C'est le tour de manège du moutard
Le plein de sensations que l'on ressent
Et être vivant juste dans l'instant
©Laurent Roy 2017
Qu'on trouve à son plumage les plus beaux des reflets
Ou que son vol soit lourd et qu'on le trouve laid
Son voyage innocent de tous ces jugements
L'éloigne à tout jamais de tous ces vains tourments
©Laurent Roy 2017
Il est de ces vides abyssaux
Bien plus profonds que l'entre-deux eaux
D'où l'on revient sans aucun espoir
A force d'avoir trop vu le noir
©Laurent Roy 2017
On entendait au loin,
Le soir et le matin,
Le clairon de l'usine.
J'étais encore gamine
Quand un jour résonna
Du côté du sana,
La sirène ouvrière.
Ce fut la fois dernière.
A perdu toute voix.
J'étais enfant, c'est sûr
Mais ce fut pourtant dur.
'J'ai connu ça aussi... Juste à coté de chez moi. quant j'avais une dizaine d'années.
C'est devenu un but de promenade pendant quelques temps, pour les badauds du coin et les anciens ouvriers qui venaient avec leurs familles et leurs enfants pour leur montrer "l'Usine". Vite, presque clandestinement. Avant qu'on ne l'écroule. Avec un sentiment mêlé de nostalgie et de culpabilité non justifiée. "l'Usine" qui, dans la famille, était devenu un nom propre. Qui était presque un membre de la famille tant on prononçait son nom. Qui pour les plus petits n'était qu'un seul mot "lusine". L'usine dans laquelle ils a
Heureux ceux qui apprécient la reconnaissance de leur art pour la communion dont elle est le signe, et non pour le profit qu'ils peuvent en tirer.
© Laurent Roy 2012
sempiternalWhen I grow old
For when rainbows dilute and notebooks fatten
on times untimely passing,
when the moon falls out of kilter with a sun that
curdles in a sad, forgotten sky,
and the rain congeals inside the clouds
when the slurry of seconds sinks deep into my bones
and my skin crumples like parchment, my spine coils and splinters
and my fingers buckle, knuckle-cracking -
when my dreams fade like polaroids in sunshine
and my memories break free from their kitestrings
unanchored and drifting in such dulcet mindmurk and I watch
the world crumble from gold into grey.
I want a thousand laugh-lines
for they will be the maps to better times
so I can find my way back
OC Meme*Copy this into your Meme..
-Choose 10 of your OC's
-Answer the questions
-Then tag 3 people
1.) 3, 7, 4, and 9 go ice skating. What happens?
2.) Its Christmas!!! 5 throws a christmas party and invites three people of choice. Who does he/she invite? What happens?
3.) 6 catches 2 dancing/singing to the 'spice girls'. What's 6's reaction?
4.) 1 and 10 are stuck in a janitor's closet. How the crap did they get in there?
5.) 4 confesses his/her love for 8. What happens?
6.) 3 walks in to see 6 and 7 making out in 3's closet.. What is their reactions?
7.) 9 and 5 have an argument that soon turns into a fist fight. How did it start? And How does 2 try to break it up?
8.) 6 and 7 are getting married! But 8 is in love with 7. What does 8 do?
9.) You here a knock on your door. You open it to see every one of your OC's bursting in to your home. What do you do?
10.) 2 admits to you that he/she killed 9. What do you do?
11.) Everyone gat
InsanityWhy hello there insanity
Let me walk you 'round the floor
If you look off to your left
you'll see the girl i was before.
The tiles might be broken
But its nothing time can't fix
But if you think its art-work
Then all the broken parts will mix.
And the doorknobs may not work
But you can crawl through like spies
The holes you made with your fist
Are looking just your size.
The mirror in the hallway
Has seen some better days
And although you may see yourself
It's not uncommon to also see haze.
And the windows may be drafty
But i promise its not too cold
And if you can deal with that
I'm sure that you'll be sold.
And you see here in the closet
That the lightswitch doesn't work
But that only because
There are inner demons that lurk.
The picture frames are empty
But thats only an attempt to forget
All the fun i once had
And the soul that I once bet.
There's shattered glass in the bedroom
From when you told it was goodbye
And i let the bird out of it's cage
Knowing it would die.
But the basem
Paper MacheDrop your paper hearts into a basin of tears
and dry them in the sun
Well tape the middles back together
Glue them back to back
It Has Come To My AttentionIt has come to my attention
that people like me
are generally not welcome in fairy tales.
It's the talking birds that do it.
The minute a sparrow shows up to pipe a direful warning
it's all over
down at the first hurdle
The body in the fifty-fathom well
will have to wait
the old woman turned into a hare
the murdered mother in the juniper tree
as I whip out my Sibley guide and look for the entry
with the fieldmark labeled capable of human speech.
For this crime
I have been accused of a failure of wonder
of having chained up my inner child and sent her
to work in the salt mines.
But the truth
(if you really want to know)
is that I have read too many fairy tales
and lived a bit too long
to be surprised by anything that happens in
the cottages of lonely woodcutters.
I can even venture a guess
to why the bear speaks with the voice of a maiden
(my heart goes out to her)
and why, when the animal has saved your life,
you will be required to make a harp out of its bones.
These are o
There is nothing more devastating
Than losing a loved one
Knowing that you will never
Hear their voice again
Or feel their touch, or see them smile
It's heart breaking
Time is a powerful thing
One that is forever
Time takes everything
And makes it it's own
They say that time
Heals all wounds
Time only created more scars
As the ones that it caused before
Begin to heal
To lose a loved one
Is a tragedy all in its own
But don't be sad
You will see them again
Because while time takes everything it can
Will take you too.
Time takes everything
And eventually it even takes you.
afghanistan doesn't exist.my disposable income
is fed to the local
pharmacy in exchange
for bright coloured
lacquer, with rainbow
names like 'bo peep'
and 'gum bear'.
how could you ever
feel shame or guilt or
sadness with a name
like 'candied violet' so
adorning your carefully
manicured nails? how a
cocktail of 'coralicious'
and 'tangerine queen'
could make you feel
like anything but a
i sleep in the tropics
in summer and in
the carnival in winter
and it shows on my
nails. i don't own black.
or gray. would you
admit that your sweet
dreams see the things
your waking hours
refuse to? would you
dare let it slip your
lips that he died out
there in your head?
does the world need
to know that you're
worried when he's
joking? when he finds
it... funny... that he's
getting shot at in a
faraway country? that
you can't crumble into
his lap and clutch at
his collar to please
don't go? that you
never knew a soldier.
i don't own sand colour
or army khaki, or the green
peculiarity of his eyes.
Oh art thief, oh art thiefOh art thief, oh art thief
How you’ve brought us all to grief.
How can you be unashamed?
When you stole from people unnamed
How you think about your own fame
Just like others like you playing that game
How you feed off us
How you live on others success
How can you sleep at nights,
Knowing you infringed other’s rights?
How can you enjoy this fame,
Knowing it rightfully belongs to another name?
Do we also carry the blame
That we blindly follow someone’s claim?
To the people that believe everything humans say
To you I say good day
We must always question what we are told
Or we can start to be controlled
By vicious lies and such
To me that is just too much
The Rumour of IcarusIcarus
there is a rumour that your father killed you, that
he bent your wings until they broke and then
told you, "Fly."
If this rumour is true, then it lives in the throats of
those fragile boys who wear your death like Cain's mark,
whose tender hands split like swollen tomatoes when
they pluck strangled seabirds, whose
arms slump beneath the weight of their father's genius.
And this rumour lives on
the under-skin of their eyelids so that when they die
or simply sleep
they dream of their fathers
or maybe just of Daedalus, standing with
his hands full of feathers and wax,
their blood-flecked down under his fingernails.
your face is gone, icarus, you are a warning & a tragedy &
the patron saint of boys who will not listen but also you are a god, icarus,
a god to these boys and still, when you fell
said Bruegel in oils, Auden and Williams in verse
no one gave a damn.
they also say that your father strained the sunlight into an amphora
and told you, "Dri