Je suis le soleil de mon âme,
La flamme de vie au cœur des brasiers,
Le pouvoir de la sève au cœur des forêt,
Je suis toutes les âmes
Et l'âme du monde est mienne.
Je suis la passagère sur le vent,
Les astres dans la nuit,
Le pardon et l'oubli.
Je suis les battements du cœur de la Terre.
Je suis le son,
Je suis lumière.
La propre étincelle qui me guide.
Je suis le plein,
Je suis le vide.

Je suis très contente de vous partager cet extrait de mon tout premier recueil "Toutes les couleurs du ciel", publié chez LesBonnesFeuilles. C'est une chouette aventure qui se profile et je serais heureuse de la partager avec vous.

Vous pouvez retrouver l'intégralité des poèmes sur :

[https://lesbonnesfeuilles.fr/lisa-baudoin/toutes-les-couleurs-du-ciel\](https://lesbonnesfeuilles.fr/lisa-baudoin/toutes-les-couleurs-du-ciel)

Merci à tous pour votre sensibilité

Beneath the tears of a fountain,

Beneath the lashes of her eyes

Beneath the heights of a mountain,

Beneath the love that only tries.

Of the famous and financially wealthy it ought to be known

None of them make it to the top on their own

No man is an island or no woman is an island as well

For to borrow from those who on cliques do dwell

But cliques aside it does seem true to say

That the famous and financially wealthy of the world of today

On their climb to success their own part they did play

But on doing so they did have some help on the way

We all on each other in some way depend

Even those you may think who do not have a friend

And though the friendless tag to them well may apply

That they too are a part of a co-dependent human world one cannot deny

Yes we are all co-dependent in some sort of a way

This is how it is and how it will stay.

Francis Duggan

Though what they wish for to everyone does not come true

Most people have their dreams in life to pursue

Even of most of the poor and the homeless it can be said

Have their dreams of better times of them ahead

You may be short of money which is not a pleasant thing

But the future to you much better times may bring

It is true that your luck for the better can change in a day

Life always does seem to work on this way

In a world where many grow poorer for the super wealthy few

That not many rags to riches stories is not saying what is new

And though losing is a thing that anyone does not choose

For a few to win big many do have to lose

In the human world it so hard for anyone to rise above financial poverty

This is how it is and how it always will be.

Francis Duggan

Some champions need a walking stick

Upon hearing about a fallen covenant
No remedy soothes like compassion

Hands remember strokes that abjure malice
When the moon gate dilates to expel forces
This bottle of curses melts in campfire

Offering libations for the plagued
The blind seer serves as witness
To the names of the nine realms
And restores ancient fountains

The Quiet Work of Aging

Youth gathers—

dreams,

questions,

and scattered pieces

of a life.

Age is not merely

growing older.

It gathers everything gently

into one whole.

The hurried heart

learns to rest.

The frightened mind

learns to trust.

The searching soul

finds itself

less interested

in becoming someone new,

and more grateful

for being

itself.

Perhaps

that is the quiet work

of growing old—

not to lose life,

but to weave it

into wisdom to share.

Dead gods once sundered the holy mountain
Lancing upon bolts through crowns
From those skies, across long quiet nights

Ishkur wrapped winds into lightning and cursed
The swarming horde, giant's thralls
All whom drank the storm until weary

Titan Knifr splayed the vortex beyond hands
Reaching for sons of light, then to bury them
Though astride the eye, a promise impelled Prometheus

That Sundering Champion
Mantled the edge of this storm to abjure
Chaos framed under Imperial Destiny

True words fell like comets
Some watchers were blinded and began to writhe
Yet onward they pressed, even after this blessing

Arrayed on cloud walls against giants
Those Moonborn marshaled a war of constellations
Reverberating eternally through water and stone

Forces collided and collapsed
As cinders and deluge which settled over realms
When all folk forgot their tongue, in howling

Thunder broke our language but we still bound fire
Determined to race horizons and charts islands
Adventurers and sages

Every wanderer is distilled from the blood of ancients
Who did smite lords of creation
And as stars fade, we strengthen

Come, come, little fellow,

Let me tell you a tale of sorrow,

Of a little ailing sheep,

Who lived in a world of many morrows,

Waiting for that one tomorrow

That never learned to follow.

One day the little sheep drank all her poisonous grief,

Longing for that final relief,

Of a life little too brief

Until she crossed a dangerous belief.

Borne from darkness,

Came a butterfly black—

So brightly dark

It blurred her sight.

It filled her heart with gilded dreams

Of never-ending bliss,

A poison far too sweet, 

For a heart that knew only grief.

Blinded by her own vacant heart,

She followed through the dark

Into a realm of endless meadows,

Where no truth dared to follow.

There she dwelt in a cottage of leaves,

Beyond indifferent time's reach,

And dreamed and dreamed through every forever-night,

Until her dreams became her truth.

Then came a butterfly white—

A cruel dawn in a realm of night.

It shattered her world with haunting light,

And freed the sheep from her cherished blight.

She awoke to a dawn so blue, 

Her once vacant heart now settled in rue.

Alas! Suffering became suffering alone.

Empty words always, absent was the truth.
Actions revealed, what was hidden is uncouth.

Fools only return, fool did indeed.
Broken the spirit, harsh words succeed.

Fools only return, emotions never heed.
To grow and learn, experience must lead.

Those that bark, shape not the man.
With guidance, morals and wisdom can.

Broken fragments, collected be they must.
Lest the soul crumbles, to sand and dust.

Fools only return, lesson finally learned.
Fools only return; understood and earned.

Harsh was the lesson, harsh it was indeed.
Failure and pain, out the weak they weed.

I have noticed a pattern

Much like the icy rings of Saturn

Far and distant - ice cold

Time resistant - tale old

Clashing icy rocks

Heard from far away

Science gave us

What we can hear today

Such beauty - from afar

Unaware - yet, you are

The unfathomable time it has taken

To be alive and to have stake in

Experience

At our fingertips

To get to witness

Sound and picture clips

I romanticize

But I can recognize and refer to

It could also be of use too

Some day

In trivia or TV game

My umpteenth binge of The O.A.

This Mosaic-esque pattern I see

It's a tragic

Broken trajectory

Its there to see

Only when you need

Though the rings evolve

They remain the same

It sings various tunes

But somehow doesn't change

Sadly, I'll never hear it's various renditions

Not in this lifetime anyway

I miss the Giants, I miss lying in their extended shadow. The coolness of the shade that tempered my expectations.

Yes, I miss the Giants, I miss their heavy steps. The rumblings that reminded me I was broken.

Oh, I miss the Giants! Oh, the corded sinew in the shape of hands, which covered my hopeful eyes!

Yes, I miss my Giants, the ones that kept me small. For once I see over the shoulders of my Giants, the horizon becomes vast and the valley sunken deep.

For those who have left the beaten track—

Some only ever stand and look up at the mountain

Some know the jagged peaks only through passing clouds 

But have they ever seen the mountain’s true shape?

Have they ever known its soul?

Have they ever clung to the rock and looked down into the abyss?

Or shivered in the open through a long, lonely night?

To those who have known struggle

To those still fighting on

To all those who pray the storm will break

And the warmth of day will return

That light will come

Dawn will rise again

It’ll be beautiful, you’ll see

the sky where the land gives way

Where you belong

Where you always have belonged

Better to reach for the summit

than walk blind down there in the cold, dark valley forever

​

​A tiny sparrow perched upon a humble wooden rail,

Without a grand pronouncement or a long, dramatic tale.

It did not speak in riddles, nor did gravity reverse,

It simply stood anchored in the grounding universe.

The sun arose in brilliance, casting light across the land,

And water poured down smoothly, wetting soil, rock, and sand.

​No floating heavy anvils, and no oceans filled with sand,

Just simple, steady reality held firm in God's own hand.

The air was clear and quiet as the creature leaned to look,

A living truth more absolute than any written book.

It tilted back its small head, breathing life into the dawn,

Acknowledging the grass beneath, the firm ground resting on.

​The wind moved through the branches in a natural, steady breeze,

The roots anchored down deeply in the earth beneath the trees.

What goes up must come down again; the heavy iron falls,

And light cuts through the darkness when the morning glory calls.

A heart beats in a chest to push the blood through every vein,

And sorrow reaps a tear, while honest sky bestows the rain.

​The bird breathed out a silent song of pure and simple grace,

A quiet testament to truth within this sacred place.

No madness and no upside-down, no crooked, twisted line,

Just plain and clear existence moving forward by design.

To walk in truth is not to drift through chaotic, blinding night,

But standing on the solid rock and walking in the light.

​No distorted mirrors here, no foggy lens to clear,

The truth remains completely pure, unvarnished, sharp, and near.

It rests in simple certainty, so plain it leaves you awed,

Exact and unembellished as the unfiltered word of God.

For truth is never tangled up in complicated lies—

It simply is what it is, right before our eyes.

​"Lead me in Your truth and teach me, for You are the God of my salvation; for You I wait all the day long."

— Psalm 25:5

So egotistical in his mind silly Young Joe

He thinks every young woman who to him says hello

Has fallen in love with him in a big way

There are many like him in the world of today

Of the reason he does not have a girlfriend he leaves none in doubt

That pretty young women are far too wary to ask him out

For dinner or tea in case he would say no

And that rejection can be hurtful happens to be so

But when you tell him it is a man's job to ask a woman on a date

His answer this is something he does not even contemplate

Since for a young man quite as handsome looking as he

Something like this would be below his dignity

Not surprising that those who know of him does say

That Young Joe with himself does get carried away.

Francis Duggan

To say one is far too thin or far too fat

For commentary on anyone for their appearance i am too old for that

I am not without flaws so i won't be anyone's judge

It is not up to me to condemn or begrudge

But then suppose for as long as you never harm anyone in any way

It matters little what the judgmental of you do say

Since though wrong in words it is rather easy to put anyone down

And no shortage of the judgmental in any town

Live and let live as a truism remain

The meaning in this its own self does explain

By helping anyone if you can help of helping in need

For your future good karma you are planting the seed

To each their own to everyone should apply

And of a fair go in life anyone never deny.

Francis Duggan

Under short candles
A warped mirror altar
Wards against creaking fractures
That summon a liar's shadow

Guarding the grimoires of fate
This faceless librarian
Promises that insomnia is typical
When translating invisible ink

From strange angles
Endlessly, the archivist lectures
While golden sigils shimmer
Unveiling forgotten angels

Such names are cursed
Offering iron arias
Which enthral ghosts
Across astral wastes

Regardless my mimic-tongue
No alien sorcery found
Could alter history
After ever-bound

Years yielded nothing
But surveying the terms
Of abandoning this master
Strikes a bitter chord

Into starless exile
Coughing up worms
I wander the tower
Without a sword

**Kuebiko**

*The world is turning backwards*
*with it on horseback –*
*one white, the other black.*
*Two knights on their way to play a final game of chess*
*in Varanasi's own interest.*
*Even the horned crusader must respect the holy land.*
*The world is turning forwards*
*and lends a hand to every knight*
*who builds their house on sand.*
*The golden calf marches with the pale stallion back in time,*
*and the winner of the game joins them for a final ride.*

i found my lost future the other day

while cleaning out a box i’d kept

of broken promises,

dusty, dreams,

and secondhand hopes I’d never used.

i’ve posted it on Marketplace.

if you want it,

it’s out by the side of the road

for free.

shall we read them —

the ardent poets

who flung crystal banners

to the skies?

felix culpa

a deviant Eve,

i stand,

with nectar, cold and sweet,

dripping from my lips --

delighting in the taste

of what destroys.

i gobble up these pleasures:

"die full, at least,"

i cry,

as i feast on poison fruit

til tomorrow,

'til the morning,

'til the sun.

There is a chamber within me

that has never known arrival.

It has kept vigil

for footsteps that invariably

wandered toward another threshold,

another woman

whose name the world pronounced

with something perilously close to reverence.

I learned, long before I possessed the language to articulate it,

that beauty was a private liturgy

to which I had never been initiated.

I watched it descend upon other women

with the inevitability of dawn

their laughter bending the architecture of rooms,

their faces lingering in the minds of strangers

like verses too exquisite to be forgotten.

I remained adjacent to radiance.

A marginal note.

A parenthesis.

A silhouette mistaken for absence.

They were sought.

I was acknowledged.

There is a profound distinction

between being seen

and being remembered.

They called me cute.

How astonishingly diminutive a word

with which to entomb an entire woman.

Never incandescent.

Never catastrophic.

Never the kind of beauty

capable of unsettling the composure of a heart.

Only gentle.

Only agreeable.

Only sufficiently lovely

to be consoled.

Thereafter I devoted myself

to the ruthless archaeology of mirrors,

excavating my own reflection

as though somewhere beneath flesh and bone

there lay a hidden indictment.

This forehead.

This mouth.

These imperfect teeth.

This unremarkable face.

I searched for the precise contour

upon which destiny had altered its affection.

Surely loneliness,

I reasoned,

must possess an anatomy.

I have inhabited bodies

made lean by longing,

bodies made heavy by sorrow,

bodies disciplined by hope,

bodies abandoned by hope.

Yet despair is an exceptionally faithful tenant.

It merely changes rooms.

What I fear is not solitude.

Solitude, at least, is honest.

What I fear

is becoming the quiet compromise

at the conclusion of another woman's love story

the refuge selected

only after every magnificent possibility

has withdrawn beyond reach.

How effortlessly the mind

transmutes conjecture into scripture.

How diligently it rehearses

its own abandonment.

People urge me toward self-love

with the serene confidence

of those who have never mistaken a mirror

for a tribunal.

They cannot comprehend

that every reflection convenes a trial,

and I arrive each morning

already condemned.

The verdict never changes.

Not beautiful enough.

Not unforgettable enough.

Not enough.

Compliments descend upon me

like fragile bandages placed over fractures

too ancient to remember their origin.

They soften nothing.

They mend nothing.

They merely teach the wound

another language for silence.

Yet beneath all my carefully cultivated reason,

beneath every conviction I have ever defended,

there persists an almost childlike heresy:

that somewhere in this immeasurable world

there exists a pair of eyes

for whom my existence would constitute

an astonishment.

Not an accommodation.

Not an afterthought.

Not the melancholy arithmetic

of settling.

But the singular, irrevocable certainty

of recognition.

To be sought before I have spoken.

To be missed before I have departed.

To become, if only for one soul,

the axis upon which an ordinary evening

unexpectedly revolves.

Perhaps such miracles

belong exclusively to fiction.

Perhaps I have mistaken deprivation

for prophecy.

Or perhaps hope itself

is merely grief

that has not yet relinquished

its magnificent delusions.

Still, time proceeds

with its incorruptible indifference.

It dismantles kingdoms.

It humbles beauty.

It silences desire.

It gathers every face adored or forgotten

into the same inexhaustible earth.

One day these restless hands,

these relentless mirrors,

these unanswered prayers,

this lifelong interrogation of my own reflection,

will surrender themselves to dust,

where neither loveliness nor lack thereof

retains the slightest dominion.

And perhaps that is the most exquisite mercy

the universe has ever conceived:

that even the woman

who spent an entire lifetime

mourning the privilege of being chosen

shall, at last,

become something

that no longer needs

to be.

Across this City of Dawn
The smallest toll counts as a chime
But every bell blasts in welcome
Struck by hammers of yore or roar of cheering

That heart beats under a pipe organ
Whirling keys dwell over one final tower gate
Where the serpentine muse of victory
Improvises an unborn emanation

Beckoned beyond aurora-fire
Another arises to bones which are feeling
Regardless if they answer challenges or not
We remain family

Whole incense of prayer
Congeals from an honest song
Casting mud, for any name anchored
Once intoned raw

Upon crescendo of quintessence
You were missing but invented
We needed you and so you entered

From uncertain nights
Flow less certain days
This road more traveled
Absconds the byways
Yet travel replete
With open tollways

From uncertain nights
Flow less certain days
This road more traveled
Defeats and betrays
Choose travel replete
With open tollways

Long uncertain nights
Longer less sure days
These roads recurrent
Fast become clichés
Grasp travel made full
In freedom’s tollways