appear selfish
I always keep my feelings to myself
But why would she ever want to see my feelings?
Yet I don't want her to accept me for lying to her
I want her to accept me for me
It seems that guys are always stealing love
I despise the men who talk to women like devils with angel's eyes
Real men have nothing to hide
Maybe one day I'll be a man
Maybe one day this poem will end up in the hands of someone I have been infatuated with
But I can't do that by turning love into words
I wish I could,
That only works on girls,
And she-
She's more than just a girl

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is no girl...

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