Praise and Criticism

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

Praise and Criticism

How we love a hint of praise,
Lightens our step and makes our day.
Makes us feel so superior,
Like we were never seen before.
Even if the kudos was weak,
We grow a smile from cheek to cheek.
Praise puts in the eye a certain gleam,
A definite boost to the self-esteem.
A simple thing, a pleasant word,
Becomes the best thing we ever heard.

And yet praise’s partner, criticism,
Can bring a halt to all witticism.
A cruel remark and all creativity
Is put in a boat and set out to sea.
The critic is always so sincere,
Whispering only the truth in our ear.
But whispers turn to inward dread.
We can not get it out of our head.
A hardhearted word is a dangerous thing.
Ponder the tumult that it brings.

Considering the fact that we are all brothers,
What gives one the right to judge another?
We are all just the same within,
Human and spirit under the skin.
Who is above and who is below?
Who is chosen to be the one to know?
Although praise is sweet it is not needed,
When inner peace is consulted and heeded.
A criticism meant for good or bad,
Is not something that we need to have.

It is so hard not to seek praise,
Live our lives in a joyful way.
To smile at those who criticize.
Knowing they can not realize,
That to judge another is not their place.
How hard to live without a trace
Of righteousness, insisting we must be heard.
As if nothing as important as our words.
Imagine to never be judged at all
Free and unencumbered, standing tall.

Quiet Love

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

Quiet Love

The morning sleep still in your eyes,
You smiled at me and I glowed inside.
Over coffee steaming hot and strong,
You buttered my toast and passed it on.
While I was reading the daily paper,
You threw down a journal for me to read later.
Then opened the curtain to let in the light,
Stopped as you passed to squeeze my hand tight.

This quiet love on this simple day
Means more to me than I can say.

The morning passed in sweet quietude,
With busy work and things to do.
You noticed my melancholy mood.
Asked me to join you, if I would,
On a walk and then a proper tea.
As if you do not do enough for me.
Taking my coat, you helped me on with it
You caressed my shoulder and lingered a bit.

This quiet love on this simple day
Means more to me than I can say.

In the evening you built a bright fire.
The light reflecting my growing desire.
You sat by my side contemplating the flames.
Your eyes all aglow, your mind far away.
Reaching, unseeing, you grasped my arm.
Here by our hearth, so safe and warm,
You turned towards me bathed in firelight.
Your face full of innocent trust in the night.

This quiet love on this simple day
Means more to me than I can say.

Beachy Head

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

Beachy Head

Take my hand and follow me
To Beachy Head by the sea.
I will show you wonders there
We will tumble, get sand in our hair.

Through the waves we will splash
I’ll slip in the foam and you will laugh.
Happily we’ll play in the sand,
I’ll build you a castle for fairyland.

You may bury me up to the neck.
As long as you give me several pecks.
A kiss for every well placed shovel,
And one more for all my trouble.

I will buy you a tasty treat,
Saltwater taffy, salty and sweet.
So sticky and gooey we will wash our hands,
In the lapping waves as the afternoon ends.

When sunset comes we’ll watch the show.
You’ll tell me all the facts you know
About refraction and solar rays.
I’ll know we had a memorable day.

Later we’ll dine on fish and chips,
And I will kiss those salty lips.
Arm in arm we’ll greet the night sky
Take a walk on Beachy Head, you and I.

Marianna

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

Marianna

Sparkling white wine in an etched glass,
Bubbling gently, not meant to last.
Kaleidoscopic rainbow light
Fill the eyes and glow in the night.

Beaming smile and a joyful noise,
Walking vessel of grace and poise.
Twinkling eyes revealing a soul
Where pain and sorrow took their toll.

Yet the Springtime follows her step.
Scent of roses forever kept
As tokens of love remembered.
Sweet as May, fresh in December.

The turning river that brings her
Into your life but no further,
Overflows with her Naiad’s song.
Drink deep, she must hurry along.

The Great Game

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

The Great Game

In all the plans you can arrange
There is nothing as certain as change.
Every dawn brings  a perilous ride.
Every evening a slippery slide.

Better, I think, to go along.
Following the enticing song
Of what life has in store for you,
Instead of planning what to do.

A river rises while you grow
There is no way to halt its flow.
You can not hold the rushing water
If you try to fight you will always falter.

It’s a  meandering course that life takes.
To go against the current is a mistake.
It’s a weary burden to stay the same
While the river engulfs you in the Great Game.

The Great Game of living each moment,
Precious with joy or fiendish with torment.
To win the Great Game you must admit freely
That change is the only certainty.

Love Is A River

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

Love is a River

Love is a river that flows to the sea.
It starts with a tear of gladness.
You can not believe that another can be
Someone who gives you such happiness.
The teardrops that fell
Join with others as well.

Love is happy tears that make a pool,
Overflowing with feelings pure.
Bubbling rivulets, sweet and cool,
Seeking release, strong and sure.
Numerous rivulets join as one
Sparkling joyfully under the sun.

Love is a brook, chortling free.
Exploring like a child on a Summer’s day.
Wandering past wildflowers and trees.
Playing with wild things along the way.
A brook so bright and fresh
Giving you peace and rest.

Love is a river that flows to the sea.
Brooks growing steadily till a river’s running.
Mighty and wide carving deeply
Into your heart, forever increasing.
Tears, brooks, river and sea
Let me show my love to thee.

Solar

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

Solar 

Fair Nature! I could sing your name
Forever more and never reach
Your full amount of worth and fame.
Never learn all you have to teach.

In your heavenly face, is the sun.
How do I attempt to write her praise?
At just her brilliance I am undone,
By the fiery eye that rules our days.

I’ve seen the sun’s almighty power
Raising fruit from tiny seed.
Making every tree and flower
Bloom to fill our every need.

Drying up the sudden rain,
Hanging rainbows in the sky.
Sending the drops back home again,
Gives us pure water that fortifies.

If I could capture just one ray,
I would brighten all the darkest hours.
I could turn darkness into day
By harnessing her solar power.

The Letters of M. Vernet – June – Lucioles, Phospheresence, and Photographs

June 14, 2014

Ma Chere MoMo,

I have been so busy! The “Cigale & Veteran Parade and Pique-Nique,” has evolved into quite an event! It will be in August when the cigales are sure to be nice and loud. The Orange Veterans are always stopping by with flowers, herbs, homemade sausages, tapenades, and early vegetables. I have not had to go to market in two weeks! They are delightful gentlemen. The harmas has such roses hidden here and there. I have been trimming them and they have rewarded me with plentiful blooms for my bees. And last night I saw the first Lucioles (Fireflies). There are so many here, making the night full of light and glowing love.

Marianna Vernet the bride-to-be, has been very busy also. She returned to Serignan with her trousseau and her wedding gown, but sadly, leaving her sister Michelle behind. The trip to Paris was a long one back then, about 600 miles and taking more than a week. After her trip her diary was full of intricate wedding plans and finances. She next mentions Sherlock and John in November of 1883.

.oOOo.

November 16, 1883

We have changed the date of the Wedding yet again! Sherlock of all people pointed out that Winter would not be the best time for family to travel as the roads might be in bad condition. I pouted a good two days before I gave in and Henri’s daughter baked me a chocolate cake. After that I could not even fake being disappointed. She is my Darling! The new date is March 15th 1884. Seems like so far in the future, when now there is an autumn crispness in the air.

Sherlock and John have been very busy and I think quite content the past few months. The boys have been tending the bees, and somehow made their honey crop taste like chocolate mint. It is amazing. They will not tell me how they did it, but I know Henri knows, and I will get the information out of him somehow. I have my ways! The boys are also very interested in Photography. They met a scientist named Edmond Becquerel and his son Henri while in Paris. They have asked John to come to Paris to work with them on their research into light, phosphorescence, and capturing the energy of the sun. John had been reading about their work in the French Journals he reads to practice his French.  The Becquerels have been hoping to meet a doctor that would be willing to do research on the effects of “light” on the human body. It sounds like strange Gothic tales to me. Sherlock has tried to explain it to me and I can see how important it could be to the future. In the meantime my boys have been taking very blurry photographs of everything under the sun. They have yet to take a nice portrait. But John promises me he will learn to take a Wedding portrait before the big day. John also promised me he would not decide about the Becquerel’s offer till I am married and settled. I think Sherlock is considering Papa’s offer of working for the Secret Service as well. Men like Sherlock and John can not be expected to live a quiet life for long. But I will treasure this time with them and always remember the last days of my maidenhood spent with my dear brother and his dear John.

.oOOo.

Well, that is all for today. The sun has gone down and the Lucioles have begun their luminous flight. Are they lighting the night where you are MoMo? I miss you!

Cordialement, Marianna

London Is My Queen

Attention!!! Sherlock Holmes Fans!!!
MoMo has a new article published called:
Art in the Blood – The Heritage of Holmes
Read about Sherlock Holmes’ genealogy !
See his Maternal Family Tree!
Visit
theunsolvedmysteriesofsherlockholmes.wordpress.com
Thank You!
.oOOo.

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

London Is My Queen

London is my Queen.
Her voice fills my dreams.
Foggy eves; Merry days
Wish I never went away.
London is my Queen.

When I was just a lad
I traveled with my Dad,
On a ship with sails so vast,
A crow’s nest on its mast.
I watched the titanic sea,
Saw dolphins swimming free.
On the horizon Australia’s shore,
A white haven of ancient lore.

But London is my Queen,
Her voice fills my dreams.
Foggy eves; Merry days
Wish I never went away.
London is my Queen.

When I became a man
I went to Afghanistan.
Although my stay was brief,
And ended all in grief,
I remember a waterfall
Green gardens behind a wall.
Luscious fruit and growing vines,
A Shepard girl, graceful and kind.

But London is my Queen,
Her voice fills my dreams.
Foggy eves; Merry days
Wish I never went away.
London is my Queen.

Oh, Lady Paris fair!
I am always happy there.
Her open heart and laughing eyes
Pull this Englishman inside.
Springtime sun and sudden showers
Gives a wondrous look to her Eiffel Tower.
Who could not cheer and clap their hands
For the joyous beauties that dance the can-can.

But London is my Queen,
Her voice fills my dreams.
Foggy eves; Merry days
Wish I never went away.
London is my Queen.

London streets are filled with crowds,
Horse hooves on cobbles, cabbies loud.
Londoners calling in their favorite form
Of English, proud of where they were born.
London’s North-side, South-side, East and West,
All bring a certain warmth to my breast.
I would be happy, never more to roam,
If I could but return to London my home.

London is my Queen.
Her voice fills my dreams.
Foggy eves; Merry days
Wish I never went away.
London is my Queen.

Ode to a Carpenter Bee

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

Ode to a Carpenter Bee

As June is weaving her finest days,
I sit and contemplate on the way
A Carpenter Bee has stood its ground
Looking me in the eye with a buzzing sound.
He has claimed this bit of wall and fence
As his domain and has built a nest
In an old gatepost weathered and worn.
He guards it steadfastly from dawn to dawn.
He is looking for a suitable mate
To join him in his wooden gate.

His purpose clear he defends his hole,
While diligently working on his goal.
Wasps and flies flee his chase.
He is a fine bee, credit to his race.
This bee and I see eye to eye
He knows I will not even try
To plug up his hole or swat at him.
Soldier to soldier he knows my whims.
He holds to his purpose, defends his rights.
I too see my purpose and defend my life.

Soon a mate welcomes his dance.
He looks at her quite entranced
By the curve of her wing, her queenly pose.
She accepts his nest and somehow he knows,
His work and toil has not been in vain.
He buzzes and dances up and down the lane.
Finally stopping to give me a glare
As if to say I had better beware.
For now his purpose includes a family.
I find myself envious of this Carpenter Bee.