French:

Un soldat solitaire,

loin de la campagne,

permanent comme un menhir,

arpente la terre,

de haut en haut.

Jeté devant lui:

les boucliers,

les casques,

les épées,

même les esprits anciens,

oublié aux âges.

Comme des contes dans le vent.

Comme le verre à sable,

et puis le sable à la poussière.

Barbare!

Certains disent.

Mais c’est la vie.

Tout tombe à l’heure,

même les Romains,

même les Dieux,

même les menhirs.

English:

A lone soldier,

far from the countryside,

standing* like a stone,**

surveys the ground,

from up on high.

Strewn before him:

shields,

helmets,

swords,

even ancient spirits,

forgotten to the ages.

Like tales in the wind.

Like glass to sand,

and then the sand to dust.

Barbaric!

Some say.

But such is life.

Everything falls to time,

even the Romans,

even Gods,

even stones.

*Doesn't have the same impact, as the French plays on the multiple meanings: standing, permanent, continuous.

** A menhir is a large upright stone that forms a prehistoric monument. Doesn't sound as good in English though.

#time

#french

#poems

#GlutenFreeEntertainment

Your voice.

Provocative and

sensuous,

commands me.

Telling me what to do,

and which buttons to push.

You said

only for 20 minutes.

But every time

you form words,

breathless,

it is 20 again.

My naughty liar.

Satisfaction guaranteed.

I never liked watching a grown man break. I mean sure, there are the odd assholes who really deserve it, but that doesn't make it enjoyable. More than the heartbroken faces, pained expressions, or the inevitable tears, it is that one instant when you see it extinguished that is the most haunting. You see it in their eyes, that split second when their remaining hope, sanity, and happiness is drained away, replaced with pure despair and helplessness. Too many times have I witnessed, even caused, said breakings, and it never gets easier. 

It was his voice that ripped me from my thoughts.

"Are you sure about that Mr. Robinson? Not a single doubt?" The way his voice quivered as he pleaded with me, I knew that no amount of delicacy could save him from my next words. 

Looking over at the middle aged man seated opposite me, I braced myself. "Truly Mr. Foster, I am sorry. But there is no doubt that your wife was cheating on you." Sliding the folder across my mahogany desk towards him I continued to lay out the story. "See for yourself, unfortunately I have all the proof right here. Photos, letters, observations, hairs, you name it. This may not be the most sensitive of moments to mention it, but there is enough evidence here to ensure a smooth divorce."

And that was it. Kaleb Foster, a successful surgeon and a true gentleman, was broken. I continued to talk to him, to reassure him that everything would get better, all the usual crap. But my heart wasn't into it. How could it be? In my 12 years as a private investigator I had never experienced a more disturbing case. It didn't matter that what I told him wasn't true. That all the evidence was so perfectly faked by my friend in the FBI that even Tracy Foster couldn't prove otherwise. Even if Hell itself froze over tomorrow, there was no way I could tell Kaleb what I really discovered about his wife. Which is why I did his case pro bono.

Finally Mr. Foster left and I was alone in my quaint little office. Reclining in my chair I began to go over the events of the past week in my head. It had started like so many other cases: A distraught looking man sought me out, worried sick that his beloved wife was cheating on him, and implored my services. Naturally I accepted the case. Normally a few days of fruitless observations would prove the man's fears groundless, he would go away happy, and I would have another month's rent.

But not this time.

Pouring my glass of 18 Year Old Laphroaig - today deserved the good stuff -  I took a sip, just one would suffice, and relinquished myself to my troubled thoughts. On the last day of the case I had followed Mrs. Foster to her workplace, at New Hope Orphanage, as I had for the last week. Kaleb was worried because for the last three months Tracy had started staying late, claiming it was work related. However, after their last Christmas party when he saw his wife fawning over the new director, James Sutherland, Kaleb's suspicions arose. Simply tailing Tracy to her work hadn't turned up any dirt, so today I decided to step up my game and follow her inside. A decision that I ended up regretting almost as much as my first wife, Tammy. 

Creeping forwards I made my way through the large oak front doors, and turned down the first hall. In all my years as a P.I. I had only been spotted once when I hadn't wanted to be - A number that wasn't about to grow at the hands of another promiscuous wife, but still I was careful. Up ahead Mrs. Foster warily looked around and ducked into a room at the far corner of the Orphanage. I followed, thinking I was about to see something not meant for my eyes. Not once, as I stepped up to the door labeled "Delivery", did I think I would be so right, and yet so wrong. Despite her attempts at secrecy Mrs. Foster had left the door open a crack, so like the good P.I. I was I peered through. 

And then I saw it...

Filtered through the dirty orange curtains, the setting sun basked the room in an eerie hue. Just enough light was provided to emanate a bloodcurdlingly red glow from the insides of the crates labeled "For the orphans". Slowly my eyes worked their way to the center of the room, resting on the unnerving figure sitting there, hands at work. Terrifying realization settled down on me like a descending fog, and I was petrified. Tracy Foster, the monster, sat there with such a gleeful, manic, look on her face as she took a virgin Kit-Kat bar into her hands, and snapped it in half. Against the pre-established splitting line. She then placed it amongst the hundreds of others packing the boxes, and grabbed another one.

                                                                  ~

It would be a week before another potential client would wander into the office of Arthur Robinson, Private Investigator, and find his stiff, decaying, body still slumped in his posh leather chair. Remnants of poison were found mixed into his glass of whiskey, and a note, hastily scrawled, was left on his desk.

"I couldn't stand it anymore, it was just too much."

He smiled,

Beautiful.

Teeth whiter than snow.

Purer than his innocence.

Holding both secrets,

and love.

But to those who knew,

the skin was taught.

Not quite reaching

The eyes,

Distant and sad.

Clouded with pain,

Sorrow,

and shame.

The smile,

Dim. 

“More tea William?” I ask, pouring him another cup without waiting for his response.

“Jennifer, another biscuit?” I inquire, already placing one on her full plate.

“That cheese looks just heavenly!” I proclaim, grabbing a green slice for myself as I know neither of my siblings would offer.

“Oh Jennifer dear, it is happening again!” I pouted, reaching over to push her cheek back into place.

“Isn’t it nice to be together again after so long? And at such a lovely party too!” I gush, absentmindedly brushing her flakes off of the tablecloth.

My contented sigh fills the stale room. “I can’t wait for Daddy to come home!”