Perhaps the Heart

Sunset in Big Sur. Photo Credit: Christina Perreault (used with permission)

How do you capture the sky
a sunset over the ocean?
Is there some enchanted glass
I can hold in my hand
whisper and watch
as the satin tapestry
of seascape
hanging before me,
gilded blue and molten
shimmering
rippling,
gathers at the hem
and slips
like a cool drink
past that vial’s lip,
the bottle’s neck
funneling
fabric into
folds of sunlight
wave upon wave
pooling
rising
until the last frayed corner
bends
the last thread
dips
below the rim,
filling the crystal flask
with fireball pink
coppers and golds
luster and light
of the night’s first star?
How do you capture the longing
vast
infinite
wonder
fear that tingles in the toes
something like worship?
Is there a vessel
glazed
in magic
for what these hands
can never hold?

© Nichole Q. Perreault

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this Christmas whispers

this Christmas
whispers
from behind a midnight sky
trembling
on crystallized air
a wrinkle in the starlight
like the tinkling of tiny bells

we fell
once upon a time
now we fall
and fall
blazing, burning out across
that inky wall
still Christmas whispers

among the glaring of
the screens
the clanging songs
that drag their feet along the hall
tradition on repeat
the dead-eyed throng

into the silence of my heart
empty as the space
between the stars
this Christmas
whispers

wordless whispers
like snowflakes
lay a blanket down
upon barren ground
a heartsong
a homesong
love letters without ink

this Christmas whispers
breath that flickers flame
pats the chair
says come sit
beside a fire you didn’t build
warm
like cinnamon
and mugs of tea

this Christmas whispers
rest
be
wonder
breathe
this is enough
you
and Me

©️ Nichole Q. Perreault

so my newest pastime is writing on the walls…

Bound & Chained, Yet Somehow Free

The Lady of Shalott by William Holman Hunt inspired the following poem, written in response to my poetry group’s December prompt: “Write a poem about a picture or photo that speaks to you.” I fell in love with Hunt’s The Lady of Shalott when I first saw it at the Wadsworth Atheneum in Hartford, CT, where it is on permanent display. During a little pre-writing research I learned that this painting was inspired by Tennyson’s ballad of the same name.

It was the colors
And the hair
The wildness
That made me stare

The way the canvas
Still, but moves
Lady bound
In chaos loosed

How flaming shadows
Crown her head
While feet dance
In light instead

I’ll write a poem
Then, I thought,
Remembering
Her of Shalott

But as Hunt creates
A window
To a room
Inside a window

Where a mirror cursed
With magic
Reflects that
Window tragic

So my words devise
A poem
Of a picture
Of a poem

Enduring art, a
Clumsy rhyme,
Both by Tennyson
Inspired

Until today, I
Knew her not
The Lord’s Lady
of Shalott

Now, knowing what I
Know of both
I still like
The painting most

To gaze upon her
Fiery hair
Tangle in
Her web-like lair

To let his pallete
Color me
Bound and chained
Yet somehow free

©️ Nichole Q Perreault

Dark Night of the Soul

Dark night of the soul
Cold
And alone
You whisper
To the blackness
You speak
To the abyss
You shout
You scream

And watch
No
Feel
Your words
Vanish
Into the void
You listen
To the silence

You stand
Still
feet in cold sand
Nothing in your hand
But the wind
The world pulls away
Like a wave receding
Into the never-ending night
Ever receding
Only receding
Further
And further
Away
from you

You exhale
All the breath
You’ve ever breathed
Molecules of memories
Particles of pain and joy
Drift
Into the ether

You watch
You stand
You breathe

You are

Emptied
of expectation

You are

Free

You are

©️Nichole Q Perreault

Photo by Kyle Johnson, https://unsplash.com/@kylejeffreys

Hollow

Insides carved out
Walls scraped bare
I am just a shell
Brittle and broken

I must be broken
because nothing fills me
Rains fall but never gather
rushing away in streams beneath me

Dust blows in
on sandpaper wind
gritty in the eyes, the throat
then blows away again

Leaves and flower petals flutter
down down down
only to dissolve
pixel by pixel before my eyes

Emptiness becomes anxiety
the urge to fill me up
to scavenge
for berries
for blood
for dirt and leaves
crab apples
mud
Bits of glass
and shrapnel
Things that hurt
work best
At least the pain is
Something

Familiar
I know pain
Thoughts that slash and burn
the same worn paths
Searing scars
deep into the folds of
my aching brain

Until I’m sick
and I lie here
wondering which is worse
emptiness or pain

What would happen
If I sat still in the
hollow
heavy
empty
void

If I unclenched my fists
and let the falling rain flush
the shards from my flesh

If I let myself
Bleed
Would I remember
how to breathe?

© Nichole Q. Perreault

A Poor Girl’s Music

In the blackness
A small radius:
My hands
The edge of my pillow
My face
Lit by the glow of my phone

My thumbs quick, but sloppy
Autocorrect failing to predict
What I want to say

I hold the backspace key
Watch the words fall away
One by one
But fast
Like disappearing dominoes
Satisfying

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All the King’s Horses

Grief does strange things to a person
I think it’s the sense of being untethered
Unmoored
Like you’ve lost your anchor

I don’t blame her
That woman from the Wild book
Who lost her mom and then lost herself
Left everything behind
And went a little crazy

Grief sets a person adrift
The scenery changes, boundary lines shift
Nothing looks the same
Nothing is the same
Including yourself

So much of who we are is defined
By our surroundings – people and places
They shift, we shift
They move, we move
Lose them and we are lost
At least for a little while

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Rejection

Photo by Warren Wong on Unsplash

It’s Rejection that kills me
pain so similar to grief,
it’s like dying,
like being stabbed in the place just between my shoulder blades,
like being punched in the stomach with a lead fist,
like having a hand shoved into my chest, fingers wrapped around my heart
…and squeeeeezed…
slowly at first, because Rejection likes to watch the pain creep up my neck, over my face, into my limbs, my fingertips, so that I can’t move.

Rejection likes to watch me die.

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On Grief and Love

We may be tempted to believe that those acquainted with grief should take the smaller losses in stride. We may think that after the loss of a parent, a child, a sibling, a spouse, what’s so bad about selling your home or a child growing up or friends and family moving away? But I find it’s quite the opposite. Once acquainted with grief, all the other losses become greater.

Grief remembers grief. And when those feelings of loss come in like the tide, washing over my toes and ankles, in that moment my body, mind and spirit remember…I remember…I remember all the times the waves crashed into my thighs, my gut, my chest, even over my head. And the feelings, though I do not call to them, though I do not want them, though I hope against hope they will stay at sea…those feelings come anyway.

The sorrow, the heavy emptiness, like a vacuum stealing air from my lungs. “It’s hard to sleep, to even breathe, harder still to wake and leave.” The waves come and I can’t stop them. Wet and salty and cold enough to burn, they come. Until I’m drowning, full of a sorrow I can’t contain, and those wet, salty waves, spill over the shores of my eyes. Waves that run hot now, because they come from the deepest wells of my heart and soul, the place where love dwells…no matter how I try to wall it off, or pack it away in ice…there lies love, love that can’t stop, won’t stop, burning, yearning, turning toward the smallest open crack.

Oh dear friends, and oh my soul, grief remembers grief because love remembers love. And love never fails.

 

Repentance

There is more to say than sorry
More to do than turn around
There is you and me
Face to face
Where the light leaves shadows
Across our cheekbones
A deceptive mirror
My right eye in the darkness
Your left
We see
We see so differently
Blinded both by darkness
And by light
We stumble
We stumble all the same
Oh there is more to say than sorry
More to do than turn around