Leaves leave me not

Leaves run, swirl in the monotonous dawn
Cold wind,  full of anger
Wipes  the lonely tears

Leaves run, swirl in the monotonous dawn
Solitude shout , breaking the Silence
Mechanical eyes cleave the darkness of the street

Leaves run, swirl in the monotonous  dawn
Hasten steps towards the day
Lonely souls, indifferent to each others.

Dead leaves run, swirl in the monotonous dawn.
It’s Autumn my dear!

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She was…

Gingerly“>

Gingerly

When I entered the room, she was sitting on  the old chair as usual, in a corner, turning the overused pages of the Bible.
I could not say if she she could understand,
But, her concentration was impenetrable.
 In her spare time she will gingerly stared at the book mumbling…
She was praying and she was beautiful, enlightened.
Regrettably , “Belief is a gift that I have not yet received”*

 *Tobie Nathan
(Ethnopsychiatrist): « La croyance est un cadeau que je n’ai pas encore reçu »

Reflexions

L’écriture m’apaise pourtant j’ai du mal à m’y mettre quelque fois. Mon esprit se disperse, un manque de concentration ou tout simplement un manque de temps. Mais quand le bug revient c’est comme une drogue!

L’inspiration me vient en marchant. Je marche de nouveau quarante minutes par jour – l’aller/retour à la gare. Seulement je dirais !
En ce moment, mon Moi et moi explorons des recoins de mon cerveau vierges. Des idées bourgeonnent, des projets ou bien de simples challenges.
Je me surprends à retrouver ce moi égaré, qui, furtivement peut disparaître sans crier gare…. Je me promène dans ces lieux où mon esprit acquiesce et confirme cet imbroglio intellectuel. Quand par chance, j’arrive à le capter au vol, je le saisi délicatement avant qu’il ne s’échappe de nouveau.

En deux jours, 4 amis se sont inquiétés de ma plume. Je m’en inquiète souvent, ma famille aussi s’interroge aussi du devenir de mon Imbroglio.
Et oui depuis environ 2 mois, je ne me suis pas penchée sur mon blog par manque d’inspiration ou bien tout simplement le dilemme.
Ecrire en Anglais, c’est un challenge mais par souci de la maîtrise de la langue, je me mets des barrières.
J’ai créé il y a deux mois une version française mais je me suis arrêtée au stade de la création.

Je disais donc, mes marches matinales ou en fin de journée me permettent de fouiller mon cerveau et les idées les plus folles me traversent l’esprit. Elles se dandinent fardées et vêtues de robes légères multicolores.
J’en rigole parfois ou bien je m’en inquiète lorsque celles-ci s’assombrissent.

Un soir, j’ai assisté à une tentative de suicide…. j’ai hurlé et mis mes mains sur la tête.
Ce pigeon avait, après analyse, marre de vivre. Il s’est posé au milieu de la rue. Un jeune conducteur l’a évité. Puis il s’est de nouveau posé au même endroit, deuxième échec. J’ai continué mon chemin mais l’oiseau ne s’est pas éloigné il s’est posé sur une branche non loin. Je présume qu’il a tenté de nouveau.

Mon interrogation : est-ce que les pigeons sont suicidaires?

La veille, à côté de la gare deux pigeons s’étaient fait écraser. Probablement un couple.
J’ai partagé ma réflexion avec ma fille et elle m’a dit qu’avec ses copines elles avaient déjà évoqué ce sujet.
La question du suicide chez les animaux est donc une pensée récurrente chez l’Homme.
En psychologie, il y a des moments où l’homme prend conscience d’une réalité et un dogme est proposé comme par exemple “l’enfant est une personne” de notre chère Françoise*. Ou bien l’homme se diffère des animaux parce qu’il pense, il parle.

Les documentaires animaliers modernes montrent que les animaux ressentent la peine, la perte : ils ont des sentiments. Ils sont comme nous, en fait. D’où l’apogée du Veganisme dans la société actuelle, je pense. Les animaux sont aussi des êtres pensants. Bien sûr, comme l’Homme aime catégoriser : il y en aura de plus intelligents que d’autres. Mais, nous constatons que tous ces animaux communiquent et vivent parmi leurs pairs.

Lorsque mon autre fille, la plus jeune a écrit son plaidoyer contre les zoos : elle a pris conscience d’une chose : tout être vivant a besoin de sa liberté. Et je suis fière qu’elle puisse avoir une opinion aussi forte et qu’elle ait eu envie de la partager avec sa classe.

Google my Dear friend, qu’en penses-tu? Tu ne penses pas je sais ! Tu publies la pensée des autres. Tu ne peux pas héler à tous : « Cogito ergo sum !» n’est ce pas ? Mais, je vais profiter de la plateforme encore une fois pour quelques éclaircissements. « Googuelons » : « Est-ce que les animaux sont suicidaires ». Et là, un des résultats proposé : « les animaux n’ont pas les capacités cognitives complexes de l’homme pour parler de suicide. Il s’agirait plus de comportements autodestructeurs ». En même temps, plusieurs scientifiques et philosophes, Aristote par exemple, se sont déjà penchés sur le sujet.

Nous savons désormais que les animaux peuvent être dépressifs, donc pourquoi pas suicidaires?
* Françoise Dolto, psychanalyste

Le tableau : Christofer Ofili “Weaving Magic” Exposition au National Gallery jusqu’au 28 août. Je m’y rends ce vendredi!!!!

Ebony Essence

Words unread, words written

In vain.

I scattered these letters,
Why didn’t you catch them?
They are still suspended, waiting.

Words written, words unread.
Lying on brown and dusty pages.
I sense a faint smell of inspiration,
Locked behind bars,
Robbed.

Letters, words, sentences,
Thrown in the air,
My hand are hesitating.
I stumble and stomp on assonances,
Stammered words, misunderstood.

Please catch these words,
The ink is not dry yet,
Pure and clear blue;
Words unread, words written.
I reveal my mind subtly

Nearly captured, nearly tinted.
*L’Afrique  is one of the allegorical statue in   in front of  Musée d’Orsey in Paris made by Eugène Delaplanche. You can admire 5 others representing the 5 others continents all created for 1878 l’Exposition Universelle.

My bionic nose

Grammarians, English language wardens I apologise…



My sister once said she’s always known me having nosebleeds. She is 12 years  younger than me.

My nose is a traitor, I can’t rely on him. He always embarrasses me. It is a love and hate relationship.
At the moment, he is behaving. I touch wood, I cross my fingers, toes, feet, legs, eyes etc.
Some days, he would threaten me. A  drop on a tissue and I would stop breathing. My heart would race, my hands would tremble, my blood pressure would be over the roof.
Armed with a tissue in my hand, another on my desk, one  in my pocket several in my bag : I would wait for the hemorrhage. Ready to respect  the 10 minutes rule : 10 minutes of silence. 10 dreadful minutes hoping it would stop.  Another 10 minutes to spit the clot : nose-bleeders will know what I am talking about!!!!
I would say, he is one of my biggest preoccupation. Don’t touch my face, don’t throw things at me! I try to protect him the best I can.  He gets a special treatment every day.
Sneezing, better to say the art of sneezing. Generally,  you sneeze without thinking. It is a spontaneous act. I sneeze through my mouth. It might not be easy to understand. The strength goes through my mouth and not through my nose.  My explanation is not as clear I wanted it to be, unfortunately  I don’t know how to be more precise.  Challenge, try this the next time you sneeze.
My sneeze is noisy. Once upon a time I was able to pinch my nose and have an almost inaudible one.
I have also stopped blowing my nose for years now.  But occasionnaly  in extreme condition, bad cold for example, I treat myself.
My nostrils, the twins as I call them are not identical. They are different and independent despite the thin wall between them, the septum. The left one is the naughtiest, always was. He has caused me too much trouble, always has. The diva, the drama queen! Always in tears : I tried to take care of him. The doctors too : too many cauterizations. I remember the burnt hair smell. The electrocautery or the butchery of my young nasal vessels was an inefficient procedure.  I remember, the week after I would bleed like never before.
I have learned to live with or maybe not. “It is just a nosebleed” I try to convince myself but too many.
The right nostril has been an angel. He was reluctant to copy his brother. One day, he lost it ! Both started partying as mad, 10 minutes, 20, 30 it was like an eternity.
I knew at this time that my nose had decided to take control of my freedom. Planted in the middle of my face smiling at me  murmuring : “And what?”.
One doctor convinced me to have a septoplasty, it might stop the chronic bleeding. One septoplasty plus an heavily cauterization later, no changes, no improvements.
However, my bionic nose is amazing. I can smell the good and the bad before everybody. Yes, unfortunately.

I am the only one who can understand his ups and downs, his tantrums.
I treat him with care, I am always gentle. He is good at the moment but I keep vigilant, always.
My nose and I,  a long and complicated relationship.

Guérir

Heal“>

For today prompt, I’ve asked my daughters who would like to write about “heal”.
I love their writing: poetry or short stories. My heart always melts when I read their words.
My eldest wanted to know if it is because “I couldn’t be bothered” to write a post.  I’ve told them for a month I will challenge myself and write a post every day. No, it’s not a way to escape from this.
The youngest accepted the challenge. She is 9 years old.
Before the agreement in principle, I had the usual lesson on how to pronounce it. For me, with my strong French accent, “heal”, “heel” “ill”, “eel” sound the same. I’ve tried and tried but funnily the French is stronger. Damn! When I talk, I can see the confusion on certain faces: I know I didn’t say the word properly. Then I try again and it is even more laughable.

So firstly, she wrote a few sentences defining the word.  “It would be good if you write a poem,” I said. Inspiration can be tricky sometimes however in less than 5 minutes she wrote this text:

Hey, you! You are going to be fine
Either they give you a plaster or wipe it up.
Are you allergic to anything?
Lastly, they’ll say you’ve been very brave, and normally, give you a sticker or a teddy.

She is speaking from experience for sure. She has received a few teddies and stickers in the past years.

Lots of people are dreaming of this word. It’s like a laboured obsession. The ultimate goal to reach: a tumultuous, depressing or unrealistic goal.
The journey to heal-land: motorways, buses, trains, planes; pain, tears, painkillers, resignation. Hours in a waiting room among lost eyes and rictus. Each pair hoping they will hear the word over-expected, the right diagnostic.

Heal-land or Utopia, you use the one the most suitable.
I wish all sufferers to reach this peaceful country where all pains are  non-existent, hearts are beating and bodies regenerate.

The teddy for hugs and comfort;
The sticker to acknowledge your bravery, better to place it on your chest;
Are you allergic to any medicines? You receive at last a new treatment, the rictus became a smile;
A cotton to wipe the excess of blood from any blood tests, each appointment ending with you leaving a part of you behind.
H for Hotel
E for Echo
A for Alpha
L for Lima.

Grammarians, English language wardens I apologise…

Rotten self 

Outlier“>Outlier

I can’t remember how often I had this feeling…

I am an outsider. 

An alien, I believe.

I come from nothing :
I would like to believe that!
I have a weak nose,
Also a strong pressure,
My words are lost sometimes;

My voice can’t be heard
Among a cacophony  of nonsense.
My legs always refuse to  go forward,
A poppet with chopsticks and an active brain
I feel it again. I experienced it at 8, 12, 13, 19, 32, 38, 43 years old.
Outlier, never in, never part : different.
Little words, too much and my reason wanders.
From here to there, the right hemisphere is teasing the left.

I am lost between love and hate,
I am found between desire and repulsion.
I felt it in my dreams,
Bizarre, I don’t mind being different.
I am haunted with my young thoughts,
Those nightmares I have often fought.
I will feel it again, again and again.
“Outlier”, they said.
I am outlaw,  outcast, out of this world, “Outlier” they repeat.
I am enjoying it, the new way to define myself ,
This self too often forgotten,
This self reborn from a rotten past.
“Outlier” they hammered,  even if I have already agreed.
At 8, I felt sad!
I stop grieving and felt it proudly,
Beautifully, intensively, shamelessly.

I thought

Mornings sickness started years ago.  From when I wake up until my first breakfast, I am in a state where everything wants to come out : a constant feeling of nausea. I usually have two toasts with butter and jam. I have stopped drinking coffee as they said caffeine is not good for the baby. I bought my first barley drink, the taste reminds me my usual cup of coffee so needed after many sleepless nights. During the day I would have some infusions,  mint preferably.

Cravings, of course! Not strawberry too cliche : soft cheese! But unfortunately I  am not allowed.I have to avoid listeria bacteria. Too dangerous for the baby.
After all these months, years I should have felt something, a kick something…
I am getting fatter and fatter. My belly is round like the full moon, my ankles are swollen at the end of the day.
I have planned everything. I don’t want to know if it’s a boy or a girl.
The room is beautiful, I  even painted a fresco on the ceiling.
I am so excited.
I refuse to go to my GP. I can’t go to the chemist to buy a pregnancy test. My unconscious is too strong, indestructible.
He brought me one once! It’s in the cupboard, on the top shelf behind the allergie tablets.
I push my belly forward, it has to be obvious.  With my “baby on board” badge my journeys are easier during the rush hour pick. A few exchanges of smiles and I rub my belly reassuring myself.
I am pregnant, beautiful and impatient to give birth.
Epidural or not? Only gas maybe.

He took me to the doctors.  My first scan. I am happy. Ecstatic to meet my host.
I have been on denial for years.

Denial“>a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/denial/”>Denial

Prudence

Prudent“>

Prudent

Patriotic chants in every detours,

I can hear them.
Riots began way before the sunset,
Hurry up, don’t stay out!

Uniforms and matched berets roll in the abandoned  streets, ghostly city;
Don’t go out my love!

No clemency, out foreigners!

My faith has been knocked out.
Torn apart, I shrug the kids.
A tear, I can’t afford crying.
Be prudent, don’t go out.

Patriotic chants are still striking into the air,
Wrong place, wrong name?

Hope and beliefs,
At last.
Freedom flags start blossoming from  the skylights,
Sweet colours, true colours.
A rainbow of love,
Hands joined I believe it is  a chain of peace.
These chants, in my ears, are rays of sunshine

I have been prudent therefore I am.

Uniforms and berets are  lying on the floor,
Defeated, maybe!
Don’t wake them up!

My love, united there is no wrong name
United, there’s no wrong place.
Stay prudent, always!