on which we all

candle flame

images of a likeness
that is proclaimed to be divine
commit and commit
and never quit to terrify

that which is sublime
in each of us all
that spark, that fire
that gives us love, hope, compassion,
that goodwill so desired,
and everything that makes us kind

stamped out with jacked boots of blindness
and hands writing, mouths speaking madness
watering the weeds of what lets
Darkness grow to Night.

And now, once more,
young dreams of joy and happiness
are turned to dust and ashes
lowered low into empty earth
on which we all stand on.

And the cry is loud
amongst us all and deep inside
everything that makes us love, hope
compassionate and kind,
for we know, we know
that this madness is not us
nor any other
this is not that image nor that likeness
of that which is divine.

This madness is not mankind.

© 2014 threegoodwords

 

never thus

candles

…and gone is the time
when I was nothing more than mine
to have and hold
for there is no price
in what is nigh
high up on clouds
fluffed in quartets, symphonies
numbered nine

*

On crested hills
laughter spills
slowly into the warmth
that holds and keeps
out
a darkness that is not night.

It seeps, warmly
past hardened walls
turns all ice into joy,
waiting, hoping
blushing young, untouched
so coy
resting in that hardened shell
all spikes and swords
all banners flying
stepping aside to let this,
a miracle,
come and sit by the fire
kindled brightly, lively
inside.

*

And in the soft sun
caught with silk and sight
there lies waiting
a smile
open, wide
in shining gladness like newborn light
where what was lost
was never thus
but hidden, hiding
until a look, a light
enabled that tender newborn:
a joyful, content life.

© 2014 threegoodwords

creature comforts

beach wild

The problem is:
how to be good and have everything,
how to do well without being bad about it,
how to have your cake and eat it all.

The problem is:
growing up with all those nifty nice,
smooth and sweet, industrialised
creature comforts

And then realise, a bit too late maybe
that to make them so nice
at such a great price
very many that live and breathe and grow
in spaces far away from your own
are brought verily verily terribly low
all the way to the borders
of those awful terms: pollution,  extinction
all out destruction.

And yet you were told,
over and over and oh so bold,
You, yes, you: you are the good one.

*

The problem is: what do you do
now that you’ve gotten used to
those comforts that are just too good
and you need them too, to survive, stay alive,
up to date and in time
in this superfast, new and improved
digital age of ultracool

where the phones are smart
and the tablets tools
where cats go viral
and ignoring that may brand you a fool
in the race to be first, to be in the know
of everything at work, at home, in school,
in the world…

For this planet that is Home
our home, no other
just one, you hear, just one

Our planet is now so connected
the globe seems like a crowded ball
full of people shouting, tweeting
trying, spying, lying
through their virtual teeth

simply to stay connected
and not fall off the face of the earth
deep down into has-been’s, where-are-they-now’s,
and what-happened-to’s,
that dreaded place: ‘I don’t know’,
that awful place: ‘Who?’

For We, the creatures, we cannot stand our own discomfort,
that tiny little feeling
that something’s not quite right
somewhere, somehow…

No, We, the creatures, we create our comfort
by telling, typing, filming, sharing
to make sure someone is there
to prove yes, you, you are real
there is nothing to worry about
move along here
and yes, we like you
see the numbers, it’s all there
it’s not a dream, it’s all true:
you really are the good one,
you, yes, you, and you too.

*

So, what to do now, now,
yes right now
before the sun grows dark in our eyes
before those infamous four riders
come bounding down
announcing, business like,
that it is time, it is time
for several plagues, lots of fire, unprecedented disaster,
that will all happen to you and you and you
and all the me’s existing, all the good ones too.

For the Riders don’t care about clicks and tweets
anything virtual, in the air
Once they arrive
it’s dislike time,
and it’ll keep persisting
no matter how others may keep on insisting
that it’s all lies lies lies!

The Four really don’t care
standing at the sidelines
in their fine suits and silk ties
reading through the script, announcing how
the winds will burn, the skies will fall
and the earth will burst like water
at half past two, precisely
only *breaking news*: it will be hottest, hottest lava
Not water at all
that, my dear viewers, will be very much gone.

And when the seas rise and the lands fall
from their civilised heights
We’ll be Back to Nature all right
And know it as it was once known
as what we, the creatures, live and breath and walk on
the real Mother of All.

The problem is:
that all this bother will happen
just when you sat down to drink that 
latte
and listen to another hand-played, over-made
hyperlinked song.

© 2014 threegoodwords

in memoriam

writing-arts-fountain-pen

Sometimes,
when walking down
the cobbled streets of this young republic
History as history as
the story beyond the stories told

creeps up on you silently
murderously precise
chilling in its horror
unmistakable in its terror

flashing golden in the street
embedded silently
into the very solidity you stand on,
shifting the ground beneath your feet.

*

In that moment
bending low in a ghostly bow
all else is silence

even memories of that great music
that was once the sole hallmark of this
old and ancient soil
a once-fragmented space
ruled by dukes and lords and princes
for centuries past
this battleground of faiths
this incubator of deep and deepest thoughts

unified ruthlessly under an unwilling emperor
and a rebellious king
who fraternized with the French
to receive sovereignty
the kingly crown
who’s son of his son
would go mad with love and life
and create breathtaking fairytales
that today are admired,
celebrated and duplicated all round.

* * *

A Lady with an ë
once wound along these rivers
and through these hills in a chaise and four,
wondering at this densely forested space
living quietly beyond the fingers of
what was known as civilization;

a place untouched by the wonders of the world
or so she thought
birthplace of so many geniuses in music
and thinkers of great, complicated thoughts.

And yet I wonder
if she in her elegance
could have foreseen that the very rivers and trees
the very hills and towns and cities
she visited and documented with such admiration
would one day harbour such industrialised insanity
such satanical banality
that went beyond the guillotined terror
she and her peers knew too well.

For that was the real horror, was it not
that was the ultimate shock
that civilisation could be rendered
null and void
by its very own foundations,
that loyalty could be despicable
obedience horrendous
silence inexcusable
and rationality the ultimate weapon
to destroy all faith in safety valves.

*

And now it is understood that
decrees are needed
rules and laws and regulations
set in metaphorical stone
to emblazon the coordinates for humanity.

For it was proven beyond doubt
in those awful twelve years
that you cannot trust anyone
no faith, no ideology, no religion
none who call themselves civilised,
no system of thought or belief,
to ascertain that mercy and compassion
what it means to be human, humane
would never be infringed.

For that was the horror of it,
that was the most ultimate of shocks:
that even the most ordinary human,
so civilised, so educated, so loyal,
 could be, given the right circumstance,
someone unquestionably monstrous.

© 2014 threegoodwords

winter in paris

 paris winter 9 paris winter 1

Snow is falling while Madeleine walks down a cobble-stoned street. Strangers pass her by, rushing home. Madeleine takes her time. She has a hat on, newly bought. She really likes it. It fits her coat, red with black buttons, covering her warmly from her neck to her knees. Her boots are dusted with powdery white, the snow is cascading down past the windows and walls, filling the curb, the sills, the street. tour eiffelMadeleine catches a glimpse of herself in a shop window. The red of her coat is shockingly bright, like Red Riding Hood walking through the forest. All she needs is a basket with pastries, but her grandmére lives in Lyon.

*

Sophie likes to look out of windows when it snows, just like now, her chin in her hand, and a book lying open next to her. She’s waiting for the water to boil for a cup of tea. The snow is falling gently from a heavy sky, dark and filled with winter storms. Down below a young woman walks by in a bright red coat. Sophie wonders where she got it from. The kettle clicks, the water’s done. Sophie moves away from the window, happy that winter has finally come.

*

Luc is tall and dark, with a lightning smile. He likes wearing dark sweaters over light shirts. He has to bend down to open doors, his legs are long like a runner’s. Madeleine likes to throw herself into his arms. He chuckles then. They meet at a café they both like, Madeleine orders a citrón, Luc a coffee. He asks her how her day was, she smiles and asks if he likes her hat. Luc always thought women were crazy about shoes, but Madeleine is always buying hats. He asks again, ‘How was your day?’ and Madeleine sighs without answering. Luc frowns, ‘That bad?’ Madeleine shrugs and looks out the window, the snow is falling thickly now, covering cars and lamps. Luc reaches out and holds Madeleine’s hand, she turns and tries to smile. He can see the frustration in her eyes that she won’t allow to spread. He wishes he could do something, help somehow, but Madeleine insists on finishing the internship.

paris winter 4 She will not be cowed. So he says, ‘It’s just three more weeks.’ Madeleine nods, sadly. Luc can see she is trying not to cry.

‘Madeleine, you really don’t have to do this. There are other places -‘
‘No. I won’t let them win. And Margarite told me twice I do my job well.’
‘And you do do it well.’
‘Yes. I know. I know I get things done. They know that and can’t stand it -‘

Madeleine takes a deep breath and exhales. The waiter comes with the citrón and the coffee. They drink in silence, Luc watching Madeleine. He would like to tell her about his promotion, the confirmation came in today. He would like to tell her about the holiday they could take next year. He would like to say something to make her smile again, but Madeleine is watching the snow again and looks at peace. Luc doesn’t want to disturb that just yet.

*

It’s past seven, dark as night, and Sophie is waiting. Waiting for Etienne, Etienne who is about to come in a taxi, all wrapped in a coat. He already sent her text, the flight was ok, de Gaulle was hell, he couldn’t wait to see her again. Sophie spent the last hour making dinner. The table is set, the candals lit, the wine decanted, the good one from the Périgord. It’s still snowing outside, so Sophie fought with the wood in the fireplace until it accepted the fire. Finally, the taxi arrives, stopping busily in the street. Sophie rushes to the window and sees Etienne step out. The driver pops the boot, and Etienne takes out a suitcase and his shoulder bag heavy with his notebook and papers. He taps the roof of the cab twice, nods to the driver and the cab is gone. Sophie watches Etienne walk towards the house, patting down his front. She knows he’s searching for his keys. She leans closer to the window, and waves. Etienne looks up, startled. Sophie smiles and waves again. Etienne smiles back, relieved. He’s been gone for two weeks.

*

Luc wraps an arm around Madeleine’s shoulders when they leave the house. He has a long coat on and looks like the businessman he is, but Madeleine likes to think of him as a poet. When he’s in the shower, he likes to sing in a low baritone, songs she usually only hears on the radio. When they cross streets, Luc stretches out a hand as if he’s about to lose Madeleine in a crowd. Madeleine is scared of cars. She was hit by one once when she was a child, three weeks with deep bruises. Luckily no more. She sometimes hears the screeching tires. She always hesitates at the curb. Luc then steps out into the street, turns around and stretches out a hand. paris winter 5Madeleine only runs to him because she is afraid he will stand too long and be hit, drivers are crazy in this city. She would rather be hit with him than be left in this cold world, alone.

*

Sophie closes her eyes when Etienne kisses her hello. They’re standing in the narrow hallway, Etienne still in his snow-covered coat, suitcase and shoulder bag on the floor. Sophie doesn’t feel the chill from the open door. She feels warm, so warm, winter could be a myth told by someone unknown. They part, Etienne closes the door, smells the air and smiles, ‘Is that your gratin?’ Sophie nods, yes, she thought he might want something warm. She still has to make the medallions. Etienne kisses her again and says he’ll take a shower first. While he’s in the bathroom, Sophie puts the pan on the stove, happy to hear the shower run. Her heart glows at the memory of Etienne’s relief to be home. It makes her smile, their love is yet so young. She wishes to keep it this young, innocent in its joy, just happy to be. She wishes it would not grow to an obstinate little thing, a disillusioned adult after years as a pouty teen. She does not want their love to grow old. She wants it to stay like this, to always know the simple joy of being together again after being separated for so many days, they became weeks.

*

Luc is watching Madeleine drink tea. She doesn’t like coffee. She doesn’t like colourless nails either. They always have to be painted. Maybe it has to do with her work, she always wakes up an hour early and prepares herself meticulously before she leaves. He doesn’t like the transformation. The Madeleine who leaves the house in the morning is not the Madeleine he knows. The one in the morning is curt and concentrated, saying little to nothing at all. The Madeleine he knows laughs a lot. She doesn’t mind being a little disorganised and she takes her time. Morning Madeleine has everything planned out, and leaves the house at seven thirty sharp. Sometimes Luc tries to slow her down with breakfast, tea, brioche, an omelette, but Morning Madeleine has no time for that and rushes out at 7:30, terrified she might be a nanosecond late. Luc can’t wait until she’s finished with that internship. Then he’ll take her somewhere nice, like Florence. They’ve never been to Florence. He already booked the tickets and a nice hotel. paris winter 7He wants them to have the perfect weekend, far away from everything, especially the snow. Luc knows winter is inevitable in this city, but he could really live without the cold.

*

Sophie turns on her front and looks out the window. Etienne is quiet next to her, pleasantly tired. His hand on her back is warm, and she enjoys how he strokes her skin. After a while he asks what’s wrong and Sophie shakes her head smiling,

‘Nothing.’
‘What are you looking at?’
‘The snow.’

He glances over his shoulder and sighs,

‘It’s still hasn’t stopped?’
‘Why would you want it to stop?’
‘It clogged up all the runways. We couldn’t land for half an hour.’

Sophie looks at the snowflakes trickling down from the sky. They look so harmless, tiny puffs of white. Tiny ballerinas running to the stage, gathering on the sill. She sees a cool blue light bloom next to her and turns. Etienne is scrolling through something on his phone.

‘Your boss?’
‘No. It won’t stop till Tuesday.’
‘What won’t stop?’
‘The snow. The streets are going to be a mess.’
‘You checked?’

‘Yeah,’ Etienne says as if that was perfectly normal, now, in this moment, with the tiny ballerinas fluttering to their stage, both of them lying next to each other under the sheets after such a wonderful time naked together. Sometimes Etienne is far too pragmatic for Sophie’s taste. But then he puts away his phone, turns to her, kisses her shoulder and says,

‘You’ll have to tell me what you want for Christmas.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t want to make a mess of it again,’ and Sophie can’t help it, she laughs a little.

It was this silly game of theirs, of who could give the other the more ingenious present, Christmas, birthdays, even Easter. It didn’t have to be expensive, just something that was truly theirs, and for that Sophie was simply grateful.

*

It’s Saturday evening and Luc and Madeleine are invited at friends for dinner. They take their time to prepare themselves, talking about the friends they are going to meet, Sophie and Etienne, and everyone else who are part of their circle. It will be a long evening, but that is good. Sophie, who trained to be a chef before managing that excellent little brasserie, Sophie will have made something wonderful, and Etienne will have many stories to tell again. The company he works for sends him everywhere to inspect the respective teams, and something strange always happens once he’s there. paris winter 11Madeleine often wonders how it is to work with people who know they have to make you like them. She often wishes Etienne would come and inspect everyone at her internship, but this is not the time to think of that. They’re dressed and ready to go, and walk down the stairs. Outside, Luc opens his umbrella, it is large enough for two. Snow falls on the black, a soft susurrus filling the dark street. Madeleine smiles when she sees the snow, joins Luc under the umbrella. They talk quietly to each other, anticipating a pleasant evening as they walk quickly through the snow, holding hands happily in the cold.

© 2014 threegoodwords

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