Ham on Rye

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Canapés

 

“And that is how it ended; I went back to my desk,
Shooting Morse codes at Jupiter
Knowing fine well,
That the taciturn
Never rings
Back…”

Franck…

I am not going to lie, I find Christmas day very long, filled with deep personal loneliness, trying to keep everything bottled in, and whatever is in a bottle out. I keep busy, I cook all day, even if my body is still wrecked from very cold long busy days at work. I made a simple organic roast chicken, and for dessert, some chocolate mousse…

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“I am your Indian”

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Super Moon… I Phone + my telescope x 32

I am your Indian, the black moon rambler in a field of rye, your witness cherishing your words. I am your Indian, the Armorican who sees your pain, the sarrazin child who will drink with you the silver chalice of life until the lees will touch our lips. I am your Indian, your scout who listens and feels free by being given a gift; a bond, your ear, your heart. I am your Indian, together and with each other, we will find the unreachable peace.

Franck aka Fanch Ar Moenner

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Mullaghmore, Sligo, yesterday…

Be Well and Keep Happy

Franck

“Tell me a story”

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Behind Benbulben, my hiding place…

Tell me a story…

I want to drown in Morpheus arms with you telling me a story. When St Exupery’s “Little Prince” asked from the Moon for someone to draw him a sheep.

I just want a story, and while you narrate me the wonderful and crazy, when we’ll enter our secret cave, the one where I often hide and seek refuge- in the darkest of nights- perched and snug in and above a horseshoe, protected from the Westerlies… Only then, I will put my hand on your forehead and gently caresse your cheek…

Because no one else more than me… Loves a story told by thee.

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Burren Land, Plutonic Love

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Mullach Mor – Burren

Last Monday, after scrutinising meticulously the weather forecast on Met.ie, I decided to go for broke and head to The Burren in County Clare. For three years now, I have been promising myself to take that trip between May and June, but work or more likely the weather didn’t allow me to do so. I wanted to enjoy the rare plants this lunar barren land of lime harbours at this time of year, and also say hello to the puffins, guillemots, kittiwakes, fulmars and razorbills the cliffs of Moher shelter. I knew it was also an excuse to get out West, I haven’t been feeling so good lately, that low ceiling of clouds and bare light hiding behind gives me headaches, cabin fever, hell I don’t know what it is, I guess I am just not a great fan of summers…

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Loser

Choice 1

She used to come to my place

Every Saturday after lunch,

While I was at work…

Roaming the rooms like a ghost

Touching the dusty furniture

With her long lanky fingers…

She used to fix the picture frames,

As she hovered down the hall.

I had told her it was over

Six months ago, as I recall…

No one but she, had lost.

Under her cashmere scarf

 She kept a key “just in case”

Haunting my place

Smoking blond tobacco

By the wet sooty fireplace…

Choice 5

Every Saturday after lunch,

Her ghostly frame roamed the rooms,

While I was at work,

Like a looser,

A looser… Who had lost!

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