Les nuages — à la fin des temps…

Quel sera notre poison de prédilection ? Que disent les nuages ?

Climate change, nuclear war, global economic collapse, anarchy, another Corona virus … What will be our poison of choice?

saturn’s blues.

when the moon is in Fresno

and the sun sets a purplish

haze over early-autumn skies,

the cold winds of Hell

breathe heavily against

the hopes of local heroes

and the women who made them.

farmers stare off into the fields

without realizing, and housewives

pull their young close to their

bosoms – suddenly and

without explanation.

intuitively they sense the onset

of a long and severe influence;

a time of hardship and hindrance

when the faith and courage of

more than a few good men

and women are put to test.

the carousel is out-of-control,

and in the whirlwind confusion

crops will fail, loved ones will

pass away, jobs will be lost

and the simplest of dreams will

be stifled by saturn’s blues:

a mocking nursery rhyme telling

of horror and despair, and sung

over and over again with endless

variations on the same cruel theme.

(from Adam Donaldson Powell’s “Collected poems and stories”, 2005.)


breakdancing clouds
laughingly roar
with all the grace
of shattering glass.

(from “Collected poems and stores”)


When dusk acquiesces
to the shelter of night,
overpowering the
songs of crickets and
silent movements
of creepy-crawlers,
a quiet calm
the ruminations of
my psyche
allowing soul regression
to dance
in the matrix
between experience
and remembrance.


Dulled slivers of emotion
no longer entangled with
words flutter and scurry
Once air-bound, the
footloose fragments of
a life gone past seek
resolution and release by
eluding recognition and
assuaging the sharpness of reality.
And quite relentlessly these
now-transformed bits of
parchment confetti find new
definition by recreating history.

(from “Three-legged Waltz”)

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