jeudi 21 décembre 2017

Amants de la rivière

Sur l'hôtel de la nature
S’y goûtent les feuilles de ton plaisir
Où se pointent les seins du désir 

Ta peau de porcelaine, lumière nocturne
Joyaux de la mer comme des îles 
Encore vierge des tempêtes ivres

Ces monts d’ensorcellements
Aux ondulations de corps, sont bouées dansantes
Comme, sous ton chant, les vagues haletantes

Cascade de moults diamants effleurants
De feu et glace se deshabille la rivière
Pour chaleureux amants, en frisson d’hiver

De touchers, moites sont les entrailles 
Où, leurs ailes, ouvrent les feuilles 
Pour voler par-delà les 7 merveilles 



mardi 19 décembre 2017

Frissons de fleur

Contraste de la douceur 
  aux angles sévères de la nature
Une nature libre et fragile 
versus l'immobilité du temps
Une fleur parfumée de volonté 
s'opposant aux intempéries de l'inconnu gris

La beauté dans la nature qui regarde sa fougue se plonger dans les eaux froides de la liberté, sans attache, que ses propres doigts. 

Ton chemin de pétales tu étales
Nous sommes, sur tes flots, sans mots
Les courbes de ces vagues, enivrent, divaguent
En pirate, tu rames tes flammes

La beauté au regard du large, phare plongé dans les vents et les marées, Mahée de liberté, sans attache, que sa propre foi.

Le temps tressé en cheveux
aux angles de passion de feu
Sur l’épaule s’y repose
l’immobilité du temps
Aux fleurs de ta féminité
bercées de l’inconnu gris




Crédits photo
Modele : Mahée Blais-Bernatchez
Jeune femme qui va relever le défi de traverser l'Atlantique à la rame en équipe, de continent à continent, de la terre ferme à la terre ferme. (Détails ici)
Photographe : Eric Daoust

Expert photographe de Noir & blanc

vendredi 1 décembre 2017

Manteau de saison

Comme une saison qui abrite le nid des âmes
La plume est inspirée par la vague du large
Vêtu de l'espoir du beau qui se meut en vagues
Nous écoutons son chant dans ses coquillages
Son manteau de verbes aux chants silencieux
Insufle chaleur dans le glacier de l'odieux
Merveilleuse plume aux pas délicats
Dessins d'encre aux formes que l'amour sculpta.



"Inspiré par ces quelques vers écris par une jeune femme à la grande sensibilité :"

 Marie-Belle POÈTE


dimanche 13 août 2017

Wasteland


Reading the words of past
Your present thrown in thy face
My eyes filled with tears of dust
Striving in this ocean of sand

Without sail, the horizon fast
The wind of time turns its face
Looking astray, my shore’s a dust
From an afar life it bans

Feeling the void you cast
That shroud without cloud I face
A glimpse of light, soon turned to dust
That red knife in your hand

Once, one we were as
Twin suns, warmth in our embrace
Now looking like deserts of dust
Eclipse of the Moon, I strand

The shadows of time past
A window on an empty space
Gazing the wind and never-ending dust
Lost in an ocean of quicksand 

Will the sunrise be one day colorfast
The meeting of life printed on our faces
Shimmering eyes free of dust
Walking heart and mind we understand ?

Walking the road hand in hand
Walking life and friendship on land
Walking away from wasteland
Walking as dancing music land


Walking, dancing, looking … living.


mercredi 21 juin 2017

Émoi

Je suis quoi
Pour que sur moi
Cette femme croit
En mon croissant et moi

Jolie d’et moi
Uni sous lit toit
En elle je crois

Ensemble sans être à soi

Poète des pauvres et pôvre pouète

lundi 24 avril 2017

Pépin d'avenir

Ton pépin qui rassemble tout mon amour
      Toi, graine de vie
Croissance et miracle d'une saison qui court
      Toi, essence de ma vie
Ton chant en mon sein qui fait le troubadour
      Toi, musique de l'avenir
Je t'attend comme la semence de notre arbre
Cette forêt de bourgeons qui sabrent
La médiocrité de ses balafres

Semons les racines du temps
     Toi, et moi, ta maman.


À une amie ...

Poète des pauvres et pôvre pouète

dimanche 9 avril 2017

Blinding light

Chapter 1

It was outside time, beknownst space, a universe of dream and lust. A story a thousand times repeated as an echo of a dream never awakening.

She, a beauty of betold stories, out of a never written book, lost in a wind of inspiration, between the ink marking out her body and the silky sheets of words, and that obscur presence, that pressing scent of lust, the kind one shivers to, yet cannot turn away from.

Blindfolded, dressed in soft shear, laced and ready. The beauty possessed by her master, while he is lurking in the room to get his way. She slowly enters the room, as a tamed wolf, rolling her pelvis in oscillating movements as if something was tickling her body. One arm slowly moving in front of the other; one leg lusciously before the other; the shoulders rolling to stretch her arched back, as the playful beauty that she is.  Slowly getting to his level as he directs her to him, imperatively  calling at her so she approaches still closer, while uncovering his trainer's stick, the shaft that would dominate her appetite and submerge her senses. 

She slowly, barely touches it with the tip of her nose as it rises more and more toward the ceiling. That tender stick asking to be stimulated by a touch, a warm breath. She yearns to grab it with her firm fingers, but her master has something else in mind. She can feel its skin, stretched and yet, soft and bloodily, warmed and filled, on every pores of her face, slowly caressing her lips, her nose, her cheeks, her ears, going through her hair as if it wanted to comb her.

A firm grip holding her neck restraint, rising her head to the unknown. When suddenly lips are felt on her neck, right under her chin, kissing its way through the neck. Passing the shoulders leaving bite marks along the way. With each touch, her body shivers, trembles, discovering new fields of unexpected sensations, as if rolling her body in a fields of flower thorns. No pain felt; only intense punctual electrical shocks as he progresses towards her spine, pushing her head down to uncover her bare back, her hips, her buns, soft and raised. 

Stoping his soft entry, inspecting her gift to him. Indeed, as she earlier acquiesced to submit herself to this game of his, she knew then she would have to hold back, torturing herself, and let him have his way, obeying every orders and abandon herself to his every desires. Maybe, only maybe, would he allow her the pleasure of being greeted with his lips, his tongue, his body heating her with passion as she shall so desire. So she knew then. Now, there is no turning back, she has to submit and wish for thy gift … if she is the nice beauty her master wants her to be. 

She pushes away this moment of reflexion, to be all alert to the game unraveling on the other side of her blindfold, in this dark night, like a new world waiting to be conquered by her senses, her touches, called upon by her moaning and begging: a black road without stars to guide her into the unknown. 

This is when she felt his dressing stick making its way between her lips, while his hands grab her hair. Directing this masterpiece with the firm confidence in every waves of motion transduced down into every nerve endings. An explosion of senses from within, tinkling down her spine as he's making her go up and down on this throbbing stick, feeling its entire length, all its bumps and breathing veins, its warmth but mostly its desire to be tasted and devoured as a candle lit by a burning fire, eating away its white wax, dripping relentlessly on the slippery floor. 

Submissive as she is, she still knows how to make his heart pump desire, pushing blood towards his shaft, pumping its entire length as it grows and grows and move on itself as if it had a mind of its own. He forces himself as far inside her as she possibly can handle; which is pretty much its entire length. Tasting him down her throat as his body oscillates to thrust himself between these hungry lips, sliding along this slippery and tasty tongue. She sees through her own senses, perceived forms and pleasure so astute as if the light of day was hitting her eyes and her skin all enervated…

Releasing his spring river, from the depth of a dead season, glimpsing at a watery cascade liberated by her submission, she feels the warmth of life coming back to haunt the empty nights that she felt for so long now; too long has she waited. She swallows the flourishing nature dressed in a perfume of lust, a scent of some force reduced to its own moaning, speechless, feeble, its frailty: the master has become the submitted. At this point, she knows her winter is over. That white veil of dreams revealing her red flower, mist of pleasure running down her legs like a tree's sweet water. She knows, underneath that blindfold, her eyes are hypnotizing him. She knows he is at her mercy. She knows ... Is she ? Will he allow himself to be controlled ? 

To be continued …



lundi 3 avril 2017

La rampe

Le coeur montant
L’étage des amours
Mon regard pendant
Au soleil autour

Crédit : PiperBlush 2017
http://ThePiperBlushExperiement.com
Je rêve au satin
De sa peau dévoilée
M’y perdre sans fin
Ce nous envolé

Je rêve du bonheur
De ces pures courbes
Sens éveillés pour dévoiler
La beauté de ces petits-fours

Vaudelaire - poète des pauvres et pôvre pouète
Merci infiniment à la très gentille et jolie PiperBlush pour l'autorisation d'utiliser son image. 

mardi 7 février 2017

Doigté de Plume

Douceur de plume Touchés que nous fûmes Aux rondeurs sous notre regard Fesses d’amour sans égard Matinales rondeurs blanches Cette neige sur nos franges Dans le silence rouge Fesses de carouge Baisées de fleur Courbes sans peur Pénétrées de repos Fesses d’enivrante peau Vierges horizons, passions Mains d’invitation Douceurs matinales Baisées Fesses nues aimées

RALPH GIBSON LEDA, 1974

© Camear Work/Ralph Gibson

Vaudelaire - poète des pauvres et pôvre pouète

lundi 23 janvier 2017

Réveil divers

Elle court derrière son vent
Son réveil toujours devant
Foulard en écharpe
Flottant telle une cap

Escarpins fuyants
Aux couleurs satins
Elle tend le jour
De ses plus beaux atours

Le dansant sourire
Pour éviter le pire:
Du café, le farfadet
S’en joue, tout à fait

De glace son éveil se fait
Malgré ses chaleureux attraits
De rouge elle habille
La toile fébrile

Vaudelaire - poète des pauvres et pôvre pouète

vendredi 20 janvier 2017

Lac des souvenirs

Silhouettes sur le voile du matin
Lumière qui habille les pensées
Êtres couettes aux frôlantes mains
Voir nous embrasser l’idée
Des souvenirs sans fin

Cou du jour, de grâce faite
Épousant le rayon levant
Immobile silhouette
Porte chaleur au coeur rêvant
De souvenirs inertes

Comment frôler ses joues
D’éternel porcelaine
Qu’en fléchissant le genou
Devant sa rayonnante reine
Pour les souvenirs fous 

Fléchir le mur de fumé
Ces rêves ainsi consumés
Le plier de volonté
Afin de pénétrer
Ses souvenirs occultés

Sur ce parchemin
Marcher les silhouettes
Et par ce chemin
La lumière découverte

Vaudelaire  - poète des pauvres et pôvre pouète