Cross Channel Fare

In France farmers grow corn to feed to their livestock, At harvest time they crop it all around the clock, The British nurture a cob with sweetness much better, Consume it themselves hot, smothered in rich butter. English gardens suffer pests including slimy snails, The French add garlic sauce to make them tasty meals, Small boys in England play with tadpoles from the village duck pond, Garçon serve up frog’s legs, of which the Gallic are so fond. Foie gras forces corn down Aquitaine geese’s throats, Free range U.K. birds happily peck up their own oats, Dedicated French duck farmers work for canard, English poultry farmers also work extremely hard. Knacker’s yards in Old Blighty produce meat for dog food, To overcook cheval in modern Gaul is considered to be rude, Hand drawn bitter and real ales, served lukewarm so enjoyed at their best, Chilling European lager wont put hairs on your chest. Little wonder Napoleon plotted to invade the isle to his north, He desired descent fare to savour in his mouth, Today’s English invasion flying south on Ryanair, Bring tasty goodies from the shires in their bags to declare. — Philip Wood

Palimpseste nocturne

La nuit je dors, j'invente des histoires Au matin, envolées ! Alors, il me faut les noter. Pour ne pas éveiller ma bien aimée, Furibarde, dès que dérangée, J'écris dans le noir au stylo des astros. Mais quand on dort, on ne pense pas À tourner les pages. Les bribes se chevauchent, quel hachis ! Au matin étonné, Reste à expliquer les lambeaux mêlés, Palimpseste nocturne de mes pensées. — Paul Sanson

En théorie

Un monopole magnétique À l’humeur très philosophique Cherchait partout son âme sœur Mais sans trop en avoir l’heure Dans la matière condensée Où ce polisson habitait Nulle trace d’autre monopole Aucun indice de cette bestiole Nous sommes si peu émergents Se disait-il entre deux temps Nous n’existons qu’en théorie Répétait-il tout contrit Vivement une corde de Dirac Pour s’aligner dans ce micmaque ! — Eleonore Sur

The little red panda

Dear little panda, you have had a busy day, Children excited, watching you play. Now it is time for us all to go home, Leaving panda on his own. The little fellow is all worn out, He has fallen asleep, please don’t shout. Good night little one, Have sweet dreams, We will see you tomorrow, When the sun shine beams. — Gillian Reid

L'arbre qui marche

Dans cette cité trépidante, l'arbre géant, en symbiose avec ciel et terre, marche d'un pas de sénateur... envoyant alentour ses branches retombantes qui deviennent racines ; cet ancrage devient troncs puis dédales magiques pour enfants. Là haut, un peuple d'oiseaux squatte sa canopée murmurante ; à ses pieds, on joue, on rit, on transmet en véritables griots des contes fascinants. Heureuse enfance! C'est le banian d'un coin de paradis. — My

Car Stereotypes

French coupés are finished in a stunning colour selection, Superior engines from Germany combine turbo with fuel injection, Sleek supercars bred of Italian stables impressively accelerate, Whereas their lesser marques, I’m afraid, rapidly rust and depreciate, Japanese vehicles are all so reliably boring, While those from Korea are no more inspiring, Chinese deathtraps are mass produced to be cheap, And East European sedans merely send me to sleep, English models, Oh! I remember their day? As for American automobiles,     I can find nothing positive to say. — Philip Wood

Victorian’s Lament

Red hot coal furnaces are stoked to raise high steam pressure, Massive iron wheels rotate in a crescendo of tortured, confused clamour, Rhythmic pistons punch violently as in a heavyweight brawl, Banished to history are the peaceful countryside summers of our yore. Broadened meadows patrolled by leviathan traction engines with their harvest thresher, Ferrous supplants centuries of ancient artifacts rendered from timber and leather, Ploughs, carts and harrows, traditional tools of the farm, left us their pre-historic traces, Now abandoned behind derelict barns and in damp ditches lie their rotting carcasses. For progress sake we enthusiastically jettison our well proven culture overboard, Decomposing out of sight, scantily raising a protesting luddite word, Centuries will pass leaving fading folklore with skeletal remains, Our heritage lost, impossible to regain! — Philip Wood

Montrol-Sénard (87) – Photoclub Meteorite’s winner of “Overall Best Photograph for 2017”.

French Sails Man Ship

“Which yacht is the fastest?”, Asked the boy to the man. “Will it go faster, If I blow as hard as I can?” “How would I know, What do I care? I only rent the boats out, Not test them as a match pair”. “If you take my three euros, You better not give me a hulk, If I don’t beat my father’s, All afternoon I will sulk!” “Go away little boy, I don’t want you to turn sour. You are a visitor to France, And this is my French lunch hour!” — Philip Wood

Photo: Palace de Luxembourg, Paris.

Me; Myself; My Art

I can’t draw a straight line, nor with charcoal sketch, Blowing glass for me sucks; brass I find hard to etch, Fine painting on canvas is not my forté, Whether oil or watercolour, my brush tends to stray. It goes against my grain, carving out of wood, Chiseling sculptures from marble, as if I could? Me and pottery, oh! What a mess, My pots don’t hold water, their handles even less. I’m illiterate with music; staves resemble a barcode, Hand me a violin, I’ll ask where to blow, Holding a note is OK as long as it’s B flat, I’m tone deaf with anything more musical than that. No! Photography is my art form of choice, shooting angles others overlook, Composition, exposure and processing seldom done by the Nikon book, Combined with incites of humour or profound poetry, Permits self-expression projecting my unique personality. — Philip Wood

My original Brother typewriter

Photo: Brother Typewriter

My OrIgInal Bro her  yppewrI er My old  bro her  yppewrI er Is very worn o  , I  no longer  yppes  he le  er  , And for some IllogIcal reason, Always pprIn s a do ble le  er pp, I  only pprod ces an  pppper case I, Also, I have no Idea why I   nderlInes y. I  doesn’  q I e abide by  he r les  ha  follow q, I   rIes  o oppera e  he arm for  he le  er  ha  comes before  ,  hInk back  o  he pproblem I had In  he fIrs  pplace, So  o pprIn    and   I  j s  leaves a sppace. — PPhIlIpp Wood

My original brother typewriter decoded

Casked Limerick

There’s an awful lot of coffee in Brazil, And sweet juicy oranges from Seville, You’d die for French wine, Which is dandy and fine, Be it red, white, sparkling or still. — Philip Wood

Globules rouges

Globules rouges vainqueurs et festifs observés au microscope par la mouche avant sa fuite par le télé transporteur hyperbolique de Scotty à bord de l’Enterprise. – Et la main qu’on voit ? dit quelqu’un dans le public... – C’est le cascadeur. On coupera au montage ! — Eleonore Sur

Une bonne excuse

Mon marteau ne vaut pas un clou, Ma scie perd ses dents, Ma pince est bien trop mince, Comme c'est embêtant de ne pas être performant ! Mon tournevis est hors-service, Ma perceuse est paresseuse, Ma ponceuse, c'est tout comme, Quel malheur, pour un bricoleur, de ne pas être à la hauteur ! Mon serre-joint ne va pas bien, Mon équerre me désespère, Mon rabot n'est pas beau, Mes vieux outils sont bien décatis, Tant pis ! ou, peut-être, Tant mieux ! Car lorsqu'on est maladroit, pouvoir accuser ses outils, quelle bonne excuse ! — Gérard Miro

Around the World in Eighty Years

Eighty years is the allotted time most of us have to last, By the time we’re grown and matured, twenty summers have come and passed. We then get wed and raise our kids, there goes at least a score, Next, its work flat out to save enough to survive post sixty four. When we finally get to put up our feet, and take that well earned break, We can do all those things we’ve always put off, and new hobbies undertake. “How we ever found the time to go to work?” is a mystery we all ask, We’re busier now than we’ve ever been, no time in the sun to bask. The garden beckons as do unread books, so rain or shine we’re set, Medieval towns to meander through, autumn hillside trails to trek, Grandkids to mind and play their games, to their parents we return, Clubs and groups that weekly meet, new crafts to start and learn. Long dreamed of ocean cruises with tropical beaches to explore, Ahoy! Beautiful New Zealand, exotic Bali, bustling Singapore, Retirement is brilliant, it’s the best age of your life, Time to enjoy being together, savouring your love as man and wife. — Philip Wood

Akaroa Harbour – New Zealand

Shade of Influence

We live our lives from day to day, Dealing with our lot having little say, We seem to just go round and round, Not realising the folk our shadow’s found. Its shade falls across our vulnerable youth, How they mature is our final proof, We coach our boys to become self-respecting men, Before eclipses of evil try to knock them down again. Cast over all our precious ones we love, Can be destructive or peaceful as a dove, When our time is up, our shadow fades from sight, Ensure they know you adored them right. Hosts of fellow shadows a community make, Overlapping talents, giving more than they can take, We think our lives small, insignificant, of no consequence, Whereas combined shade bestows cultural legacy, an inheritance. — Philip Wood

Behind Closed Windows

Porto

Women cooking, Children playing, Television watching, Stereo thumping, Nintendo gaming, Husbands snoozing, Couples fighting, Lovers embracing, Widows mourning, Spinsters sobbing, Girls flirting, Boys sparring, Siblings quarreling, Teenagers stressing, Families chatting, Pensioners reminiscing, Babies feeding, Toddlers toddling, Grandmothers caring, Grandfathers doting, Students aspiring, Unemployed squandering, Addicts injecting, Gluttons guzzling, Anorexics purging, Gangsters plotting, Escorts earning, Sinners cheating, Priests forgiving, Guitarist strumming, Vocalist humming, Artists painting, Models posing, Sick recovering, Infirm dying, Life continuing………… — Philip Wood

Les vieilles mansardes

En immersion dans les nuées, les vieilles mansardes contemplent les bleutés des beaux matins, les mordores des couchers languissants ; les lavis gris des jours de pluie les enchantent aussi... reste à intégrer un intrus de graffiti « Street art » naissant sur l’aplomb des toits. Peu importe ce signe du présent, le regard s’apprivoise avec le temps... En attendant, sensations et sortilèges hantent ces lieux perchés, si proches des dieux. — My

Pierre qui vole

Une pierre qui vole ? On n’a jamais vu ça –lui disaient les autres– Alors elle se taisait Parfois même elle pleurait À grosses gouttes Des larmes de pierre ! On n’a jamais vu ça –se disaient les autres– Et pourtant chers cailloux Cette pierre en versait bien Et plutôt des belles Si bien qu’un jour Qu’ils ne regardaient pas Elle s’envola Elle s’envola à la nage ! — Eleonore Sur

Échec génétique

Petit scooter T’es comme des milliers de congénères Que des algos aléatoires génèrent Scooter toujours prêt ! Ton but : revenir à la maison Tu pleures, tu crisses « maison, maison » Machine évolutionnaire Tu erres dans le dédale de calcul Toujours avance, jamais ne recule Engin effrayé Dans ce coin, tu coinces, t’es bloqué Tu te meurs, affamé, dépenaillé Pauvre con Ton code n’est pas le bon. — Paul Sanson

Barbares

Codes barres Parallèles Queues de bars Pâles ailes Barbares — Eleonore Sur

Tu chériras la mer

« Homme libre toujours tu chériras la mer » Et la femme ? Si elle se libère ? Que chérira-t-elle ? La mer ? Et sa mère ? Se libérera-t-elle ? La mère qui a vu l’homme libre partir en mer, Qui a su se résigner à chérir le ciel Et qui laisse la mer libérer sa fille ! Elle est fatiguée la mère. Fière, mais fatiguée. Alors elle regarde dehors. Vers la mer, qui emporte les gens libres, Et les vagues qui transforment son décor. — Eleonore Sur

Soir d'été à Marseille

Les bateaux peuvent rentrer La sardine qui bouchait le port Est partie se coucher. Marins, n'ayez plus peur du mauvais sort ! Sur la digue, promeneurs et pêcheurs Ne semblent pas s'inquiéter de l'heure, Bien que le ciel s'assombrisse. Mais sur la mer, quel feu d'artifice ! Une dentelle de reflets argentés scintille, Le soleil a déposé une mantille Sur sa bien-aimée, la mer, Sous le regard bienveillant de la Bonne-Mère. — Gérard Miro

It's... Monty May’s Plunging Circus!

The proud lion has been tamed, By the clown with the crazy hair, Now transformed into lemmings, He’s no longer there. Twenty seven friends disappear at the magician’s bequest, The people have spoken, so he grants their request, Manipulated the crowd by swiftness of hand, Told lies on a bus the length of the land. Jugglers struggle to control both left and right, Denying gravity exists, with their egos they fight, Behind cabinet doors they practice their act, Despite the denial of every logical fact. Show ponies dance to their ring master’s tune, Strutting their heads blandly covered in plumes, The chimpanzee tea-party is the most realistic of all, Conjuring up images of Westminster Hall. The audience is vetted, no Johnny Foreigner at this show, They offer nothing to the experience so away they must go, No man is an island, but it appears that we are, We’re free to make new friends, not from near but a far. The star of the show determined on her solo high wire act, Despite all the jeers and shaking to the end she must get, The bigtop’s crowd stir in a mood of dark discontent, This isn’t what they opted for when granting consent. They demand a full refund, a second go at their show’s choice, But the circus acts are stubborn and deaf to their powerless voice, We believed all the lies and the false testimony, We now know we made the worst decision in human history. — Philip Wood

Homeward Bound

Curvy farm track leads home into the setting sun, Westward traveling when a hard days work is done, Summer gone, the path no longer dusty and bone dry, Harvest collected, stored safely wheat, oats and rye. Leaves have turned golden; orange, browns and red, Trees are stark naked their foliage shed, This most beautiful season adorns evening skies a glow, Homeward journey to enjoy all that nature has to bestow. — Philip Wood

Signs of Children

Untidy bedrooms, toys in disarray, Quick to play, never put away, Eager to win, reluctantly share, Add to mum’s workload, not their care. Messy eaters, uncleared plate, Snacks between meals, hard to wait, Crumbs cover the table, over the floor, Gobbled all up, who's for more? Moan to get up, late for school, Uniform needs ironing, so uncool, Homework not done, excuse prepared, Chat to friends, answers compared. Who’d be a parent? we ask each other, All the effort, so much bother, We love them each and everyone, So proud of what they achieve and won. The chicks have flown, the nest is bare, We ask ourselves, “were they really there?”, Then we hear a knock on the front door, The grandkids have arrived that we so adore. — Philip Wood

Time is not lost

Time is fast, can be slow, Time to go and see a show. Time to take kids to school, And after to the swimming pool. Is it Time to go to work? Have I Time to iron my shirt? Quick, it’s Time for a break, Let’s have coffee and a cake. Time to go shopping for our tea, Lots of goodies for you and me. Time to get the kids in the bath, Time to take the dog down the path. Time for us all to go to bed, Everyone happy and well fed. Time will wait until the morning, We will wake when day is dawning. — Gillian Reid

The alien has landed

Is it a martian ? asked a little lad, It’s more like a turtle, said his dad. Shall we go and look inside, It might even take us, for a ride. No said his dad, we hab better go home, Just leave the poor old thing alone. — Gillian Reid

Camelot

The knights are toasting the end of the war, The people of Camelot will suffer no more. King Arthur and Guinevere are safe once again, Merlin used magic to ease the pain. Lancelot can now marry his bride, With his friend Galahad at his side. Remember this tale of ancient times, Keep love, not war on your minds. — Gillian Reid

A City Shattered

12:51, time for lunch, What shall we have today? Made a sandwich; about to pour my tea, When the whole world begins to sway under me. 6.2 goes on for ever, Time to move to a sturdy doorframe, Two rooms are skewed at awkward angles, Will anything ever be the same? 185 didn’t make it that day, The dust and rubble covered where they lay, A city in ruins, history destroyed at a stroke Hearts and morale left all tattered and broke. Red and black spirit arises, stands tall, Trouble and disaster bring out the best in us all, Student armies and neighbours are quick to volunteer , Liquefaction’s stinking sand and mud to clear. To rebuild the city, make it a modern place, A functional heart; maintaining its former art and grace, Stronger in both build and community ties, Always remembering those who sadly paid with their lives. — Philip Wood

The Art Critics

What do they view, How do they see? What is art to another, Simply childish to me, Self proclaimed experts, Studied for years, What cost little to produce, Worth a mint to their peers. Splash on some paint, A swirl with a brush, Have the right contacts, these works sell in a rush, Renaissance, impressionist, cubist and baroque, A progression of  history’s greatest work, But try as I might, to appreciate the Tate, however I stare and position I take, Emperor’s clothes is all that appear, The walls of my home they will never get near. — Philip Wood

The forgetful heron

Now where did I put that fish? I left it in the plastic dish. It’s not to my left, it’s not to my right, I wish I hadn’t left it overnight. I will look for shellfish here instead, And eat it before I go to bed. — Gillian Reid

The morning after

Hello Charlie, Hello said Fred, Did you have a good night, You look well fed. Yes, said Charlie, I went on the town, Had fish and chips, And a pint of Brown. What did you get up to Fred ? Oh just some scraps, Then went to bed. Poor Fred, maybe you will have Better luck today, Like chicken or take-away. — Gillian Reid

Le promeneur et les fleurs

Pauvres fleurs sauvages, personne ne s'occupe de vous arroser, de vous tailler, de vous soigner... Nous sommes bien comme nous sommes répondirent en chœur les fleurs,  la terre nous nourrit, le soleil nous chauffe, la brise nous fait danser, les papillons et les abeilles viennent nous embrasser et quand nous avons soif, un peu de pluie nous suffit. La nature est pleine de bonté. Alors, le promeneur a poursuivi son chemin, ébloui, silencieux et l'esprit apaisé. — Gérard Miro

Château de Blois

The château is a sight to behold, But terrible tales begin to unfold. Treason, murders, people kept in towers, Villagers too scared, to go out in the dark hours. Joan of Arc lived there as a child, She was gentle meek and mild. With many battles, and the death of Joan, For a short while, the château stood alone. Then, along came new Kings and Queens, The château enlarges from their dreams, Now it stands in a Glory of blue, No more misery and gloom. — Gillian Reid

L'imprimante à crêpes

Lia Humm..., elle est super ta nouvelle imprimante ! Léon C’est la nouvelle Multi3D de Canone. Ma vieille Epsone s’était encrassée et elle chauffait. En plus, j’avais du mal à trouver des recharges au Carrefoure. Il fallait les commander sur Amazone et je n’ai pas trop confiance pour le transport des denrées. — Elle est vraiment multifonction ? — Oui, elle accepte plusieurs marques de recharges. Pour les colorants, on a le choix entre les pigments naturels ou les produits synthétiques, tu sais les fluo et ceux qui imitent le néon ou les dorures… — Elle est alimentée comment ? — Ils ont un système à 12 cartouches de grande capacité, contre 6 petites sur l’ancienne. On peut faire des mélanges manuels mais il faut purger les conduits et ça fait des pertes. Moi, je préfère le mode AutoIA qui s’occupe de tout y compris de commander les recharges, livrées par FoodEx en 48h, voire 24h. — Et les formats ? — Bien sûr les formats standards mais aussi les ronds et les carrés. En plus on peut customiser les bords, fins ou larges avec ou sans frange ; on peut télécharger des styles. — Elle fait les boissons aussi ! — C’est ça le vrai multifonction.  Ce n’est pas une imprimante pro donc pas d’alcool mais elle a les droits de reproduction pour la plupart des boissons gazeuses, sauf Coka et Fenta qui ont signé avec Epsone. — Elle fait tout, même le café ! — Ben oui elle fait le café, pourquoi ? — Paul Sanson

Machine à sodas | Machine à café connectée

Sonnet’s Composure

To write of love, Two hearts entwined, Is never a task too light, To draft, compose and romanticise, So the prose turn out just right, Men through ages have seduced fair maidens, With their lines of passion, Their sole intent to bed the lass, Sate her in casanovian fashion, Win her heart through acts so noble, Worship and adore, Let her know, Through fourteen lines, She’s the goddess you amour. — Philip Wood

Non-Conformity

To be odd is to be different and never a sin, It allows creativity, lets out what’s bottled in, Rules and restrictions are prisons we create, Peer pressure and fashion to care how we rate, Evolution advanced because somebody faired to climb down from the branches, venture; where no one had dared, So if you’re concerned you’re looking too loud, take a brave heart; be yourself and stand proud. — Philip Wood

Paris - Rio

Soleil tropical sur tour Eiffel, Totem géant se mirant Dans l'eau mouvante, Samba, capoeira sur Copacabana, Nous voilà au pays des cariocas... Voyage mental Caprice pictural !            — My

On the seashore

Two young ladies are out on the beach, Looking for cockles and mussels to eat. They have a long way to walk back from the sea, And maybe arrive home late for tea. One girl has caught some, The other girl has caught none. But I am sure they will share them later on. — Gillian Reid

Alive, alive, oh 
Alive, alive, oh 
Crying "cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh"…

Le soleil du matin

Le soleil du matin Dans la salle de bain Eclaire un curieux pantin En forme de nœud marin. Serait ce Don Quichotte de la Manche Sans sa lance ? Un policier avec son bouclier ? Un Saint avec son auréole ? Un jouet fabriqué à l'école ? Arrêtons de rêver, Ce n'est qu'un simple câble enroulé Par une ventouse, au mur, fixé A l'autre bout, le radiateur Branchons le pour avoir un peu de chaleur. — Gérard Miro

The grumpy old owl

Me and my friend went to visit a farm, We came across a very old barn. Let’s look inside maybe something is here, It was dark and dingy and filled us with fear. Suddenly we saw a long-eared owl, His eyes were red, he began to scowl. Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep. Leave me alone. Go visit the sheep. — Gillian Reid

A day at the beach

We like to ride our bicycles Along the promenade. We stop at a café and drink lemonade. Then we go to find a place To have a picnic on the beach. Then we bathe in the sea, Laughing, splashing, for all to see. Then we head home with a happy face, Embracing the day with Glory and Grace. — Gillian Reid

The ginger cat

Sweet little cat You look Purr-fect like that. Your beautiful coat, And your pale green eyes, They look mysterious and wise. I Don’t know your name Or where you live. You look like you have lots Of love to give. Maybe one day you will visit me, And you can sit upon my knee. We can have cuddles and play with string, And be friends forever With the love you will bring. — Gillian Reid

Messing about on the river

Oh what a lovely day, Watching the boats come out to play. Sailing up and down the broads, Looking for places to head towards. Up and down the river they go, Some go fast, some go slow. Hoping to see the wildlife pass by, Watching the baby birds trying to fly. Different boats all gather together, They come wathever the weather. Children laugh and splash around, Then stop for a picnic on the ground. Back into the boat once again, Lunch is over, we cannot remain, We have to head back in the time for tea. Our children are happy, And so are we. — Gillian Reid

Chewie

Parlant à un casque parlant à un masque le petit chaton gris le petit chaton dit : Bonjour monsieur, vous êtes qui ? Bonjour monsieur, moi c’est Chewie ! — Ella

La gare du Nord

Pour changer du train-train quotidien, rien de mieux que d'aller voir passer les trains ! Direction : Gare du Nord... Bienvenue dans ce paysage métallique, unique, magique. Invitation au voyage : « Le train Thalys en provenance de Bruxelles entre en gare » ... « le train Eurostar à destination de Londres partira dans 5 minutes » ... Dans la gare, immense, que de monde ! Des passagers en retard courent à fond de train, des chariots surgissent de nulle part, sans crier gare ; dans un hall, des cheminots se réunissent en assemblée ; dans le café-brasserie, des vacanciers s'attablent et commandent des croissants... des moineaux s'approchent, espérant quelques miettes. Tiens ! le numéro de la voie d'où partira le train pour Dunkerque vient de s'afficher... aussitôt, une foule se précipite... Quelle agitation ! sortons de la gare et allons en faire le tour... Dehors, à vrai dire, ce n'est guère plus calme ; normal, nous sommes à Paris, et « Paris est une fête » (Hemingway). Mais, où sommes-nous maintenant ? Ah, oui, c'est la rue des commerces indiens ; plus loin, un bout d'Afrique ; encore quelques pas et nous arrivons en Chine... Ce quartier, c'est le dépaysement assuré. Un monde cosmopolite. Faire le tour de la Gare du Nord, c'est un peu comme faire le tour du monde. Un voyage en pensée qui permet de reprendre le train-train quotidien avec entrain. — Gérard Miro

On est foutu on mange trop

On est foutu on mange trop Le gros bibendum que t´as dans l´cœur Tu l´as trouvé beau dans le temps, petite sœur Soixante kilos d´échevelé poète Tout livide au milieu des tempêtes Mais l´estomac y tient pas la rime L´albatros patauge dans l´ice cream Nous voilà jolis, nous voilà beaux Tout empâtés, patauds, par les pâtés les gâteaux Nous voilà beaux, nous voilà jolis Ankylosés, soumis, sous les kilos de calories. On est foutu on mange trop On est foutu on mange trop On est foutu on mange trop Mais qu´est-ce qu´on fera quand on sera gros ? — Alain Souchon

Papa Mambo

Cerfs-volants

Cerfs-volants alignés emportés par le vent, serres volantes de papier accordées noir et blanc. Confettis suspendus d’une fête éternelle, le printemps revenu : pointillés de marelle. Je vous entends voler ! — Eleonore Sur

Le ça et le ça

La voix entre par ici... et ça ressort par là. Ça se comprime si ça déborde vers là. Ça, ça mesure le reste et s’adapte en fonction ; ça sert pour faire les tests et ça reste sinon. C’est ici que ça se passe et ça revient comme ça. Au bout de quelques phases c’est totalement froid et ça ressort par dessus où c’est transmis par là. — Eleonore Sur

Les orchidées

J'ai reçu en cadeau ces orchidées, A vrai dire, j'étais surpris, Des anémones auraient suffi. Mais on ne peut nier leur beauté. Ces fleurs ont un air élégant Et leurs courbes, quel enchantement ! Pourtant, avec leur allure fière Et leurs belles manières, Un jour, je pourrais m'en lasser. Ainsi va la vie. Bientôt, elles seront fanées, Destin de toute plante, orchidée ou ortie. En attendant, profitons-en, Admirons leurs couleurs, Apprécions leurs senteurs, Savourons l'instant présent. — Gérard Miro