Ian Tremblay - Author
See The Official Book Trailer Below of The Illegal And The Refugee
This section will be for poems and short pieces of writing that will vary greatly in terms of subject and length and it will also be the space where I will post opinions or articles on subjects that interest me.
Maybe
Maybe daytime,
belongs to me,
but then nighttime,
belongs to you,
maybe my hands,
belong to me,
but then my heart,
belongs to you,
maybe my pain,
belongs to me,
but then the blade,
belongs to you,
maybe my flame,
belongs to me,
but then the fire,
belongs to you,
maybe my mind,
belongs to me,
but then my dreams,
belong to you,
maybe daytime,
belongs to me,
but then nighttime,
belongs to you.
belongs to me,
but then nighttime,
belongs to you,
maybe my hands,
belong to me,
but then my heart,
belongs to you,
maybe my pain,
belongs to me,
but then the blade,
belongs to you,
maybe my flame,
belongs to me,
but then the fire,
belongs to you,
maybe my mind,
belongs to me,
but then my dreams,
belong to you,
maybe daytime,
belongs to me,
but then nighttime,
belongs to you.
Island Silence
Silence,
silence,
swiftly
soundless, sailboats,
cut the azure waters
with their keels,
crisscrossing
the infinite horizon,
where the sea
meets the sky,
and then,
gently,
the Caribbean wind
caress’s their
sun bleached sails
and carries
their solitary masters,
to the limitless confines,
of their,
pristine
paradis
and then…
silence,
silence,
again silence,
and swaying, swaying,
the noiseless
palm trees dance
to the continuous embrace
of a wayward breeze
and touching, touching,
and touching again,
with tranquil, tender,
elongated fingers,
the blessed
and sacred sand,
of pure and endless beaches,
whiter than the clouds above,
that shade the land below,
to cool it from
the torrid sun
up high
and then…
silence,
silence,
again silence,
and the people,
overflowing and alive,
exploding with the
colors of the islands,
and with the music
of the heart
and of the soul,
a celebration
of their journey
and of their
inherent glory,
beautiful
and torrential,
as the follies
of their nights,
long and sleepless
and endless too
and then…
silence,
silence,
again silence,
and when
the large and lazy
crimson sun,
kisses
the lower lip
of the horizon,
and the dying day
illuminates the heavens
with its’ sacred glow,
then it comes,
unannounced and clear,
sweet and divine,
powerful and crystalline,
solemn and eternal,
silence,
silence,
again silence.
silence,
swiftly
soundless, sailboats,
cut the azure waters
with their keels,
crisscrossing
the infinite horizon,
where the sea
meets the sky,
and then,
gently,
the Caribbean wind
caress’s their
sun bleached sails
and carries
their solitary masters,
to the limitless confines,
of their,
pristine
paradis
and then…
silence,
silence,
again silence,
and swaying, swaying,
the noiseless
palm trees dance
to the continuous embrace
of a wayward breeze
and touching, touching,
and touching again,
with tranquil, tender,
elongated fingers,
the blessed
and sacred sand,
of pure and endless beaches,
whiter than the clouds above,
that shade the land below,
to cool it from
the torrid sun
up high
and then…
silence,
silence,
again silence,
and the people,
overflowing and alive,
exploding with the
colors of the islands,
and with the music
of the heart
and of the soul,
a celebration
of their journey
and of their
inherent glory,
beautiful
and torrential,
as the follies
of their nights,
long and sleepless
and endless too
and then…
silence,
silence,
again silence,
and when
the large and lazy
crimson sun,
kisses
the lower lip
of the horizon,
and the dying day
illuminates the heavens
with its’ sacred glow,
then it comes,
unannounced and clear,
sweet and divine,
powerful and crystalline,
solemn and eternal,
silence,
silence,
again silence.
Heart on the Run
A twilight in your eyes,
now your heart is on the run,
with minstrels and wine
and pills for everyone,
that princess on your lips,
never offered you a kiss,
yet you cleverly confide,
that soon
she’ll be dismissed,
a traitor in your eyes,
searching for an alibi,
his speculations were,
artificially contrived,
a tragedy in your mind,
there’s something
you don’t quite understand,
about the metabolism of sand,
nor the velocity of man.
No more victims in disguise,
some will fall and some will rise,
no more laughter in your eyes,
now your young enough to cry.
A saber in your hands,
eternity it sighs,
a razor somewhere behind,
reality it cries,
a tycoon in your arms,
this is your kind of man,
you like them big and strong,
and always never wrong,
a castle in your brain,
if you conquered,
you would reign
and jealously preside,
over your palace and domain,
a tragedy in your mind,
there’s something
you don’t quite understand,
about the metabolism of sand,
nor the velocity of man.
No more victims in disguise,
some will fall and some will rise,
no more laughter in your eyes,
now you’re young enough to cry.
now your heart is on the run,
with minstrels and wine
and pills for everyone,
that princess on your lips,
never offered you a kiss,
yet you cleverly confide,
that soon
she’ll be dismissed,
a traitor in your eyes,
searching for an alibi,
his speculations were,
artificially contrived,
a tragedy in your mind,
there’s something
you don’t quite understand,
about the metabolism of sand,
nor the velocity of man.
No more victims in disguise,
some will fall and some will rise,
no more laughter in your eyes,
now your young enough to cry.
A saber in your hands,
eternity it sighs,
a razor somewhere behind,
reality it cries,
a tycoon in your arms,
this is your kind of man,
you like them big and strong,
and always never wrong,
a castle in your brain,
if you conquered,
you would reign
and jealously preside,
over your palace and domain,
a tragedy in your mind,
there’s something
you don’t quite understand,
about the metabolism of sand,
nor the velocity of man.
No more victims in disguise,
some will fall and some will rise,
no more laughter in your eyes,
now you’re young enough to cry.
Times Square, New York City
Five o’clock as the sun begins to set with Dean
The square
and city streets,
are hyperactively alive,
with severe looking,
concentrated
and frowning
white men,
reading
and typing
frantically
on their BlackBerry’s
or their iPhones.
and…
with joyous, smiling,
hip-hopping,
ecstatically alive,
finger snapping,
baggy panted
black men,
dancing
and gyrating,
to the music
from their headphones,
or their iPods.
and city streets,
are hyperactively alive,
with severe looking,
concentrated
and frowning
white men,
reading
and typing
frantically
on their BlackBerry’s
or their iPhones.
and…
with joyous, smiling,
hip-hopping,
ecstatically alive,
finger snapping,
baggy panted
black men,
dancing
and gyrating,
to the music
from their headphones,
or their iPods.
Vanity’s Pledge
You say you don’t care,
how pretty is your hair,
so long as no dares,
push a puff of fresh air.
You say you don’t care,
you have your own cross to bear,
besides you, you have flair,
for those going nowhere.
You say you don’t mind,
the age of petty crime,
for you your never in a bind
and you never look behind.
You say you don’t mind,
if it’s winter or springtime,
cause you never wait in line,
and you’re always on time,
with all your brothers so blind,
into your fine stables to dine,
drinking your stolen holy wine,
and slurping like sows in a sty,
and from now until the end of time,
you’d never throw a beggar a dime.
You say you don’t care,
what other people wear,
so long as they stare,
when you become the fair.
You say you don’t dread,
tumbling down from you’re ledge,
besides you’ve made a pledge,
to all those who have fled.
You say you don’t fear,
that so many are dead,
but you wonder maybe lead,
or can those people be fed.
You say you don’t know,
what is high or what is low,
yet soiled shirts you throw,
to the heathen below.
For you, it is senseless to sow,
for you, nothing can ever grow
and you callously, clarion and crow,
that there’s nowhere to go
and nothing above
and nothing below.
how pretty is your hair,
so long as no dares,
push a puff of fresh air.
You say you don’t care,
you have your own cross to bear,
besides you, you have flair,
for those going nowhere.
You say you don’t mind,
the age of petty crime,
for you your never in a bind
and you never look behind.
You say you don’t mind,
if it’s winter or springtime,
cause you never wait in line,
and you’re always on time,
with all your brothers so blind,
into your fine stables to dine,
drinking your stolen holy wine,
and slurping like sows in a sty,
and from now until the end of time,
you’d never throw a beggar a dime.
You say you don’t care,
what other people wear,
so long as they stare,
when you become the fair.
You say you don’t dread,
tumbling down from you’re ledge,
besides you’ve made a pledge,
to all those who have fled.
You say you don’t fear,
that so many are dead,
but you wonder maybe lead,
or can those people be fed.
You say you don’t know,
what is high or what is low,
yet soiled shirts you throw,
to the heathen below.
For you, it is senseless to sow,
for you, nothing can ever grow
and you callously, clarion and crow,
that there’s nowhere to go
and nothing above
and nothing below.
Paris With You...
You blessed
my body
with your tears,
you filled
my heart
with your pain,
we sipped
Champagne
by transfusion,
and took
each other
and held
on tight,
knowing this
would be,
our very
last night.
my body
with your tears,
you filled
my heart
with your pain,
we sipped
Champagne
by transfusion,
and took
each other
and held
on tight,
knowing this
would be,
our very
last night.
Copyright © 2006-2017 Ian Tremblay. All rights reserved.
