Saturday, April 18, 2015

The Red Umbrella

She was statuesque
holding her red umbrella
a scarf around her neck,
the hanging sides balancing
at her sides on every step.
Her short winter coat
dancing above her knees,
her boots with high heels
enhanced her long legs.
She was a fashion model.

She held the leather reins
of her two dogs pulling,
all three happy to be
walking in the rain.
She was determined
to enjoy the cold
against her face,
the wind lifting her hair,
the splashes of water
on the wet pavement.

Once home she will
quickly change clothes
for casual comfort,
sit by the peppy fire,
feel the flames warmth,
dry the two dogs waiting
to be wrapped into towels.
Stretched on the carpet
all three will find a place
to fall asleep and dream.

Marcel Toussaint © 2014

Wednesday, March 4, 2015

Shadow Under the Bridge

The Joys of Winter

The nights are the darkest of the year
the silence interrupted by the crackling of the logs
lit with blue and yellow flames jetting mellow
reflections to the room, the shadows waltzing
reaching across the room, the heat stroking
my face while I am wrapped in a throw
in my favorite wingchair dreaming of poetry.

 It is a19th century moment held in time.
I do not seem to escape my past as a child
captivated by logs alive, the flames forming
new patterns, the red hot cinders glowing
in an endless ballet unrehearsed and fresh.
A delightful entertainment until midnight
when my eyes will close for sleep.

In my dreams is a slideshow of carriage
outings to the market place for the day.
The distance from home took a half hour
of rhythmic horse shoes hitting the cobblestones,
the “cocher” high on his seat
every so often crackling his whip in the air
to keep the horses attentive to their task.

Mediterranean living was spectacular
ignoring many of the new mechanical marvels
that today we cannot live without.
As a child it was fun to learn how to manage
in a culture holding to the romantic past,
where candles were used as a matter of fact
when a light switch was not in the room.

Marcel Toussaint © 2015

Wednesday, April 30, 2014


You are so ethereal and so fragile.
You conserve energy so dutiful
to stay delicate, fresh and beautiful,
a butterfly with a great profile.

Graceful, you handle yourself very light,
your wings brilliant, like colorful flowers,
quickly hiding at first sign of showers,
paper-thin stained glass in flickering flight.

After long day you must stop at sundown
with the disappearing sun’s golden rays
shining low, signaling time-up for plays.
For butterflies flying, comes a rest down.

The day is for your glory, not the night,
for the fields with flowers you need to view.
I shall wait for daybreak after the dew,
a warming sun and your spirited flight.

Marcel Toussaint © 2014