Window

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

Window

I look out the window with the broad windowsill
Wide enough for a calico cat, very still,
To stretch out comfortably watching the trees.
Thinking cat dreams of catching birds and bees.

The old window ‘s divided into twelve little panes,
Framing the garden and the gravel lane.
Wistful I wander in my restless mind
To far away places and other times.

Each pane shows a piece of a puzzle green.
Grasses, flowers, and trees make a scene
Tranquil and serene , so welcoming.
The trees and the lane seem to beckon me.

I hear the crunch of a boot on gravel.
The scene in my mind begins to unravel.
Inside this chamber dim and warm
Is where I find my longed for home.

Light through the window shows your form and face,
In one of the window panes perfectly traced.
One pane shows you looking up happily.
Another the empty lane calling to me.

A country lane is a dangerous thing.
You will never know what tomorrow might bring.
For today I will turn my face from the light,
Seeking the comfort of a windowless night.

The Cure for Loneliness

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

The Cure for Loneliness

The rain on the roof makes a tinny sound
Like thousands of pins on the way to the ground.
I can not nap or work or eat
While thousands of pins may endanger my feet.

The wind whines and calls my name.
If I do sometimes answer I am not to blame.
I need to hear the sound of my own voice
Responding to my name, I have no choice.

Lonely thoughts and lonely nights
Echo in darkness and dim all the lights.
Surrounded by people the wind’s all I hear.
You are not whispering in my ear.

So alone in the midst of a crowd
I want to shout and cry out loud.
But all I seem to do is disappear
Into the background when people are near.

I suppose the cure for loneliness
Is to gather courage and befriend the friendless.
But courage fails when you are away
I’ll just talk to the wind for one more day.

Thoughts of Home

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

Thoughts of Home

The cafe’ is dark and the talk is light
My mind wanders till I am out of your sight.
I am a wary stranger to all I see
Except for you sitting across from me.

A foreigner on a foreign shore
Striving for understanding and more.
Will I ever feel at ease away
From the home I left on that fateful day?

I watch you speak so fluently.
Sparkling eyes, laughing so easily.
You feel at home where ever you go
I envy you more than you’ll ever know.

Home should be right here by your side.
I truly am happy on our riotous ride.
But now and then I long for the sound
Of homey songs and friends all around.

Why do we ever start to roam?
Away from all we love and home?
Always wishing and wanting to return,
Yearning till the heart slowly burns.

The cafe’ is quiet and the hour is late.
I’ve lost track of time, days and dates.
I’ll follow you anywhere you want to go,
But I’ll hold a hope for home tomorrow.

Circles

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

Circles

Circular thinking is driving me mad
A thought of you and my heart grows glad.
Yet wait for the turn and worried I’ll be
That you’ll circle back and stop loving me.

Circular rings upon our hands,
Secrets wound in our wedding bands.
Why does a circle mean eternal bliss
When it’s mostly formed of nothingness?

So strong the pull of your circular orbit
I, your moon, circle never to quit.
It seems we have been this way before
Our souls have circled each others orb.

Circular thoughts, please, help me set down.
Placing peace on  my head like a crown.
A circular crown of spiraling vines
Binding me in an endless circle of time.

Love Is Not Fair

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

Love Is Not Fair

Love is not fair, and lovers will find
It is better with love to be tolerant and kind.
Forgiving the faults of the human being
Who all of your faults is constantly seeing.

Love is not fair, it is never equal.
Your hope in your heart, your heart on a wheel.
Spinning and rolling day after day.
It seems things never go your way.

Love is not fair, it will turn on you,
But your lover will be there to comfort you.
Grateful, you will lean and be held.
Growing stronger as the two of you meld.

Love is not fair, but it is so right.
Seeking a hand in the dead of night.
Taking control then giving completely.
Helping and guiding each other tenderly.

To Write A Poem

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

To Write A Poem

To write a poem I do not dare,
My muse has left my side.
I dwelt too long in dark despair
And lost my ethereal guide.

I am so conflicted about my life,
Somehow the spark is gone.
All I can see is rage and strife.
The days grow cold and long.

My love seems far away from me,
Happily unaware and complacent.
Yet through a fog  my mind doth see
Shadows of dark reason reticent.

I can not help but turn my face
Away from bliss and joyfulness.
My love must never see the trace
Of lines formed by pain and bitterness.

How do I write a passionate poem
Abandoned by all I hold dear?
Where is the rose lined path I roamed
Before I succumbed to fear?

London Is My Queen

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.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.

A Storm Is Brewing

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

A Storm Is Brewing

A storm is brewing in your eyes.
At first the humid air will rise,
Sweat at the brow seeking relief
Still and silent you will not speak.

The air stirring with a cooling breeze,
Around your steaming body will tease.
The pressure of falling temperatures
Hint at sweet release in the future.

Release does not come, it is warmer still.
Clouds brooding, rumbling, gathering until
The air is thick with potential rain,
Cloying, bringing headache and pain.

The dark clouds swirling, form together.
The air is tense with foreboding weather.
Then a sudden flash of lightning proceeds
A clap of thunder with blinding speed.

Taken aback at the stormy gloom,
I ponder what will be coming soon.
I thought tempestuous days were through.
This gray, stormy rage will never do.

Caught in the storm the lightning strikes.
I run from thunder and bolts alike.
Your words as teeming rain doth flow.
The wind grows wild and fiercely blows.

A raging storm can not last all morning,
And soon it passes without a warning.
A smile of sunshine curls your lip
From the water of apology I take a sip.

The storm that brewed is finally spent.
Your eyes assume their mischievous glint.
It is so easy to weather a storm
When hearts are true and love is strong.

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.

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