Tag Archives: Poems

le mot


Un nom, c’est juste un mot
Rien de plus ni moins
Qui, seul, attend un verbe avant
Qu’il ne remonte de son sommeil
Alors, il vit, il aime bien
Il sourit et rit et pleure parfois

Et dois le verbe
Décide de partir et cherche et conjoint
Un autre nom
Le nom ne parle plus
Et meurt une mort

Si tu ne comprend pas les mots francais

A noun is just a word
Alone, it waits for a verb
Before it stirs from its sleep
Then, it lives and loves
And laughs and cries

Now should the verb
Decide to leave
And find another spouse
The noun speaks no more
And dies a lonely death


Living color




Language is nuanced. Can you spot the differences and would you suggest others?

The valley is green, the hills are blue, the sun is a bright, bright yellow.
Here I stand, camera in hand saying to everyone and no one, hello.

La vallée est verte, les collines sont bleues, le soleil est un brillant, jaune vif.
Ici je me tiens, la caméra en main disant à tout le monde et personne, comment allez-vous?

Das Tal ist grün, die Hügel sind blau, die Sonne ist hell, hellgelb.
Hier stehe ich, ich kann nicht anders, die Kamera in Hand, für jedem und niemandem, Wer sagt hallo?

Ves más allá?
El valle es verde, las colinas son azules, el sol es un amarillo brillante, brillante..

Aquí estoy, la cámara en la mano diciendo a nadie y todo el mundo, hola.



To an old red barn

an old red barn

La grange une fois
peinte en rouge vif,

voici grise,
pas de place pour un roi ou une reine,
une maison humble pour une bœuf
qui parcourt la gamme libre
et buvez dans un bassin boueux

heureuse de trouver un abri
contre la tempête du monde.


To an old red barn

A barn is far too important a building to be left forlorn, once painted bright red, now a ghostly vision of the past, neglected, no place for the likes of kings and queens, lords and ladies, or even you and me; but like the poet, it serves and stands and waits for cows that roam the hills for grass, and for a treat get to lick a block of salt, or stand in bunches ‘neath a lonely tree for shade, flicking at those pesky flies with much too short a tail, waiting ‘til the close of day to come home, happy to find shelter from the storm, happy to munch a little hay, happy though they have not a lot, but an old forgotten barn.

There they rest the restless night, protected from the mighty storm, waiting, waiting, though thank God, they know not, to be served between a bun.

Mornings – Matins

Images – thoughts without words.

mornings on the Flint Hills

Poems – images in words, poemes – les mots et l’image


Through the window I see the morning sun
In colors yellow red and gold
In late December the leaves are gone
The birds it seems have flown
To distant lands unknown
And though it seems I am getting old
Each morn I feel reborn

Les matins

Par la fenêtre,
le soleil du matin je vois
En couleurs rouge jaune et or
En Décembre
Sont les feuilles partis
Les oiseaux ont volé, il semble
Vers des terres lointaines
Et inconnues il semble.
Quand je suis devenu
si vieux?
personne ne répond
Mais chaque matin
Je me renais

mornings on the Flint Hills, Chase County



My French teacher remarked that words and meanings can not be translated literally. Language itself conveys a meaning that is not literal. And too, the context of the speaker and the situation conveys its own special meaning.

I think this true regardless of whether one is translating from English to French of French to English. The speaker, his or her culture, upbringing and sense of awareness in the world convey nuances that are never found in a dictionary.

Lovers are not immune to this as anyone who has ever experienced a love spat knows.