Lever de soleil sur la brume                 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     La  La nature est tout ce qu’on voit,

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Tout ce qu’on veut, tout ce qu’on aime,

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Tout ce qu’on sait , tout ce qu’on croit,

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Tout ce que l’on sent en soi-même.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Elle est belle pour qui la voit,

                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Elle est bonne à celui qui l’aime,

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Elle est juste quand on y croit

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Et qu’on la respecte en soi-même.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Regarde le ciel, il te voit,

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Embrasse la terre, elle t’aime.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  La vérité c’est ce qu’on croit

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   En la nature c’est toi-même.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  (George Sand)

Invitation de la Folie !

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   La Folie décida d'inviter ses amis pour prendre un café chez elle.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Tous les invités y allèrent.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Après le café la Folie proposa :

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     -  On joue à cache-cache ?

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           -  Cache-cache ? C'est quoi, ça ? demanda la Curiosité.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               -  Cache-cache est un jeu. Je compte jusqu'à cent et vous vous cachez. Quand j'ai fini de compter… je cherche, et le premier que je trouve sera le prochain à compter.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Tous acceptèrent, sauf la Peur et la Paresse.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            - 1, 2, 3… La Folie commença à compter.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   L'Empressement se cacha le premier, n'importe où.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       La Timidité, timide comme toujours, se cacha dans une touffe d'arbre.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 La Joie courut au milieu du jardin.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        La Tristesse commença à pleurer, car elle ne trouvait pas d'endroit approprié pour se cacher.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    L'Envie accompagna le Triomphe et se cacha près de lui derrière un rocher.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    La Folie continuait de compter tandis que ses amis se cachaient.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Le Désespoir était désespéré en voyant que la Folie était déjà à 99.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          CENT ! cria la Folie, je vais commencer à chercher...

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    La première à être trouvée fut la Curiosité, car elle n'avait pu s'empêcher de sortir de sa cachette pour voir qui serait le premier découvert.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          En regardant sur le côté, la Folie vit le Doute au-dessus d'une clôture ne sachant pas de quel côté il serait mieux caché.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Et ainsi de suite, elle découvrit la Joie, la Tristesse, la Timidité...

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Quand ils étaient tous réunis, la Curiosité demanda : 

                                                                                                                                                                      -  Où est l'Amour ?

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Personne ne l'avait vu.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        La Folie commença à le chercher. Elle chercha au-dessus d'une montagne, dans les rivières au pied des rochers.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Mais elle ne trouvait pas l'Amour.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Cherchant de tous côtés, la Folie vit un rosier, prit un bout de bois et commença à chercher parmi les branches, lorsque soudain elle entendit un cri : C'était l'Amour, qui criait parce qu'une épine lui avait crevé un œil.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   La Folie ne savait pas quoi faire. Elle s'excusa, implora l'Amour pour avoir son pardon et alla jusqu'à lui promettre de le suivre pour toujours.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           L'Amour accepta les excuses.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Aujourd'hui, l'Amour est aveugle et la Folie l'accompagne toujours ...

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            (fable de Jean de la Fontaine). 

Vous avez un regard singulier et charmant,

  Comme la lune au fond du lac qui la reflète,

Votre prunelle où brille une humide paillette,

Au coin de vos doux yeux roule languissamment.  

Ils semblent avoir pris ses feux au diamant,

Ils sont de plus belle eau qu’une perle parfaite,

Et vos grands cils émus, de leur aile inquiète

Ne voilent qu’à demi leur vif rayonnement.  

Mille petits amours à leur miroir de flamme,

Se viennent regarder et s’y trouvent plus beaux,

Et les désirs y vont rallumer leurs flambeaux.

  Ils sont si transparents, qu’ils laissent voir votre âme,

Comme une fleur céleste au calice idéal

Que l’on apercevrait à travers un cristal.  

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 (Théophile Gauthier)

3 petits lapins ...

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Trois lapins, dans le crépuscule,
Tenaient un long conciliabule.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Le Le premier montrait une étoile
Qui montait sur un champ d'avoine.
Les autres, pattes sur les yeux,
La regardaient d'un air curieux.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Puis tous trois, tête contre tête,
Se parlaient d'une voix inquiète.
Se posaient-ils, tout comme nous,
Les mêmes questions sans réponse ?
D'où venons-nous ?
Où allons nous ?
Que sommes-nous ?
Pourquoi ces ronces
Pourquoi dansons-nous le matin,
Parmi la rosée et le thym ?
Pourquoi avons-nous le cul blanc,
Longues oreilles, longues dents ?
Pourquoi notre nez tout le temps,
Tremble-t-il comme feuille au vent ?
Pourquoi l'ombre d'un laboureur
Nous fait-elle toujours si peur ?
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Trois lapins dans le crépuscule
Tenaient un long conciliabule.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Et il aurait duré longtemps
Encore, si une grenouille
N'avait plongé soudainement
Dans l'eau de lune de l'étang.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Maurice  Carême                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

Autorisation de Rêver ...

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               S'il fallait abandonner nos rêves, 
Nous perdrions la joie de vivre,
Dans la routine faire une trêve,
Pour que le plaisir nous enivre.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Se revêtir de simples étoiles,
Pour que la lumière nous fasse briller,
Que sur la nuit se lève le voile,
Et que le désir nous fasse vibrer.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   S'autoriser à s'évader,
C'est se permettre de faire les pas,
Vers ce qu'on a imaginé,
Et que la vie nous permettra.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Ce n'est quand même pas la mer à boire,
Que de vouloir se rendre bien,
Ce n'est pas avoir de faux espoirs,
Que d'envoyer balader le chagrin.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Allez vas-y envole toi,
Visualise tes rêves fous,
Ferme les yeux, ressens la joie,
Et cesse donc de vivre à genoux.

                                                                                                                                                                             La vie est faite pour se déployer,
Il sera trop tard une fois parti,
Pour se dire qu'on aurait dû tenter,
De se construire un paradis.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          (Alexandra Julien)

LE CHAT 

Au commencement, Dieu créa le chat à son image. 
Et bien entendu, il trouva que c'était bien. 
Et c'était bien d'ailleurs. 

Mais le chat était paresseux. 
Il ne voulait rien faire. 
Alors, plus tard, après quelques millénaires, 
Dieu créa l'homme. 
Uniquement dans le but de servir le chat, 
De lui servir d'esclave jusqu'à la fin des temps. 

Au chat, il avait donné l'indolence et la lucidité; 
A l'homme, il donna la névrose, 
Le don du bricolage et la passion du travail. 
L'homme s'en donna à coeur-joie. 
Au cours des siècles, 
Il édifia toute une civilisation basée sur l'invention, 
La production et la consommation intensive. 

Civilisation qui n'avait en réalité 
Qu'un seul but secret: 
Offrir au chat le confort, le gîte et le couvert. 

(Jacques Sternberg) 

 

CHAT 

Chat,chat, d'où viens-tu? 
Je viens du fond de la nuit, 
je viens de jouer sans bruit 
avec le vent et la lune. 

Chat, chat, d'où viens-tu? 
Je viens d'aiguiser mes dents 
à l'or du soleil levant 
je l'ai cardé de mes griffes. 

Chat, chat, d'où viens-tu? 
Je viens de lustrer mon corps 
sous la pluie des gouttes d'or 
et ma fourrure éteincelle. 

Chat, chat, d'où viens-tu? 
D'un pays silencieux 
qui dort au fond de mes yeux 
à l'abri de mes paupières. 

Chat, chat, d'où viens-tu? 
D'un pays où je suis roi 
moi, j'en viens, vous n'irez pas, 
vous n'irez pas, demoiselle ! 

(Louisa Paulin) 

L'invitation au voyage ... 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Mon Mon enfant, ma soeur
Songe à la douceur
D'aller là-bas vivre ensemble !
Aimer à loisir
Aimer et mourir

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Au pays qui te ressemble !
Les soleils mouillés
De ces ciels brouillés

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              Pour mon esprit ont les charmes
Si mystérieux
De tes traîtres yeux,
Brillant à travers leurs larmes.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Des meubles luisants
Polis par les ans
Décoreraient notre chambre
Les plus rares fleurs
Mêlant leurs odeurs
Aux vagues senteurs de l'ambre.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Les riches plafonds
Les miroirs profonds
La splendeur orientale,

Tout y parlerait
A l'âme en secret
Sa douce langue natale.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Vois sur ces canaux
Dormir ces vaisseaux
Dont l'humeur est vagabonde 
C'est pour assouvir
Ton moindre désir.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Qu'ils viennent du bout du monde
Les soleils couchants
Revêtent les champs
Les canaux, la ville entière.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                D'hyacinthe et d'or
Le monde s'endort
Dans une chaude lumière.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté
Luxe, calme et volupté.

Charles Baudelaire : (1821-1867) -Recueil "Les Fleurs Du Mal"

Avalanche d’amour…

.

Quand le ciel s’effondre

Que montagne gronde

Résonnant dans les profondeurs

Dans mon âme, mon intérieur,

Quand l’azur  enlace

Les entrailles impénétrables

Quand la voute embrase

Les émois insondables,

Le mystère habite l’être

La paix inonde la résonnance

En solitaire la joie m’inonde

Quand le ciel s’effondre

Et que montagne gronde …

(@Dominique Chouinard)

Peinture : Manon Marchand

Mars

En mars, quand s’achève l’hiver,
Que la campagne renaissante
Ressemble à la convalescente
Dont le premier sourire est cher ;

Quand l’azur, tout frileux encore,
Est de neige éparse mêlé,
Et que midi, frais et voilé,
Revêt une blancheur d’aurore ;

Quand l’air doux dissout la torpeur
Des eaux qui se changeaient en marbres ;
Quand la feuille aux pointes des arbres
Suspend une verte vapeur ;

Et quand la femme est deux fois belle,
Belle de la candeur du jour,
Et du réveil de notre amour
Où sa pudeur se renouvelle,

Oh ! Ne devrais-je pas saisir
Dans leur vol ces rares journées
Qui sont les matins des années
Et la jeunesse du désir ?

Mais je les goûte avec tristesse ;
Tel un hibou, quand l’aube luit,
Roulant ses grands yeux pleins de nuit,
Craint la lumière qui les blesse,

Tel, sortant du deuil hivernal,
J’ouvre de grands yeux encore ivres
Du songe obscur et vain des livres,
Et la nature me fait mal.

René-François Sully Prudhomme.