The Moirai

The dream of the old man draped in 

The remains of a black coat in tatters

With the scythe in one hand

And the hourglass in the other

With the sand disappearing quickly

Bringing him to knock forcibly on one's door

Is one of the more common accepted 

Disguise of the Angel of Death,

Also known as the grim reaper,

But for one reason or another

Black was not the colour of death

Nor was the male figure the one 

To make us a visit on that day,

It was Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos

With their loud coloured dresses

Who came in the white limousine

To take my mother away

Refusing  laughingly 

I come too on that trip. 

Lucette C. Bailliet ©

  

Uniformity

Talk about the bleakness
Of a  Saharan dune
In full summer,
Of the snow blanketed tundra
In full Siberian winter,
Of the depthless tropical atoll
In the endless Pacific summer,
Of the enveloping cocooning greyness
Crossing the English Channel in winter,
Human mind cannot cope with perfection
Chaos is for us as necessary as breathing.
Notwithstanding the pain that it brings
We need the seed of disorder
To recall the absolute beauty
Of our limited existence here
Without it life is not worth it
For are we not its children?

  Lucette C. Bailliet ©

Dream catcher

Driven by fear of nightmares 

A dream catcher was offered,

To protect my slumbers

Letting only the good dreams through

And catching the bad ones,

Obediently I hung it up.

Above my bed 

It ever slowly sways extending

Its feathery knotty trap

In the hidden current of darkness

Keeping a solitary stern watch 

On my nightly repose 

Guiding it to an harmonious rest.

Despite the peace it brings

I regret the shadows of my dreams

For even a sunny sky

Becomes quickly a drudging torment

Without any hint of cloud

Bringing respite by contrast. 

Lucette C. Bailliet ©

Black swans

Walking leisurely by the river

Astonished by hearing

For the first time

The soft crooning "kverq" call

Of the black swan swimming 

Loftily around the reedy islets

In search of its everlasting soul mate

Which was playfully avoiding it,

Undulating languorously 

Its long and curved neck

Slowly with an inner elegance

This way and that.

All was peaceful

In perfect balance

Poised in the present moment 

No worries about its meaning, 

No future to consider bleak or not

Life does not need

To be made complicated

Enjoy it!

Lucette C. Bailliet ©

Acrostic

Away in the legendary 

Country of my fore fathers

Randomly walked the mean

Ogres who desultory would 

Sat on the roof of a house

To take tea and have a smoke

In order to carefully think about

Callously writing an acrostic.

Lucette C. Bailliet ©

Wattle Blossoms

Walking leisurely by the river

Suddenly it hit my consciousness

That I was smelling

The suave sweet and pervasive scent

Of wattles in bloom

In the late wintery afternoon.

So many yesteryears souvenirs

It brought back to my memory.

The wintry parties decorated

With wattles blossoms

To be found in the garden,

The wind sheltered sunny harbour made 

From a row of perfumed golden wattles

At the top of the mountain lookout.

Strangely enough it symbolises 

The coming of spring to many

But for me it celebrates mid winter

Pleasures of good food and friends

When the days are still brisk

And the nights long.

Lucette C. Bailliet ©

Who am I?

Who am I?

I am the daughter

I am the mother

I am the wife

I am the healer

I am the teacher

Who am I?

I am the indecisive

I am the paranoid 

I am the insecure

I am the weak 

I am the dreamer

Who am I?

I am the sick

I am the victim

I am the scholar

I am the old

I am the migrant

 Who am I?

I am the battered child

I am the anguished teenager

I am the loser adult

I am the wise ancient

Who am I?

I am the joy

I am the happiness

I am the tears

I am the screams

Who am I?

Simply put it,

I am the sum of it.

Lucette C. Bailliet ©