Monique Writes

The cornerstone
that held the relic
crumbled in my hand today
the sacredness
that was my sanction
caught the wind
and blew away.

All the mirrors
dulled and blackened
all the paths
were overgrown
the grail cup
I will never drink from
though my flesh
may turn to bone.

Oh poison thing
that scarred my heart-line
cut my hand
to watch it bleed
pierce my heart
and see it empty
out upon the
mustard seed.

God please grant
that I find my faith.
Come St. Michael
slay for me
all the demons
who possess me,
set my chained and
cold soul free.

How could I
cut off my right hand
How could I
let slip the curse
how could I
abandon my love
how could I
let my hope disperse?

Once the pitcher
broke in darkness-
anger gave its
way to love.
would that I
were broken pitcher,
I would trade
for it above
all the things
which shine in beauty
all the things
which float in song
all the things
that nature give us
to mend the one
whom I have wrong’d.

Michael watch him
as he is sleeping.
Trail him as he
walks the wall
For that path
He will not let me
find with him
through the pain so tall.

Bring me water
bring me fire
bring me air
bring me earth
God, I bow before creation,
and beg be once
again
of worth.

No words have I
with to end this
save those I
have writ on here.
Ever shall we
bear that fissure –

God heal me please
though it shall sear.

Stand before
the steeple mighty.
Bow my head
and tell my truth.

I am ever
at your mercy
let me warrant
some fair ruth.

What this day had:

Swooping clouds of mist and fog draping over the islands in the harbor
The four-mast schooner Maggie Todd at full sail coming into port, flags out straight in the wind
A big cone of coconut ice cream
A mile of walking the shore path in the summer sun
Sitting on a warm rock, absently nibbling on seaweed
Pirate themed mini golf, made more amusing by a four-year-old
Blackberries growing wild by the roadside, so heavy they pulled down to the ground, perfect, fat, sweet and ripe
A sunset of glowing citrus colored clouds
Fresh garden tomatoes, sweet with summer sunshine, in a sandwich with crisp bacon
Icy cold cucumbers drenched in red pepper rice vinegar
The scent of salt wind in my hair and curls tangled and frizzy with sea air

What this day was missing:

You

pulled down to the depths
wanting to gasp
and cry
fronds of kelp
caress and wind about him.

The silken waters
warmly embrace
his every movement.
He nearly gives
into the rhythm
into the deep motion
into the ancient dance
Until her mouth pushes
hard against him
opening him to her
like a barnacle
as her air fills his lungs:
breathe.

 
So too is love like the sea.
The waves breaking over shore, pulled higher and higher by the tide.
The placid stillness of the sea far from land on a windless day
The raging storms of upheaval and loss.
The endless depths of commitment and pleasure.

 
she closes her eyes
and in her mind
sinking into music
she sees him
sitting quietly before the screen
its glow illuminating him
she thinks for a moment
how she prefers fire
and then like a candle
snuffing into smoke
bends to kiss his forehead
and then rests her cheek there
for just a moment
and breathes
and breathes
and breathes.

(You were, today, you said, like scattered leaves on a fall wind. The ground moves beneath you and you cannot choose where you fall, or where you land. Have faith that you will land where you ought.)

torn and tossed,
the papery leaves
fly over the ground
scampering and unsettled,
grasping at ground which
will not reach out in return.

they remember summer
greening stems
and unfurled veins
which drank in the sun
like wine,
and the sun, in return
cast her light through them
and lit the world
as if a cathedral of green

rootless now
they flutter
like all the winged things
which once rested upon them
and laid their eggs,
whose children walked
with sticky feet,
noisily munching,
an annoyance, however brief,
before they repelled on silken string,
or cocooned before taking flight.

despairing
at the fading wind
they lie and look up at the sky
and their bestemmed brethren
with longing and sorrow.

but then
a face, curious,
peeks down
and carefully stares
– as if seeing each leaf
on its own terms –
and lifts them,
marveling at the lines of red,
the creep of golden yellow,
and the stems turned to copper.

She measures them –
they are larger than her hand! –
then lifts them toward the sun
where they glow like soft fire
behind her pale fingers.

Some she saves to
press in her book,
but the others –
they are thrown into the air –
handful after handful,
flying and falling
from the ground
to the sky and back.

The trees,
greening with envy,
look on
as leaves of red and gold
rain down and down
over her dancing
and laughter
as there,
beneath her feet,
fallen
they shine.

Sunlight melts across the cream-like walls
shadows new fall into the wood floor
the distant chant of traffic far below
echoes through halls of the hermitage

 
the warming day is cool despite the sun
I lift the shirt from where it sits in light
covering my back with its soft thread
savoring its scent upon my arm

 
the water boils and rises into steam
sweetness in my hand in golden cup
I hold the flavor on my lips and eyes
I hear your voice, and longing, drink it up

My love planted a cloud white rose

beneath my window ere he left

but he has been gone for many months

of all but the rose I am bereft

Long months stretch out,
close to the cold earth
as all things begin to turn within themselves
shedding first their flowers
then their green
then their leaves
as withering things lie across the landscape.
The once rich earth grows hard
and scentless,
as it waits for the bitter cleansing of snow.

Winter will come
to lay a soft cover
over all the dead things,
muffling their calls
to those who can hear
such things.

Inside, the crackle of fire
serves as a reminder
that all is eventually consumed,
from bracken to barrel,
with inappropriate cheer.

Even the creaking of chairs
is a whisper of the fragility
of everything.

Outside above the fire smoke rising
and dead leaves buried
one star brightly reflects on the snow
as if to say,
‘all things change but us.’
So brilliant
that even the clouds
cannot dim its touch,
like a kiss blown from a window,
which is felt
five stories below.

I am the hare
Who slips, brown,
through the fields

I am the doe
Whose hide blends
With the trees

I am the hawk
Who dives fleet
Through the skies

I am the white mare
Who bears
The one horn

The hare she will hide
The doe shyly come
The hawk to your hand
With demand she will fly
But the mare of white
Moves like a dream
The more you see her
The less real it will seem.

The night without you
was long and quiet.

It was a summer suffering for rain,
a cloud ready to burst but passing over.

It was a performance canceled
with a line at the gate.

It was a beautiful meal
but without salt.

The morning
brought rain and song and salt.

It served as a reminder
of long and quiet.

And of the necessity
of rain and song and salt.