I Will

                         I Will

We've allowed ourselves to become,—sick
while waiting for a utopian dream
to crash-land at our feet
so we can snatch it up and claim it
as our own.

We've become evil,—dishonest and broken—
let down one too many times,
knocked down to the point
that we stopped getting back up
a long time ago.

Help stopped helping,—or so we've come to believe—
as soon as we stopped caring—
when we stopped wanting to change
the monotony of Safety,
the monopoly of the current Paradigm,
and the comforts of Distracted Reality.

The bars are full of Dreamers—
hopeless and overflowing
with artificial faith, of all kinds—
faithful to the fault!—that someone,
some thing, somewhere, will repair the problem
—somehow.

Believers in Magic!—Delusional Frauds!—
Fakers!—lazy and ruined—
spoiled beyond belief and crying
like little lost babies, afraid,
of their own, loving Mother.

—She's been calling us all this time—
And Look!—we have forgotten our own names,
the sound of her voice,
and the colour of her eyes—
we are Dead, in hers, and ours:

What will break this horrific spell?
who will stop marching in this Parade of Death?
who will turn around
so we all, can finally see
our own Reflection, in the Eyes of Another?

                  J.L.Boisclair
                December, 2018
               St. Augustine, FL

The Beach

                   The Beach

Ten Thousand Orchestras in the Wind
  Our Candle Dances to the Violin—
The Moon is Smiling as She Listens
  To the Organs Rocking the Stars to Sleep.

A Timeless Movement, subtle, and delicate—
  Willingly Lost, in our Upward Gaze—
Forever Searching, and full of Hope
  For Boundaries Broken, and Inner Peace.

And Here is the closest, we'll ever get:
  A Symphony Driven, by the Heart of All,
A Feeling that assures us, All is Kind,
  And Dreams that start to slowly make Sense.

That Northern Star is what we Know,
  And Fragile Hearts full of Life and Love—
Distance became a Comfortable Mystery
  As the Shadows Dance to an Imagined Beat.

Our Song Begins with the Anxious Wind
  As it Strikes some Chords that Resonate well,
And we quietly hum Notes,

                              of  Profound, Significance—
And the Waves, Splash, in Applause—


                          J.L.Boisclair
                        December, 2018
                       St. Augustine, FL

The Field

                  The Field

                        I.

Anxious Clover, among the Weeds:
  The Field is Crying, and Singing to me
The Wind is Violent, and Howling loud
  Disrupting Tranquil, Coloured Static.

From up Above, the Pastels linger—
  A Painting Displaced—Forgotten Purpose,
The Brush was Dropped, and in the Splatter
  A sign Appeared, to No One.

And in the Fog, seething with Silence—
  No single Bird dare soar above
The Chaos known as Lost Eternity,
  Where Few ever choose to Wander alone.

—Oh Helpless Sun!—the Sky's so Dense,
  Raining its Fears upon us All—
And we will Run and build our Shelter
  Only for Thunder to topple its Walls.

For what is Here, was here Always:
  The Songs of Tomorrow, the Canvas, the Page
Blank, as Beauty keeps Ringing the Bell
  In the Church that faded so long ago.

                         II.

And the Field, it Lay, contently Abandoned
  Except for the Laughter of curious Children—
Lost and Faithless, Fearless, Wanting
  To pick the Flowers from the Poison.

And along the Freeway lie cars Abandoned—
  Smoke and steam still swirling about
And upon the Horizon, through the Pollution—
  Faint apparitions of Broken Factories.

The Sky turns Darker the Farther you Look—
  Foreboding oranges, and clouds of soot,
Lightning is constant throughout the day—
  Stars hide stifled by damp, lonely Night.

And the Field lay Painted, Protected—still,
  By Ancient Goddesses lounging around—
Some claim to know them, or'd wish to at least
  While desperately searching for the Profound.

And to no avail!—It's blank and Broken!—
  'Round and 'round, Forever we'll go—
Hear the sound of Nervous Laughter,
  Amplified,  through speakers blown...

                        III.

And every Night, a Story is Dreamt
  Of ancient, abandoned, Fantastical Worlds—
The Anxious Clover,—still hiding out
  Away from Desires, burned and burning.

And as Luck would have it, the Books are gone
  Few pages found, faded and torn—
The Authors unknown, the Language Obscure
  But Centuries of Dreams all Translate to This:

Euphoric Eternity!—that Dream Universal!—
  Lost, then Found, then Lost again—
Captured by random, Innocent Dreamers
  Lucky enough to be able to Pen

The Moment which briefly, created a Pattern–
  Static Disrupted!—Decay Attacked!—
A Song Completed!–A Painting Created!—
  A Poem on Paper to Remain Intact.—

The Gods however, fain remain Silent–
  "But who are they?" asks, the Innocent Child
"Your Dreams are nothing but Fleeting Fantasy"
  Sayeth the Beast, taming the Wild...

And as the Walls, keep tip-toeing in
  With Scattered Portraits, still Incomplete—
Through frost-covered Windows we strain to See
  This World under constant Attack.


                                                            J.L.B.
                                                   December, 2018
                                                  St. Augustine, Fl.