In the mirror I saw her smile and tie
Her hair behind her ear, then I
Looked hard at the enigmatic stare,
Tried to discern a meaning there.
It seemed to ask
If behind the mask
Was a stifled cry.
In the windows I glimpsed her walking by
So unsubstantial, shadows against the sky,
As she meandered in and out of light
Then disappeared, into the silent night.
She seemed to say:
Is there a way
For hurt to die?
I dare not know, I cannot tell what pain,
If stirred, would soon surface once again;
What half-forgotten former errors
Would be transformed into present terrors.
Until I know
What can make them go,
Here I'll remain.
Within this world we're born and live and die
And while we're here we gaze at life and try
To build a framework which will stand,
To find and grasp a helping hand.
I offer no pretence
That I can make sense
Of the woman who is I.
dimanche 5 octobre 2008
Words
I'm rather fond of chocolate, although preferably plain,
My friends have rarely known me to say "No" to more champagne,
An enthusiastic bear hug makes me feel more alive,
But I need words to help me to survive.
They talk of body language - I suppose it must be true.
Advertisments proclaim that one red rose means: "I love you".
But for those unanswered problems which are churning in my brain,
I need words, or else I'll go insane.
Reading minds is difficult, I just don't have the skill.
I don't know what you want for Christmas or if you're feeling ill,
If you're contemplating murder or just thinking you're too fat.
If you don't use words, it's like talking to the cat.
And yet, I too am secretive and don't say all I mean.
Sometimes it would hurt too much or might provoke a scene.
I scream frustration when you shrug, staring blankly at your drink,
But I'll never tell my father even half of what I think.
So I'm glad that our creator gave us several thousand pages
All filled with words inspired throughout many different ages.
Yet, when he chose to share with us the heart of his great plan,
He didn't send us words, but his own Word became a man.
My friends have rarely known me to say "No" to more champagne,
An enthusiastic bear hug makes me feel more alive,
But I need words to help me to survive.
They talk of body language - I suppose it must be true.
Advertisments proclaim that one red rose means: "I love you".
But for those unanswered problems which are churning in my brain,
I need words, or else I'll go insane.
Reading minds is difficult, I just don't have the skill.
I don't know what you want for Christmas or if you're feeling ill,
If you're contemplating murder or just thinking you're too fat.
If you don't use words, it's like talking to the cat.
And yet, I too am secretive and don't say all I mean.
Sometimes it would hurt too much or might provoke a scene.
I scream frustration when you shrug, staring blankly at your drink,
But I'll never tell my father even half of what I think.
So I'm glad that our creator gave us several thousand pages
All filled with words inspired throughout many different ages.
Yet, when he chose to share with us the heart of his great plan,
He didn't send us words, but his own Word became a man.
jeudi 18 septembre 2008
The Human Sponge
They came in through my ears.
Then the incessant drumming
And very pleasant strumming
Soothed away my fears.
Then they came in through my eyes.
But the captivating style
And the actress’s smile
Diminished all surprise.
As I sat in my armchair
Gazing at the television,
Taking no active decision,
My brain was not quite there.
Flowing into my head
Came unproven suppositions,
Vague political positions,
Like something I once read.
So, if you want to know my mind
On an ethical debate
Or the functions of the State,
Well, you know just what you’ll find.
Then the incessant drumming
And very pleasant strumming
Soothed away my fears.
Then they came in through my eyes.
But the captivating style
And the actress’s smile
Diminished all surprise.
As I sat in my armchair
Gazing at the television,
Taking no active decision,
My brain was not quite there.
Flowing into my head
Came unproven suppositions,
Vague political positions,
Like something I once read.
So, if you want to know my mind
On an ethical debate
Or the functions of the State,
Well, you know just what you’ll find.
A Song of Unromantic Thankfulness
An Unromantic Song of Thankfulness
To Mimil, Max, Ben, Andrew, Hugues, Phi, Joachim, Lotfi, Mickaêl and a few others…
When I was young I always thought
I’d fill the roles that I’d been taught
To play when I grew up in life
And be a mother, teacher, wife,
A normal woman, I’d dream of that,
With kids, a mortgage and a cat.
- But I got you lot instead.
Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t think
I’d stay at home, chained to the sink.
I’d always planned to earn some money
And thought that teaching might be funny.
But in the centre, I’d always see
A happy, smiling family.
- But I got you lot instead.
But God knows what will make us happy,
How I can barely change a nappy.
I am no good with little boys
And even worse at mending toys.
Before they gain the art of speech,
I’ve no idea what makes kids screech.
- So he gave me you lot instead.
Now, please don’t walk out of this rhyme
And say : « This woman’s a waste of time ».
For I can cook a meal for ten
Or even twenty hungry men,
When warned just half an hour before,
Or bake some cakes for even more.
- So you lot came here instead.
We didn’t plan it all this way.
You just turned up and chose to stay
For half a year, or maybe two.
You learned some stuff, we hope you grew.
Then you moved on, got on with life.
You found a job, sometimes a wife !
- Then someone else came here instead.
My work means that I chase around
Some days my feet don’t touch the ground.
I’m not much good at maternal care,
As half the time I’m just not there.
But sometimes I’d sit and chat with you,
Provide a woman’s point of view.
- Or you’d ask my husband instead.
No longer boys, not yet quite men,
You came here, then you left again.
You needed space to find out who
You were and what you had to do,
To be yourselves and then to get
On well with all the folk you met.
- Or just drive them crazy instead.
Sometimes our friends get quite upset
And ask us if we don’t regret
The children that we never had,
That no one calls us « Mum and Dad ».
But they don’t know how much you’ve brought us,
The many, many things you’ve taught us.
- Thanks guys. Keep on coming.
To Mimil, Max, Ben, Andrew, Hugues, Phi, Joachim, Lotfi, Mickaêl and a few others…
When I was young I always thought
I’d fill the roles that I’d been taught
To play when I grew up in life
And be a mother, teacher, wife,
A normal woman, I’d dream of that,
With kids, a mortgage and a cat.
- But I got you lot instead.
Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t think
I’d stay at home, chained to the sink.
I’d always planned to earn some money
And thought that teaching might be funny.
But in the centre, I’d always see
A happy, smiling family.
- But I got you lot instead.
But God knows what will make us happy,
How I can barely change a nappy.
I am no good with little boys
And even worse at mending toys.
Before they gain the art of speech,
I’ve no idea what makes kids screech.
- So he gave me you lot instead.
Now, please don’t walk out of this rhyme
And say : « This woman’s a waste of time ».
For I can cook a meal for ten
Or even twenty hungry men,
When warned just half an hour before,
Or bake some cakes for even more.
- So you lot came here instead.
We didn’t plan it all this way.
You just turned up and chose to stay
For half a year, or maybe two.
You learned some stuff, we hope you grew.
Then you moved on, got on with life.
You found a job, sometimes a wife !
- Then someone else came here instead.
My work means that I chase around
Some days my feet don’t touch the ground.
I’m not much good at maternal care,
As half the time I’m just not there.
But sometimes I’d sit and chat with you,
Provide a woman’s point of view.
- Or you’d ask my husband instead.
No longer boys, not yet quite men,
You came here, then you left again.
You needed space to find out who
You were and what you had to do,
To be yourselves and then to get
On well with all the folk you met.
- Or just drive them crazy instead.
Sometimes our friends get quite upset
And ask us if we don’t regret
The children that we never had,
That no one calls us « Mum and Dad ».
But they don’t know how much you’ve brought us,
The many, many things you’ve taught us.
- Thanks guys. Keep on coming.
Parents Evening
Parents Evening
Oh Good Evening, Mr Moreau,
I hoped that you’d be there.
I’m little Freddie’s mother
And I’m tearing out my hair.
He’s driving me right round the bend ;
I really cannot cope.
That’s why I’ve come to see you ;
You’re my last and only hope.
He won’t sit down or go to bed,
Play quietly with his toys.
And when I’m on the telephone
He always makes a noise.
He can shout for hours on end
As if he were in pain,
And it seems to quite amuse him
When the neighbours all complain.
Freddie won’t eat fruit or salad.
He’s so fussy with his food,
And if you try to make him
He gets really rather rude ;
I’ve tried bribing him with chocolate ,
But it does not change a thing,
And if I serve him vegetables,
He throws them in the bin.
Last night he took a pot of paint
Which he splashed all o’er the wall.
I pleaded with him to refrain.
He listened not at all.
Then he took my white silk shirt
And covered it with glue.
Oh, he’s such a little monkey
That I don’t know what to do.
The other lads all tell me
That he’s not like that at school.
That he sits quietly at his desk
And rarely breaks a rule.
They say he seems to quite enjoy
All Mr Moreau’s teaching,
And that one hard stare is just enough
To stop our Freddie screeching.
That’s why I came for some advice
Before I go insane.
I’ve begged and cried and threatened,
But it’s always been in vain.
As Freddie’s getting older now
I can’t control his tricks.
Just think, Sir, that in three months time
My boy is turning six !
*******************
Mr Moreau’s lips just twitched ;
You could almost say he smiled.
« I’ve no problems with Fred », he said.
« He’s quite a pleasant child.
He likes this school, because he knows
Just how far he can go.
It’s the only place he’s ever been
Where people tell him : No ! »
Oh Good Evening, Mr Moreau,
I hoped that you’d be there.
I’m little Freddie’s mother
And I’m tearing out my hair.
He’s driving me right round the bend ;
I really cannot cope.
That’s why I’ve come to see you ;
You’re my last and only hope.
He won’t sit down or go to bed,
Play quietly with his toys.
And when I’m on the telephone
He always makes a noise.
He can shout for hours on end
As if he were in pain,
And it seems to quite amuse him
When the neighbours all complain.
Freddie won’t eat fruit or salad.
He’s so fussy with his food,
And if you try to make him
He gets really rather rude ;
I’ve tried bribing him with chocolate ,
But it does not change a thing,
And if I serve him vegetables,
He throws them in the bin.
Last night he took a pot of paint
Which he splashed all o’er the wall.
I pleaded with him to refrain.
He listened not at all.
Then he took my white silk shirt
And covered it with glue.
Oh, he’s such a little monkey
That I don’t know what to do.
The other lads all tell me
That he’s not like that at school.
That he sits quietly at his desk
And rarely breaks a rule.
They say he seems to quite enjoy
All Mr Moreau’s teaching,
And that one hard stare is just enough
To stop our Freddie screeching.
That’s why I came for some advice
Before I go insane.
I’ve begged and cried and threatened,
But it’s always been in vain.
As Freddie’s getting older now
I can’t control his tricks.
Just think, Sir, that in three months time
My boy is turning six !
*******************
Mr Moreau’s lips just twitched ;
You could almost say he smiled.
« I’ve no problems with Fred », he said.
« He’s quite a pleasant child.
He likes this school, because he knows
Just how far he can go.
It’s the only place he’s ever been
Where people tell him : No ! »
Tell me the truth about love
Tell me the truth about love.
Fiery force in fragile lives ?
Greatest goal of giggly girls ?
Over-riding obsession, fixed on just one object ?
Four bare legs in a bed ?
No !
Tell me the truth about love.
Patient and peaceful, not possessive or proud.
Lasting, long-suffering, not lustful or loud.
Faithful, forgiving, always seeking the lost.
Sacrificial, self-giving, not counting the cost.
God is love.
That’s true.
Let’s go now and be love too.
Fiery force in fragile lives ?
Greatest goal of giggly girls ?
Over-riding obsession, fixed on just one object ?
Four bare legs in a bed ?
No !
Tell me the truth about love.
Patient and peaceful, not possessive or proud.
Lasting, long-suffering, not lustful or loud.
Faithful, forgiving, always seeking the lost.
Sacrificial, self-giving, not counting the cost.
God is love.
That’s true.
Let’s go now and be love too.
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