Le Phoenix

Ode a la Cavaliere Sereine

2010-12-31T01:03:00.000-08:00

Comme une brise libre et silencieuse
Le soir venu s'endort toute gracieuse
Sous les feuilles reposantes d'automne
Ainsi sous les courbes de ton regard de madone
En prière
Viennent s'échoir toutes mes amours mourantes
Et les boucles frileuses de ta chevelure ruisselante
Comme une pluie délivrante charie dans ses eaux
Toutes mes pensées sombres et mes larmes en rouleaux

Alors dans les murs clos et sans fatwa
De ton visage angélique et courtois
Tu reçois mes confessions sans prétention
Tu absous mes erreurs et afflictions
Sans fin
Patiemment tu sutures une a une mes plaies béantes
Sans laisser une seule trace défiante ni cicatrice errante
Et toutes les contusions de mon coeur jadis endolori
De ton baume secret tu les as toutes guéries

Sain de peur et sauf de doute
Je prends ta main sur l'exaltante route
Qui me mène vers les contours de tes avant-coeurs
Ou tu m'invites a la conquête de ton émeraude coeur
Mon dernier refuge, ma reposante Demeure.

Peu importe si par un matin brumeux
Des flots d'un passé têtu et écumeux
Tentent vainement de refaire des siennes
Car je sais! O cavalière sereine
Sur ta monture, ma foi est refaite et saine!

Je ne tomberai point!

The Whisper of the rose

2010-10-11T00:07:00.000-07:00

Just a springer rose

blooming and fresh at sunrise

At sunset faded away, a life at repose

Alike has come and gone without surprise

Silent absence, radiant presence forgoes

So pass the word to the morning breeze

To spread in the awakening meadow

The fresh fragrance of my breath at ease

Before the storm lays on me its shadow

And strip me off my scent, squeezed as a sleaze!

Whisper the word to the lover

To haste for the nuptial dress

Before my vivid robe turns a livid rag all over

The minute ahead may be a distress

A second wasted, and dark will hover

Whisper the word to the caring florist

It is the day of roses, the glory of passion

The wedding is the unique bridal feast

When the chorus sing in fashion

The everlasting symphony of a fine lyrist

Hum the word to the buzzing bee

To rush and sip more nectar for the honey

For the coktail need to be horny
Remember, no matter how fresh I may be

My pollen are not overnight freebie

I am just a springer rose
That says it all
When Hearts fly above the sky
And lips can't utter a word at all
Emotion running light and free, so spry

Just a springer rose
Discarded at the crossroad
When the flamme fades away
Hands loose their tie on the road
And broken hearts resign without fray

I am rose

Who crowns the toumb of the fallen souls
And comfort the widow, the orphan

I am rose

Who feeds love stories that never die
and inspire melodies hearts can't denie

I am rose

Rose of passion

The color of compassion

Rose of peace

The crown of freedom

Rose of comfort

The fragrance of love

Just a springer rose

You can't live without

Praised at sunrise no doubt
Carelessly discarded at sunset

You take what you see

I give what you can't touch and see

Beauty is what I meant to share

With passion and care

My fragrance is my eternity
A scent of love to spread

I am rose, rose beyond rose

Rose Gardern, Berkeley, April 13, 09

Que Peut la Terre?

2010-07-30T01:29:00.000-07:00

Que peut la terre
Si l'Homme la rebute?
Que peut la terre
Si l'Homme la dispute?
Que peut la terre
Si l'Homme la morcèle?
Que peut la terre
Si l'Homme la martèle?
Que peut la terre
Si l'Homme la dépouille?
Que peut la terre
Si l'Homme la souille?
Que peut la terre
Si l'Homme la brûle
Et l'infeste de crapules?
Que peut la terre
Si l'Homme la réchauffe?
Que peut la terre...
Si l'Homme y étouffe?

Que peut la terre
Si l'Homme y chasse l'Homme?
Si l'Homme y fauche l'Homme?
Si l'Homme y saigne l'Homme?

La Terre est ivre de sang

Soif de Paix sans Tout puissant
La Terre est repue de carnage
Faim de Liberté mise en cage

Elle va vomir....

14 Mai 2002 (Revisitée 2005/2010)

Regards Croisés

2010-06-15T16:45:00.000-07:00

Lorsque courent les âmes fugaces

D'un train a l'autre filent les silhouettes

Et que les visages émulés excités se dépassent

Regards croisés, que dites-vous de si chouette?

Que dites vous, regards croisés

Lorsqu' en un éclair vos yeux se fixent

Faisant de ces instants indociles une éternité apprivoisée

A l'insu de ces corps mouvants et pas fuyant toute rixe

Quel secret ineffable d'amours interdits

Oh confidents discrets, complices de pactes sensuels

Confiez-vous a vos désirs insoumis

Emballés par l'harmonie d'un silence soudain perpétuel

Quelle soif ardente de penchants serviles

Sous les courbes de vos visages piégés

Etanchez-vous de cette manière si agile

Buvant a la lie, la coupe de miel sur une note arpégée

Dans cet élan d'osmose de coeurs au chocolat fondu

Qui passent les frontières et brisent les tabous

Dites-moi, regards croisés irrésistiblement crochus

De quelle passion divine vous enivrez-vous...

Et que la porte de vos âmes refusent de déclamer

A la fin du songe, quelle pensées vous restent
Vers quelle autre rencontre vos courses vous emportent

Le Coeur qu'il a fallu...

2010-06-01T12:20:00.000-07:00

Un coup…deux coups…milles et un coup de pousse
Entre l’éveil et l’extase mille rythmes endiablés
De deux corps entremêlés et mus de désir enflammé
Mille frémissements et fourmillements, mille soupirs
Transe cumulus de mille plaisirs consommés
Une giclée…deux giclées… la morte graine semée
A l’agonie de tes plaisirs, une germination pousse

Dans le silence complice de ta voûte fertile et céleste
Sans souci, la minuscule gemmule siège immodeste
Tout partagé, tout donné, la sève et la fibre, rien n’en reste
Pour me donner corps et souffle,
Envies et dégoûts
Fatigues et remous
L’eau de ta bouche asséchée,
Le sang de tes mains anémiées
La ligne courbe de ton amphore détournée
La cambrure proéminente et prononcée
Nipples à fleur de peau, endoloris
Souffrances et peines ineffables a fortiori
Mais à tes yeux rien n’est démesure
Ton cœur ne bat que pour mes nourritures

Alors a mes coups et capricieuses secousses
A mes sauts inattendus de joie ou de détresse
Ta douleur stridente mais contenue
Me répond par la touche sensuelle de tes doigts ingénus
De l’Esprit au verbe, méticuleuse et patiente
De toi a moi, émoi en toi, tu as conçu l’Ame vivante
La Sainte toile que je suis!

Ooh, la longue attente mystérieuse de la joyeuse délivrance neuf fois conjurée !
Et pour mission accomplie, mes mignons attributs neuf fois imaginées et comptés !

Un coup…deux coups…milles et un coup de pousse
Mille contractions et serrements de dents
La peur de tout perdre inexorablement plus mordant
Mille nerfs tendus, muscles étirés in extremis
Dans le regard vide le crucifix s’immisce
Mille douleurs déchirants pour qu’une vie qui se meurt
Donne souffle à une vie en quête de nouvelle demeure
Contre vents et marées tu me frayes le chemin
Enroulé, couvert d’eau et de ton vin de vie, comme un parchemin
Tu me remets sain à la lumière du jour
Faim déjà de contempler le fruit de ton amour
Et lorsque dans le vide qui me tend ses bras inconnus, incertains
Mon premier cri de guerre perça ton temple assoupi mais divin
Tendrement tu m’as offert ton cœur pour que j’y dépose mes heurts.
Ainsi de ton sein à tes bras, j’ai trouvé la raison de grandir sans peur.

Oh Dada, ce cœur qu’il t’a fallu pour que je
Sois !
Pourrai-je finir de dessiner son contour?

YDA, A toutes ses femmes qui m’ont fait,
Mai 31, 2010 – 3 :09 am

A “Christian” voice or the worsening chronic dementia of a vile slavery nostalgic!

2010-01-14T00:40:00.000-08:00

“Where God is, Evil is not that far”. This assertion which is as old as the world has been voiced today again! When the entire world including United States of America are mobilizing to comfort and bring relief to Haiti, crushed by a merciless earthquake, the devil has shown his face and voiced his mind: “Something happened a long time ago in Haiti and people might not want to talk about it. They were under the heel of the French. Napoleon the Third and whatever. And they get together and swore a pact to devil. They said ‘we will serve you if you’d get us free from France’. True story! And the devil said ‘ok,it is a deal’. And they kicked French from …you know…and Haitian revolted and got themselves free. But ever since, they’ve been cursed by one thing after the other, desperately poor”. You wonder how that evil looks like, google a certain “Pat Robertson”, if you have never heard of him. And you will learn a lot about that so called US “televangelist” who always sees every massive disaster as the expression of the anger of his very blood thirsty “God”, who can’t get over the “sins” of his so imperfect creatures. After blaming gays, lesbians and liberals of being the cause of 9/11 terrorist attack and Katrina, this idiocy is the latest his very “blessed” and “anointed” brainless-senile-empty coconut has popped out! That’s all Pat knows about the history of the world and his country.

Am I surprised that something hideous like this came out of Pat Robertson’s mouth? Hell, no! Should I waste my time on his comments? In fact no, but I am worry about all you out there, who are related to me in one way or another, and who consciously or by accident turn on CBN to watch that 700 Club show frequently or less often. Please, it’s time to quit on it! It’s not worthy your faith! It’s time to tear down his evil Empire! You don’t have to stand there, and drink colonial mindset cup of your history, the world’s history. If you are a Christian, unless you aside with those who in the past made themselves heralds of slavery and colonization in the name of an obscure mission of civilization, you don’t believe that those who fought their way out of captivity and oppression, made a deal with devil. And if that is the case, you would also believe that all African countries made a deal with devil to get rid of colonization in the 60s after been devastated by slavery; that United States of America made a deal with devil to gain freedom from British; that Europe swore a pact to devil, to get rid of Hitler and Nazism.

Pat Robertson, Haiti is our Pride! Haiti is our Faith! Haiti is our sunrise! Haiti is the song of our Freedom! Our Freedom! Haiti might be on its knees, wounded today; but Haiti will arise from ashes, brave and proud again! There will be always noble hands to come together and lift up the spirit and the soul of those in need like this. So preach your hatred and evil words the blink of time that you have now!

Haiti will stand and you will pass! "Goodness is stronger than Evil".

Song to the Green Hills Home

2009-04-09T02:02:00.000-07:00

The Green hills home:

The day is announced to be stormy. The rain, the cold wind, is on a tour again. The beautiful sunrise that I spotted through my large window at 6 am, already rolled away its golden painted linen two hours later, handing over quietly, the sky to a large dark cloud that rushes in and cover it, as it was waiting for so long. All day long, a moody weather can’t decide which face to make before us: Mother Nature is torn with pain and anger over the slain of little angel Sandra Cantu. I can’t get over it either. It is too absurd to admit. For almost 10 days, we’ve prayed and prayed for Sandra’s return. Grass and stones have been turned up and down; Tracy has been rummaged through all over, but little Sandra is no where to be found. Unfortunately, this time, it seems that “Power” has chosen the camp of Evil. It’s hard to get over it.

What is appalling is that this tragedy happened after series of gun related murderer of many honest people across the States. As it is usual in those circumstances, the statistics came out to remind us that on this land of prosperity, and in time of peace, at least 1000 Americans die every year with gun related incident. This means that if it were in Togo, a country of 34.7967 mi.and 5 millions human beings, the equivalent of my entire village would have to be rubbed out of the map every year. Where is the threat then? Not in the mountains of Tora bora, I guess, since we are exterminating each other so perfectly already here!

So my question is where is this ugliness from, and what is it doing right here in the heart of a Land that is praised to be Heaven on earth?

I need to keep the belief that “Goodness is stronger than evil, Love stronger than hate”. Is someone listening, and ready to answer my pleading?

Almost four years ago, I set foot on the most prosperous land, seeking safety and peace. I’ve been welcome and embraced wherever I went. A stranger gave me a coversheet and a shelter. I was thirsty of belonging, and my thirst was quenched with abundant wells of love from people who had no clue of the stranger I was. I got friends and family to lean on, and I said to myself “Oh it is good to be here!” But today as Tracy, and we all are mourning little angel Sandra Cantu, I’ve ever felt so strongly about a heaven that I might not have anymore. And I keep thinking of my green hills sweet home, where little Sandra wouldn’t have the chance to get ice cream when she wanted, but could jump, dance and sing freely with her peers, and fearlessly wander far away from home, but still return safe before sunset, to help Dada cook dinner in her smoky kitchen .

The day is at end. The rainbow is waiting in a showery sky, to take little Angel Sandra Cantu back home. I need to pull myself together, to sing the song Sandra needs for her splendid ride home:

On the top of the green hills home
There are no skyscrapers
Just rainbow riders

On the top of the green hills home
There are no street lights
Just twinkle stars in sight
And no plane in the sky
But the dream of little Sandra will fly high

On the top of the green hills home
The grass is wild and green
Little Sandra can play like a queen
Without leaving us with no goodbye
In sorrow and powerless “why”

On the top of the green hills home
Monster spurred on by madness
Everywhere else ready to spread sadness
Is nowhere to steal little splendid Sandra
While Angels are nowhere to say hola basta!

In a leafless tree in Tracy,
A disconsolate mourning dove is voiceless and thirsty.

But on the top of the green hills home
The grasshopper is singing
So jump, jump, little Sandra jump all over
There is no more killer in cover
Dance, dance, little Sandra dance your tango
Butterflies join your circle across the meadow
Your heart is larger than a suitcase
Your smile brighter than a life in cage

Your slayer is now on run
Up at him our nose is turned
“No mercy” is his end

So jump, sing, and dance
Free little Sandra, dance!
A rainbow is here to give you a ride
To the top of the green hills home.

Stolen hands

2009-02-23T09:37:00.000-08:00

After the half day break of yesterday that allowed me to escape for a nurturing hiking in the Redwood Park, another rainy Sunday. In prospect nothing exciting in the air that can drag people out. Moreover, it is the Oscars night. Millions of eyes are riveted on tv screen, to share the emotion and the gratitude of actors who are rewarded for their genius. I wanted to stay home, and be part of the game. I catch myself thinking about the place of the cinema Arts in our lives. Anytime I walk out the dark of a movie theatre, I can’t stop reflecting on this questionable pact between “heroes”, and we the “ordinary” folks. We walk in, one hand loaded with a sack of popcorn, and the other a tank of soda; we take a seat, pledge to turn off our cellphone or are reminded to do so, and we are ready to go. By the time the light is off, and we let our mind captivated by the first images when in the meantime we keep our jaw busy, we never notice that we’ve just waived the boundaries of our ego, and give to a third party, the right to break in our “comfort” zone. For one, two or three hours, we assist to our own self-lashing or glorification. An unhealed wound re-opened, a dream expanded, a twinkle star in the sky to make us see, a failure to remind us our limits. It is still raining; the Oscars ceremony is on the air a while ago; I am not at home but in the dark room of PFA. The African Film Festival is in its last day ,and for 96 minutes we are taken 3 years back in the time, to see Paris through Moussa’s eyes. The water pump, the only source of hope in a Guinean village is on its last legs and Moussa is appointed to go and buy a new one in Paris. After coming across all the difficulties immigrants have to deal with, crime, police raids, working at small odd jobs, he is returning home with the precious treasure in his hands. He’ll never make it there alive. At the airport, he is commanded by the police to pay a fine; his visa expired 5 days ago. A police holds up his life when he asks to be treated with respect. “To come is a problem, to stay is a problem, and to leave is a problem” were his last words. Moussa’s tragedy as end of the movie is unexpected, unwanted. His visit to Paris is unexpected, unwanted. His life is a joke, his village a joke, the pump a joke, the future of his children, a joke. That is the way some people are called to be treated. They work hard, and before they reach the mid of their life, they lose the palm of their hands in the bowels of the earth. For them, no past, present or future is needed to be written, and will ever be read. When their land is snatched from them, and the river dries up with no fish to catch, they can still sail away, but not allowed to shore. If the angry stream of the sea cannot strip them, the spines of the wall of shame won’t miss them for sure. And if there is a few out there who are lucky enough to make it to the “promise” land, they can choose between the street, a charter or jail. Like the millions of immigrants souls who are lost in the waves of the Pacific and the Atlantic, like the thousands whose lives are twisted in crammed jails, Moussa is a stolen hand. It is just too hard to read the message written on the screen of his fading eyes: I come to give and share what I am made of: the fire, the water, and the sand. I am here for nothing but to enrich, respect, and dignify! After all what is the matter if Moussa dies? He has been brought to existence by mistake anyway, by a God who doesn't know quite well what to do with him out there. 2:17am

Think twice

2009-02-19T21:52:00.000-08:00

Think twice...before you grab your holster
Think twice...before you press the trigger
See twice...before you shoot
Don't cut his life short
A child can be orphan
A wife, a hopeless widow
A mother can be lifeless forever
A sister, a disconsolate soul
A brother can switch from hope to anger
A taser can turn a killer

Think twice before you grab your holster

The power is in your heart
Not in your hands
The fear, in your mind
Your eyes are just its window
The threat is nowhere
Shut it down, Let it go!!

Think twice...before you grab your holster
Think twice...before you press the trigger
See twice...before you shoot
Don't cut his life short

He is your brother
You are his keeper!
A Peacemaker!

Think first...twice... before you steal a Future,
And left with... "where am I?"

Foenix
Labels: Poem in Memory of Oscar Grant

2009-02-19T21:24:00.000-08:00

Debout

A la meme heure
Contre les memes heurts
Et aux memes lieux
Parfaire tout au mieux
Fiel, foi de héros
Arracher le droit au bourreau
Sur le meme elan
Oublier tout relent
Ferme jusqu'au bout
Gagner le Combat
Debout!

Fyd