un autre cliché à nouveau

fortunes sont venus et repartis

l'amour est perdu et retrouvé

et a perdu de nouveau,

mais la vie continue comme si de

rien ne s'est passé

personne ne reconnaît la vérité

personne ne vit à regretter

personne ne dit rien

l'air stagnant s'installe

dans une salle vide

les gens vivent ensemble,

mais ils se mentir à l'autre

et ils à accepter le mensonge -

un moyen de vie

ils ne peuvent pas faire sans

et c'est la vie, parfois

mais Je me refuse à l'accepter

Je veux être une solitaire

une amant, une errant folle

qui connaît le droit chemin

et je ne céderai pas

et je ne vais pas attendre

pour devenir un autre cliché à nouveau

© 2012 Helena Malheur

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J'ai écrit ce poème en Français à pratiquer l'apprentissage de la langue. C'est un travail en cours ...

Vacancy

There is silence in the things I collect. I know each one.

Each has its use; it outlives it and is replaced.
There is freedom in silence, in perfect desolation,
isolation from noise and the imposition of others.

There is a narrative of the past, a quilt of love 
and loss, a heart covered in a web of stitches.
There are empty spaces, shallow depths,
a vacancy that desperately seeks a lodger.

There is a strength that holds me firmly to the ground –
a hurricane cannot shake me, move me, touch me;
and yet, the slightest breeze from his lips sways me.

There is a world of fantasy that intrudes on my thoughts
and when I let it in, I travel without ever leaving.

I travel to a place where the stars dance upon the sky
like a hypnotic chorus line crafted by a master magician.

There is a wondrous string of presumptions, predictions
and delusions woven like a dream-like-scene –
a phantasmagoria of motion and light –
rehearsed in my mind like an act from a Shakespeare play.

And there is a man, his fingers poised over tired strings
I wait for him to strike the first note; but when he does,
it is like he’s tuning an instrument with tone-deaf ears.

Still, I have not forgotten the reverberations of love;
the melody is stuck in my head, repeating over and over,
and the words are on the tip-of-my-tongue.

2012 © Helena Malheur  

I will never forget you

For G.G. 

I will not forget you,

not yesterday or tomorrow --

not even when birds rejoice in song

or the sun sets upon the ocean shore.

I’ll wait for the rain to cleanse my woes

and bathe the earth with tears of love;

let love soak deeper into this desperate soil

beneath the budding leaves of grass,

and I'll watch 'em grow taller, stronger, lovelier... 

I will never forget you,

not in this moment or the last

nor in the next or the next after that.

© 2012 Helena Malheur

Happy New Year!

One day, a month, then a year goes by and another routine is born out of necessity and we forget to take the time to enjoy the little things.  And every year, we vow to change but this change involves something so large and unrealistic that it becomes unsustainable after a few months.  Although it is man’s nature to want to improve – at least I hope it is – rarely do we see someone sustain this change.  Happiness does not come easily.  Let’s not cheat ourselves of times we may never have a chance to recreate. 

Instead of making a grandiose gesture of “change” this year (like quit smoking or accomplish xyz for your 5 year plan) I have decided to make a meaningful one.  I will not be a slave to routine.  I will remember to breath.  I will remember to take pleasure in the little things.  I will remember to soak up the details of each day and the moments within it.  I will live a fuller, more meaningful life and try not to forget to be thankful for my life.   

After all, aren’t we all after happiness? 

A single freckle

Here we are in the decent of desire,

like scentless daffodils in spring

swaying to the end of our love’s song.

A motionless hour stretches over our eyes

like white canvas, our faces drenched 

in monotone blue  -- bluer still in the light of moon

and the twinkling of a million stars.

Oh how the stars used to favor us

in the quiet simplicity of twilight’s glow.

They fed the fire that burnt and burnt

while the world turned round and round 

like a carousel; and yet, we were going nowhere.

We are stuck in this hour, in this hollow room,

where no memories hang on the walls.

And the moon quivers in the corner

startled by a flamboyant sun --

its judgmental grin, painted across the sky,

flaunting the truth in your eyes.

Then, silence burst in, to prolong the remainder 

of our hour. It is just as well you left the door ajar.

Maybe it will fill this hollowing room. Maybe 

it will surround us, crowds us, until we are lost in it.

Breathe with me. Take in the salt air.

Let the bitter chill bubble up your throat.

We were once swept up into the sea,

only to be spit out among the rubble;

but we shall dance until the last hour—

the very hour the sea resolves to take you back. 

And I will remain a single freckle on the white sand.

2011 © Helena Malheur