When I Go To A Wedding

From “The Poems of John H. Watson”
Reprinted By M. Vernet
The Missing Years 1883 – 1886

When I Go To A Wedding

You and I love , but can not wed.
I know I should think it is fine.
It should be enough to share your bed.
When I go to a Wedding that is not mine.

Emotions are a terrible thing.
They should be considered a crime.
Giving me thoughts of forever and rings.
When I go to a Wedding that is not mine.

I can bury my feelings, hold a smile,
Be cheery in the reception line.
Wondering why life is full of trials.
When I go to a Wedding that is not mine.

When these thoughts emerge I try,
To think of our love as an unusual kind.
It can not be sanctioned, and yet I ask “Why?”
When I go to a Wedding that is not mine.

The world is changing, a new wind blows.
Someday there may even be a time,
When love like ours would be condoned.
Then I’ll go to a Wedding that is yours and mine.

A Loving Kiss

From “The Poems of John H. Watson”
Reprinted By M. Vernet
The Missing Years 1883 – 1886

A Loving Kiss

A simple thing a loving kiss.
Yet when you are gone I miss
The tender act so fine and pure,
That never looses its allure.

A moment’s thought and I must place
A kiss upon your upturned face.
There is not any thing left to do
With the sudden thought of kissing you.

I may kiss you because I feel
A love so strong it can not be real.
So a touch to waiting lips I bring
To prove I am not imagining things.

I may kiss you with a humble heart
Amazed that we will never part.
I put all my hope in a blushing peck
And linger longingly at your neck.

I may kiss when passion awakes.
Unable to wait I hesitate,
Wondering if you really want me.
A small miracle I am privileged to see.

I am transported when we kiss,
To a far place of timeless bliss.
Floating thoughtless, for infinity.
In a moment that lasts eternally.

A simple thing a loving kiss.
When you are here I can not resist,
The urge to press with a lover’s seal
The heart a loving kiss reveals.

Absinthe Memory 1883

From ” The Poems of John H. Watson”
Reprinted By M. Vernet
The Missing Years 1883 – 1886

Absinthe Memory 1883

Alone in Paris I found a cafe’
On a quiet street and made my way
Inside to order an aperitif.
Something smooth and a little sweet.

I asked the proprietor what I should have,
He grabbed a bottle and with a laugh.
Poured me a glass of Absinthe
Also known as “The Green Fairy”.

I observed the glass and its green contents
And the pleasant smile of my new friend.
What harm could such a little drink do
To a man like me whose paid his dues?

I brought the glass to my lips
And lingered over the first sweet sip.
It tasted of licorice and something more,
Something I had never tasted before.

It gave me a sudden fiery glow,
And I felt myself floating, steady and slow.
I drank it all up and asked for another.
My new friend looked at me with wonder.

The second glass was like the first,
It did not quite quench my thirst.
Too parched to speak, I pointed instead.
The barkeep nodded then shook his head.

The third glass came and I drained it dry,
I thought I would give conversation a try.
But when I looked up my friend had wings!
I wiped my eyes, I was seeing things.

The wings were green and sparkled like wine.
Some where close a bell did chime.
Then all of the patrons in the cafe’
Took out little bagpipes and started to play.

They all sprouted wings, including me.
I suddenly thought it just could not be!
A cafe’ in Paris, fairies with wings,
Who wanted me to dance and sing?

Well, who am I to decline a chance
To entertain Parisians with a Scottish dance?
I proceeded to do a Highland Fling,
And after that I do not remember a thing.

I woke the next morning in my own bed
With the strangest pain on top of my head.
My friends had thankfully tracked me down,
And got me home before a second round.

I stumbled to the kitchen barely awake.
Bemused friends offered me coffee and cake.
Sipping my coffee, I opened my eyes,
I swear I saw fairies waving goodbye!

While You In Slumber Beside Me Lie

From “The Poems of John H. Watson”
Reprinted By M. Vernet
The Missing Years 1883 – 1886

While You In Slumber Beside Me Lie

While you in slumber beside me lie,
My mind though calm is far away.
I travel to a place of peaceable rest,
A Knight am I on a noble quest.
I serve the King of Passion’s played
And hope he reigns for many a day.
Mounted on my swift white steed,
I travel looking for daring deeds,
To prove my worth to someone dear.
I am invincible and without fear,
Passion rules my noble heart,
As you slumber in the dark.

The lover’s might has all been spent.
Passion’s release is curiously potent.
Leaves you feeling all’s right with the world.
Sleep will beacon, round your love you’ll curl,
Dreaming of a ship in safe harbor
Returned from a voyage to passion’s ardour.
Cooling breezes stir the waves,
Lapping and seeking out empty caves
To fill with the ever-rising tide.
Filled to overflowing and opened wide
To let in all of passion’s powers,
And wake refreshed in the daylight hours.

But I will be awake awhile
Seeking a token to make you smile,
When once again I see your eyes
Looking at me with a hint of surprise.
I will ride upon my white charger
Till I meet your ship in its gentle harbor.
I’ll ride like the wind with sword and lance
To keep your love, I’ll leave nothing to chance.
Beasts I’ll face, dragons I’ll slay,
To earn the right to forever stay
Encased not in armor, but in your arms.
Snug in your harbor, safe from harm.

The Letters of M. Vernet – May – Parades, Green Eyed Dragons, and Absinthe

May 23, 2014

Ma Chere MoMo,

L’aventure de la cigales, is continuing! The Orange Veterans now want to have a parade when they bring the cannon to my harmas. There are six of them and they love parades. So I am now hosting a patriotic parade, pique-nique and cannon experiment. Oh, well, how many people could possibly come. Twenty? I can handle that. You must send me your potato salad recipe. I remember having it at your Memorial Day BBQ and bonfire . Is that soon? I have lost track of American Holidays, they move around so much. But I remember that salad. Marianna Vernet-Fabre is not having an easy time planning her wedding day, I can sympathize.

OoOo

July 19, 1883

I am so worried I can hardly write. I wish I were home with my Darling in Serignan, and not in this overwhelming city! Oh, Paris is beautiful and I do love her, but she makes me anxious. I am such a little country mouse!

John and Sherlock had a huge argument last night, and John walked out. Sherlock was so jealous of Michelle, and John was angry that Sherlock didn’t trust him enough to let him have other friends. Other female friends. I could see both sides. Chelle is acting like Chelle, charming, loving and not the least bit worried about her actions. She is a free spirit and a free thinker, she has no wish for settling down or even having an affair. L’artiste. She leaves a trail of broken hearts behind her. She told me she likes John more than the others, but considers him a brother-in-law. A Vernet. To be honored and loved.
She does not believe in marriage certificates. Only the bond of the heart is real, she has said. So, she is furious at Sherlock for being jealous.

And here I sit with three angry and very emotional companions, surrounded by samples of fabric, lace and ribbons. And worried sick about dear John wandering about Paris by himself. He doesn’t know the language and has not fully recovered from his illness. I shudder to think of what could happen to him.

Sherlock and Michelle has gone looking for him. But of course they first had to have a row that woke half of Paris. Luckily not my elderly cousin or we would all be on the street. I started to cry, I was so worried, then they both got flustered and settled down. The green-eyed dragon sulked away and they reached an understanding. Then they went into the night to search for John. And I am left to watch for him here and keep him here until morning, if he returns.

July 20,1883

Thank the Lord, John is back safe and sound. But he does have a black eye, seemingly caused by a bit too much Absinthe, and a misunderstanding of the phrase that describes it “la fee verte”. [the green fairy]

Sherlock and Michelle brought him in about four a.m.  They were able to talk things out and make up, but not before joining John in a drink or two.  John was most apologetic to me in the worst French I have ever heard. I was furious, but when he said I was like an oyster claw to him. I had to laugh.

I find it hard to stay mad at John, but I am determined to be very cross with my sister and brother. A bride-to-be should be protected and nurtured by her family. I shall have them all make it up to me by helping choose the dreaded lace, and with an expensive dinner with only mineral water to drink.

OoOo

I wish you a Happy Memorial Day! Toast a marshmallow and think of Sherlock and John.. and me!

Cordialement, Marianna

A Coin With Two Heads

From “The Poems of John H. Watson”
Reprinted By M. Vernet
The Missing Years 1883 – 1886

A Coin With Two Heads

It is quite honestly disagreeable,
I am jealous of you it is undeniable.
Jealous of your charisma and charm
And of your family loving and warm.
What a faulty heart beats in my chest
Jealous of where you find peace and rest.
Jealous of the laugh so filled with glee,
And of smiles not intended for me.
I want to be everything to you.
It would be a foolish wish come true.
I should be content with love so tender,
And not let this jealousy tear it asunder.

You are jealous of me, my dear love?
This is utterly unheard of.
I have recently made a sweet new friend,
But she is your very own cousin!
She is but family, do you not see?
You know I have none left to me.
I am surprised that you are jealous
Of me, so plain and ridiculous.
It has not happened to me before
I do not wish it to happen any more.
Jealousy is a coin with two heads
Both of us sinking with hearts of lead.

Happy Birthday Sir Arthur Conan Doyle!

In Honor of Sir Arthur’s Birthday, May 22, 1859

Sir Arthur and the Fairies

By MoMo aka M.Vernet

In yestern years of a hundred or more
On an island set in the sea,
Children were given a gift and they saw
The Leprechauns, Elves and Fairies.

The happy children would play in the leaves
By the chuckling streams and brooks.
The Elves would instruct, the Leprechauns tease,
And the Fairies would read from a book.

The Fairy Book was a wonderful read,
And told all the myths of the land.
It spoke of brave hearts and courageous deeds
Ring-bearers, talking lions and Pan.

Little Arthur was one of the chosen few
Who dwelt in the Fairy Ring.
And of all the stories betwixt dawn and dew
His favorite was Sherlock the King.

Sherlock ruled the land with his power to think
He’d observe everything in a flash.
He could solve all problems in less time than a wink,
But, with others, his manners would clash.

He had no one close, no friends, only foes,
Till the day an evil one planned
To silence the King with a heavy blow
From a sword in a treacherous hand.

Sherlock walked alone in a misty glade,
He saw the sun glint off some thing.
His enemy ambushed him armed with a blade,
But was stopped by a bee and his sting.

The King rubbed his head, and sat on the ground,
His foe flew away in great pain.
Sherlock heard the bee make a buzzing sound,
“It’s alright, my King, Jon is my name.”

Sherlock and Jon became very good friends.
Jon protected the King of the Fairies,
And wrote this fine story which happily ends
With King Sherlock protecting the bees.

Little Arthur would play Sherlock and Jon
All day till his Mother would call.
He grew in the dappled glade ‘neath the sun
Till Arthur was no longer small.

Sadly, all children must someday, grow up
Forgetting the folk of the streams.
With some, a slight glimmer in their tea cups
Brings half -memories of long ago dreams.

Arthur was haunted and just had to write
About Sherlock and Jon and the Fairies.
He was taunted by words, cruel laughter, and slights.
“How could Sherlock Holmes’ author believe?”

Sir Arthur was holding a scarlet rose
When he died in his garden spot.
Twas a gift from the Fairies, I suppose,
From the bees, Jon and King Sherlock.

The next time you say Fairy Tales are not true,
Stop and think of the books that you know.
I could not write such plots, could you?
Must be Fairies and the gifts they bestow.

Misery Loves Company

From “The Poems of John H. Watson”
Reprinted By M. Vernet
The Missing Years 1883 – 1886

Misery Loves Company

Misery loves company
And you feel miserable.
So come and sit beside me,
To that I would be agreeable.

I will keep you company,
But I will not share your misery.

You may continue on your rant
And I will listen peacefully.
I will not join you, I can not
Destroy the joy I found so recently.

I will keep you company,
But I will not share your misery.

I will let you storm and rage
Nodding my head now and then.
You pace like a lion in a cage.
My placid stance will not bend.

I will keep you company,
But I will not share your misery.

When you are spent and done,
I will take you by the hand
And gently feed you reason.
I will show you where I stand.

I will keep you company,
But I will not share your misery.

The Vessel

From “The Poems of John H. Watson”
Reprinted By M. Vernet
The Missing Years 1883 – 1886

The Vessel

Trapped in a vessel of earthly form
Into this fragile life we are born.
Shackled and chained in darkness kept
Alone in deep dungeons I wept.
No soothing voice to calm the fears,
No heavenly grace to halt the tears.
Oh, raise me up on angel’s wings
Yearning to hear a bell chorus ring.
Tolling the time has come at last
To leave the darkness in the past.

Oh, break the shackles, set me free!
Cut these forged chains binding me.
Throw the weapons on the ground,
Let them rust, never to be found.
Take up the song of the Cherubim
Reach out to the fiery Seraphim.
Power is in the fruit of the tongue,
Let the words of the soul be sprung.
Flowing like a stream of fresh spring rain,
Echoing the laughter from which it came.

Fill me up! Fill me up, overflowing with joy!
Worn from loving like a child’s favorite toy
I will speak my words into the night
Trading distrust for truth and light.
The dungeon will be a glowing pool,
Sweet water lapping,calm, and cool.
A pool of tears that I have cried,
A memory to remain after I have died.
Reminder to others trapped and forlorn,
To surrender your vessel to be transformed.

The Wild Bird

From “The Poems of John H. Watson”
Reprinted By M. Vernet
The Missing Years 1883 – 1886

The Wild Bird

There’s a little wild bird in an ancient city,
Where artists paint their canvas pretty.
Their brilliant brushes do not have the skill
To capture the essence of her airy free will.

Strong as iron girders she grows,
Yet yielding when Summer breezes blow.
Her face turned ever towards the sun,
Yet reflects the moon when night’s begun.

Over the city rooftops she flies.
She joyfully trills a blithe song and tries
To stay aloft above the crowd,
With hearts so cold and shouts so loud.

And when she alights on solid ground
Peace rests where ever she is found.
Do not try to hold her,  she will fly away,
You will not hear her sing for many a day

But if you fly within her sight
She will take you on a wondrous flight.
Feathers glistening, heart beating fast
You will know this little wild bird at last.