Creation 

Photo by Mike Petrucci (Public Domain)


My heart is in my eyes, like a periscope

reaching up from deep inside my chest, 

feeling everything I see. 

But not seeing everything I feel, 

I choke and sputter, 

searching for a picture, 

a story to settle the waves. 

Fumbling, my fingers 

cannot draw the dream,

cannot sculpt the scene

and so I paint with words. 

Paint a landscape 

with letters in black and white,

lines and curves 

that you speak to life 

with your heart-voice,

your mind-voice, 

your silent voice only you can hear. 

And your soul’s ear 

hears my unsung song, 

melting words like wax, into colors 

that splash across the canvas 

of your mind. 

You color in my landscape with you. 

So that together, 

you and I, 

we create this something.

This one thing.

Together. 

We paint a world.

© Nichole Q Perreault 

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Moments That Never Meet

There’s the drip drop of water
From the faucet
Dripping slipping unceasing
Onto
Tired
Porcelain
Stained yellow with time

There’s the drip drop of years
And words, and years of words
Dripping like echoes
Echoes
Echoes
Echoes
Hollow, haunting

And the drip drop of days
That linger in the slanting sunlight
Dripping like yawning, middle-aged men
Slow
Slow
Slow
Beneath an open window

There’s the drip drop of hours
And waiting, and hours of waiting
Dripping like the ticking of a clock
One
After
Another
Into a his veins

And the drip drop of moments
Moments that never meet
Dripping like singular tears
One
One
One
Slipping unnoticed into the drain

In the Rubble of Broken Hearts

Even writing hurts. This thing I sometimes love more than life…hurts.

I want to stop. To put it off. To wait until I can write about things that sparkle and bring light to your eyes. I want to wait until I can make you smile, make you laugh, make you remember why we’re even friends.

I don’t want to hurt. And I don’t want to be the girl who’s always hurting. And I don’t want to be the girl you roll your eyes at because she just. Won’t. Stop. Complaining.

I want God to give me shiny, happy words. Because I want to be shiny and happy.

But He’s called me to this: the right now…the ugly and real…the what-you-see-is-what-you-get.

And some days, I hate it. Today is one of those days…

In my last post, I referenced Isaiah 54:10:

“Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed, yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken, nor my covenant of peace be removed,” says the Lord who has compassion on you. (NIV)

That was just a few short weeks ago and even then, I couldn’t possibly imagine how much He’d be willing to shake, how much He’d be willing to remove.

My world’s a small world. And I have taken things like love and friendship and kindness and peace for granted.

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Out of Darkness, Light | A Christmas Poem

Tough year to find time, energy and inspiration for a Christmas post. So I am resharing last year’s. I hope it blesses you. Merry Christmas!

Out of Darkness, Light

We walk in darkness
Stumbling, feet slipping
Grasping for something, anything to keep from falling

We scrape our hands on broken branches
Our knees on stony paths
In trying to save ourselves, we are wounded

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Broken Glass 

photo by Nichole Q Perreault

She strings the lights
more gold than white
A moment of peace, warmth
Broken by angry words
With teeth that eat at her soul

She sings, dances to anything but
Christmas music
The artificial pine needles scraping
Her hands ’til they bleed
She welcomes this pain
That hurts less on the outside

She rests awash in the glow of
One thousand one hundred lights
And thinks she understands why people
Cut, carve, slice into their skin
To let the inside out

She types on her phone
Silent, edgeless words
Knowing she won’t let him have that
She won’t pick up the shards he spits
Won’t let them become the broken glass that maims her

She did it once
Before
A long time ago
She still has the scar
He can’t have another

She breathes
In the late-night solitude
Breathes
One breath at a time
Beneath a thousand lights
And one silver star

© Nichole Q Perreault 

All That I Am (If We Were Having Coffee…)

Cup of Tea (Because I actually don't drink coffee) | Photo by Nichole Q Perreault

Cup of Tea (Because I actually don’t drink coffee) | Photo by Nichole Q Perreault

If we were having coffee right now
I would be laughing
or crying
or ranting.
It depends on which me shows up. 

If default-Nichole showed up, I would tell you about how I busy I am, how I love my job and my family and my friends and creating things and fleshing out ideas. How my girls are becoming beautiful women and my dearest friends. How my husband, somehow, all at once, drives me absolutely nuts and yet amazes me with his undeserved love and loyalty. I would tell you that lately, God speaks to my heart in ways so deep they can hardly be searched out and formed into words. And I would listen. I would listen to you and laugh with you and love you.

If grieving-Nichole showed up, I would tell you through tears that I don’t know how to do this thing we call life anymore. That I hate what God has done to our family. I would tell you that I still startle upon remembering that my baby brother is gone. Dead and gone from this world forever. I would remind you that in the last five years we’ve lost six family members and two beloved dogs. I would tell you that my girls are growing up and leaving me and I am crushed. That their going – even the prospect of their going – feels like having the air sucked out of my lungs, like my heart and body are drying out, shriveling like dead leaves. I would tell you that I am alone. And I am lost.

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She Swallows the Stars

Bare knees in damp, midnight grass
She leans her head over the creek
Her reflection just a shadow, rippling
Framed by dancing starlight
For a moment, she forgets
Her sandpaper throat
Dipping her hand in the cold water
She forms a leaky bowl with fingers, palm
Carrying liquid silver to her lips
She swallows the stars

© Nichole Q. Perreault

Inspired by the German word, gurfa: the amount of water that can be held in one hand. Found in the book, Lost in Translation: An Illustrated Compendium of Untranslatable Words from Around the World, by Ella Frances Sanders.

A Thousand Secrets

 

photo by Nichole Q Perreault

 In secret

She lives

but barely

Hiding 

always behind painted eyes

and heavy hair

She tucks a strand 

over her ear

Runs a finger 

down

smoothing

the blackness

down

Fingertip

grazing

her neck

Skin 

Brushing skin

Her eyes rise 

to yours

glistening

like black opal

She smiles

a smile 

that knows 

a thousand secrets

You 

only care 

about

one 

© Nichole Q Perreault

When (g)ods Say Nothing

My first ever “found” poem, written in response to Writing 201 | Poetry, Day 6: Faces, Found Poetry, Chiasmus. I “found” my poem on page 135 of ‘Til We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis, one of my favorite books. Judge for yourselves how well I met the requirements. I had fun doing this – though I think the design part of the process gave me an ocular migraine…seriously, though. Pic and text poem both below:

Photo © Nichole Q. Perreault

Photo © Nichole Q. Perreault

Say more than gods
When the moon’s full
The King himself sacrifices a man, the Word
Determined, He answered
What’s unsaid
In the valley, dark
When gods say nothing

© Nichole Q. Perreault

The Skin I’m In

Skin by Nichole Q. Perreault

Photo by Nichole Q. Perreault

I can’t stand the skin I’m in. I say that often, in my mind, at least, which lies trapped behind my eyes, within this skin. Oh, to claw my way out, scratch through burning layers of anger and regret, scrape away the anxiety and worry and fear and foreboding that crawl all over my arms and legs and back and knees like a plague, a curse, a damned itch I cannot scratch, peel back the sorrow and the shame, and leave the slough behind me on the unforgiving earth. Maybe then, maybe then I would be free.

It’s a terrible thing when you can’t stand yourself. A terrible, lonely thing.

Because there’s no getting out and there’s no getting in. My mind, my soul, my spirit begin and end inside this skin. This prison-skin, this divided mind, this hermetic heart that followed the fall. We touch and tangle, flesh on flesh – handshakes, hugs, and making love – always aching, reaching to be un-alone, to be known – but even when two become one, there’s three.

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