Three Sonnets
The Dark Angel
I am the unhappy Prince of nights profound, In love with mostly bluish shadows,
A shepherd upon thoughts of no marrows,
Eternal pilgrim on roads never found.
In my secret hours, Lady, you should now,
I am in the shirt of repentance deep,
And then, as doctor Faustus asleep,
I am attracted by muses of below.
I’ve got the strange feeling, again and again,
That I got a crazy tenant inside me
In fact a master upon my heart and brain
Of whom I can’t ever a free man to be.
It is dear God, the Angel from high,
Long fallen, to bring death under the sky.
Departure, Meeting Again
- To all my former girlfriends-
I feel I kill myself with every line
Of my love poems, I write my dear;
When leaving, I feel part of me stays here
And dreams at the evergreen woods of pine.
In sweet sounds heavenly harps and lyre,
With bright angels haunting all around,
We shall melt in silvers that abound,
You fragile bride, with me in white attire.
And then, when I’ll be wondering far away-
Be absent from the maddening crowd, hey,
We shall meet again, perhaps late in the night;
With poets walking along, what a sight!
Then we shall melt again in a long kiss-
Two amphorae polished with joy and bliss.
P.S.
And maybe, maybe, oh in the years ahead,
The two icons, maybe, sure, light will shed,
You keep in mind a word which is not in vain,
An artist, poets die, their works remain.
On Love
- To grandchildren-
So many things were said about love,
And more than lots novels were written,
In Africa, the States and of course in Britain,
So, man, what is love after all and above?
Or maybe, a gallery of fine pictures,
A source of deep and endless happiness,
Sometimes, all of them touched by an Angel’s kiss-
Some other times, tearful moving pictures.
This life is but a sum of mixed facts
Of somehow real, others rather fancy,
So, nobody knows how destiny acts-
Hey, there’s the rule, my dear Nancy;
Beloved Grandson, a last word to tell:
A true word, and afterwards no more other,
You will come to know, dear, true Love well,
Sometime when you yourself are grandfather.
P.S. Thou Love art joy that hath no cause or reason,
That springs up regardless the age or season,
As time flies by, sure, we grow older,
Without Love, the nights and Life are colder.
Montreal/
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