Pour Ceux qui Se Coucheraient sous les Étoiles

I love to speak and write in French, and today was no exception. Here is a short piece of prose en français I wrote today. Help with grammar, syntax, etc. is greatly appreciated, and I hope that those who are familiar with the French language can enjoy this.

C'est le jour finale d'un long mois. Je peux entendre l'hiver mourait comme le printemps frappais sur du mon tête. En voyant un jeux du hockey sur le télévision, il commence a pleuvoir mais la neige commence aussi tomber avec la pluie. Les États-Unis et le Canada s'essayent pour gagner la médaille d'or, a la fois je m'essaye voir la scène dehors ma fenêtre. Quand je tourne aux face du mon télévision je vois que le Canada marque un deuxième but, et la pluie s'arrête au même moment. Quelquefois, je me sens comme ni langue ni personne peut rendre raison aux moments comme ca. Les petits moments qu'on peut souvent oublier; quand on se sens que tous les choses dans la vie son complet. Pour une seconde ou une demi-seconde comme je vois le printemps entre un nouveau mois et quelques milliers de personnes sourient, tous les jours et mois d'hiver se sent complets. Demain je m'imposera aux visages des murs qui sont blancs et stériles, mais celui ne sera pas grave car je m'en vais souvenir d'aujourd'hui. Les jours comme ca, ils sont les jours qui embrassent mon sourire et me fait un plus fort.

Flocks

Ruins have since wrought creation.
Snow knows no more than mist,
as dark windows
fill black bile veins and clouds
cover a head bursting with ice.
In the interest of selves
words have been raised but with no further thought
than justice that skews itself.
Relics now lain upon perverted dogma
have rusted under deep sheets of sleet.
Now clouds will wait to cook souls
as screams now only sigh as
courage scampers to mere survival.
No hope is the sturdiest backbone of hours
spent to self,
though it is seldom seen that a visitor is not only
those who knock at a door.
In the dark night there is little to see but colors
that only exist in memory,
so let a candle burn until the day
that memory no longer knows itself and thought
is but a page in a book.

Langues des Tetes

Pulling back the blue sky on some Sunday
while bouncing black ideas of of withered white walls.
How a Saturday can fall reminds of me of how fast
I burn.
Can tongues paint a heart whole or is it merely
the spasms of muscles that make a home
true to its name?
Often times a word can comfort but for a night.
Daylight or clouds for better measure call for stronger action,
for the blood that pumps in veins and the thought
in movement.
To know where two feet walk require one to walk,
not just to know where the sun sets and lines on a map.
Skylines will one day be destroyed though for now
spires will climb to the moon and streets will stretch until
they drown in rivers.
My own walks always end in where I find the air feels best.
Dancing comes best when bare-feet bleed on beautified ground.
Truth is the ultimate flower, though mirrors may say that
ugliness is no more than a dark spot in the eyes,
it really is just another piece of the world to look
further into.
Walking into the ground,
walking into the sky,
walking into the sun.
I am here and so it seems where I want to be
is still beneath my feet in some distant dream.
In the back of my voice I sometimes find
where I have breathed deep and swallow the breaths
that I still have yet to exhale,
that is my home for the night and where
words still speak fresh from our throats.

Meditation 1

Have I not written words
sung of fires and stars?
I would like to think so.
The world brings smite to shallow slumber
each time I begin to close my eyes.
Yet it is only in my sleep,
that a quiet night can
finally come to rest.
Dreams cannot run from a nightmare though.
A light somewhere in my doze has sparked embers
in the midst of snow.
Poems have gone past,
well into all my nights
and wood burning breaths.
Until the calm of an embracing
orange glow set into my pen,
did I know the strength of a breath against sparks.
The the shrouded gaze I finally hold close to my eyes;
the burnings of hopes and desire
were only for the days where trees were scarce.
Dessicated spectacles have shaded old growth.
Plenty to burn,
more light to see the shadows
that engulf the ground.
The very dead branches I once let rot,
have come to illuminate
all the dark nights.

Where Feet Walk

Floorboards beneath my feet never seem to rot,
rather find themselves growing roots as if
they were still the trees they once were.
And on them I have believed my feet to be dust.
But no;
my own roots are the soil for what is beneath me.

Told from Time

Spitting back the heavy hearted
faces floating in my mind;
I have turned to the stars.
I felt my own eyes in her arms,
swallowing into pieces of a body
that used to just be a mirrored dream.
The smell of my pillow brings me to
the sunset where I at last met the eyes of joy in mine.
Looking from afar may feel good,
but only burns with the pains of a
lost tomorrow.
Being in the open arms,
with a weary head on a
strong shoulder
are more than enough to hold me
to truisms in time.
The floorboards are still warm
with the thoughts of an endless afternoon.
The glowing gaze that I see myself in
and a voice that
I have called for,
is finally by my side.
Alone at last,
hand in mine.
The sun sets a little later each day,
maybe because it is now mindful of
its own time.
By January I figured that old light would have
figured how to find itself in the night,
as I have myself.
In the endless days there is a sprawling night.
Swimming feelings in bright stars through
curtains drawn.
The triumph of joy has came to see forth the gorgeous
mind that has found mine.
I could never lose the beauty found in this room,
in the bliss of bodies and exaltations colliding.
No one can never let go of themselves
as long as there is
another morning to wake up to.

Avec des Nuages Gris

Melting into my own anger,
with frustration that I never felt
on a back porch.
Inside it all multiplies;
the subtle feelings of impatience
and finite hope.
Stars dim and the rain
never stops but only continues
each night;
it falls into my face
while I take in deep the feeling of each cold catharsis.
I know these drops are real,
the cold awakens the restless
senses inside of me.
With water onto the scribbled lines;
these papers can grow into the trees that they are.
With the cold feeling of exalting assurance;
I can sleep just a little easier tonight
knowing that these bits and pieces
of me are falling somewhere
into the world.
I am rain today.

Free with Embrace

Young and free
with the world spinning around.
Arms open into the glorious twirl of the smiles
that have been embracing me and shaping me
into the young man I smile back at in the mirror.
The night was pregnant with laughter.
Two days past,
and in the morning we woke
with but one regret;
that time did not stay longer.
For a moment in between the moon
and ground;
it felt warm.
I could have sworn it was...

Orange Days

Humidity has long since died down ma cherie
but still crawling about in our shut eyed theaters and chained bodies.
Our bones are beginning to bend
as the orange days begin to
creep in.
The air filling my lungs
is heavy with the burning of memories
that dig deeper holes with each gaze
into thoughts past.
But, the weight of my own thought
will not wear me down just yet.
With a mute tongue that bleeds as it begins to speak,
I plead into the bleeding sunsets of our screams
to lift me unto dead leaves upon her eyes,
and into sun soaked dreams.
I cannot yet see.