Author: poetryfest

You scattered the pieces across the table,
Searched for edges, assembled the frame.
In silence, I stole a center piece,
Hid it in my pocket,
Waiting for you to notice
The void within the puzzle,

And in that moment,
Recall the culprit of the incomplete image –
Perhaps seek out the thief.

Time passed on:
Seagulls over the ocean?
Wolves in their dens?
Flowers in a garden?
Something white…

She left, seeking the piece of him
She once loved,
Hoping to find it
In the spaces between,
The quiet theft,
A piece of him in her search.

Through my days and years,
I carried the uncertainty
Of what drove her away:
The wing tip of a bird?
The tooth of a wolf?
The water bead on the stem of a leaf?
Something elusive…

Wherever geometry shaped itself,
Whoever flashed a color of the form,
I sought the complete image,
Unaware that within me
Lay the missing piece.

Peripheral blurs intercepted my vision,
Shaped into clear forms:
A scarf fluttering,
A flower blooming,
Shadowed trees standing still.

Faithful to remembrance,
To keep a piece of you within me,
Or a vision of me within your search.

Could the worn edges of one of a thousand
Preserve the desire to sustain the man you knew,
One shape shy, dampened by a wish for the whole?
You who knew me more in absence,
Traced the contours of my theft,
Mapped the waters of the irresolute island,
Where my reflection,
Incomplete,
Withheld the whole.

And in that quiet revelation,
Found the missing piece within,
Binding the fragments of our puzzle,
In the search for what remained unseen.

Like a deep dark river
wandering through a canal

Do you know what you are?
Do you see what I’m seeing?

Oh, bluebrown gal –
you are all that has been

Eased you rest
as robin eggs
in a mother’s snug nest

Oh, bluebrown gal –
I call & I hear your sweet gest

like waves stiff
rising & crashing against weathered cliffs

Oh, bluebrown gal –
you’re everywhere & it

Your eyes of pale aquamarine
are slivers of your soul peering
into physicality –
– settled squarely in frame,
your hair – dark brown mahogany

Oh, bluebrown gal;

Two staples of nature:
the sea & the ground
perfected on you
reflected around

She does not appear in my dreams, I simply dream of her.
I stare at mountains and see her face in their contours.

Before slumber, I pull her from my desk drawers and paint her across me. I trace the edges of her head with the outline of my shoulder. I colour the hue of her skin with the coldness of my empty bed. I hum her playful jests as working tunes. I give her an embellished title before mounting her above the headboard.

Her hair sways across her shoulders as trees
And her smile peaks through her stubborn gaze.
Her doe eyes coat me in bewilderment such that
Her blinks return me to reality in my empty apartment.
I pray she looks at me. My pleas to God interrupt her speech from entering my ears. The Freshness of air in her sight makes the city smog sit longer in my lungs. She is bathed in Sunshine, the same rays which narrowly avoid my skin.
The sharp ringing of her laughter in my ears distracts from the endless silent nights.

In my sleep, I dream of the days when I saw her.
My heart palpitates at every breath she ushered: every instance her chest subtly brought closer
To mine.
In reminder of how my heart could behave, I have forgotten how it usually sounds. Does it flutter with the same intensity? Does its buzzing have such high a frequency?
Do I too carry the whimsy of a hummingbird that I should now have its heart?
The joy of her presence tugs at my skin as the sun above her head roasts me alive.
She holds my withered body with the graciousness of the grass below her.
I faintly see the swirl of flowers through blurred eyes.

I wake in a hospital bed with IVs like wires fueling a machine.
Skin wet from morning dew. White bandages covered in green mushy blurs. My skin burning like still on fire.
The doctor’s voice pierces the haze of hysteria. I was found unconscious in the forest.
I return to my city apartment basked in a pale blue dimness.
I stare at the painting above my headboard of a tree in a shrine of light.

Ye sweet and beautiful woman,

your face inspires a once battered-down man to feel his own self again.

Your stare causes the soul to feel bare against your very presence.

Symmetry makes you; sweetness is what you share.

Your lips invite somebody to meet them and thus place theirs upon thine.

You are a muse to the eyes and a velvety rose to the soul. With no trace of effort, one can feel warm when you come to
form.

Words cannot express what the heart feels when I see you. Words are every person’s company when mumbling makes its
appearance.

Still, words do not suffice to make you aware how much I miss the smell of yours, the sight of your beautiful face, the warmth and touch of your body.

Oh ye, goddess of the earth! Show me your care, for I love you

with my whole self.

* Inspired by Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’.

On broken wing,
I turn in circles,
rhythmically repetitive,
lost in clouded notions,
a ghost puppet bird
clasped by a mariner’s mind:
one that is doomed, misjudging,
all too ready to dispense death,
brandishing a shotgun
in ancient-thinking hands.

I tried to help,
guide his crew to safety,
finding free passage:
an aerial guide
in times of tumultuous tides,
yet, I paid a fine,
the highest price
for libertine wings.

Shot, barely buoyant,
I try to cling on
to a ring of life
buoying me skyward,
but it turned –
oil-slick –
too slippery to anchor
with no land, rock or perch
or awaiting saviour
flying a flag of avian victory.

Only blood-red rivers
wave beneath my feathers.

I am cursed,
maimed my man,
exploited then broken
by his greedy clutch:
taking too much
when giving nothing,
no coins to Mother Nature,
to pay his sea voyage.

Now, in dusky shade,
I hang around his neck,
an inverted Christ,
a crucifix of despair,
bearing blighted pearls.

A long,
sad,
white
tear.

I stand beside you on Lesbos,
drenched in stories of desire and death,
the ancient Aegean—woven in byssus, eternal and gleaming—
a thread that binds us across time.

I touch the inside of your marble wrist, still so smooth,
untainted by lecherous strokes,
and I feel your pulse quickening—
as if you see me, as if you know me,
as if the tips of my callused fingers
can still awaken something beneath the stone.

Poetry surges through the air,
marble lips exhale,
and your gaze, oh your gaze,
turns to me, only me.

The sky burns violet,
Weary winds untie my hair with porcelain fingers.
I wonder if this is how you saw her,
bathed in the last flush of daylight,
her mouth still wet from your kiss.

Is this how she sighed?
With your words coursing through her body,
with the weight of your hunger pressed into her breasts?
Did your voice curl at the base of her spine,
settling heavy between her thighs?

Gossamer moonbeams glide over my skin like vicuña,
and here I am, centuries away,
wanting you the way you wanted her.

I remember you
in the future.

Oh, Sappho! Goddess, infernal lover,

Ruin me.
Consume me.
Let me drink in
Your overwhelming heartbreak.

A Jesus Christ Rat just came up to me
He asked if I’d like a cup of tea
I said no and he called me a hoe
I guess thats just how these things go

I saw him again down in Tumbuktu
I had no clue what I was to do
He said Here son, now dont you see
You got to try summa my special tea

Nowhere else will you find as good a brew
Made from the cleanest flowers blue
Fine I said I’ll bite that hook
And a cuppa his special tea I took

Well I woke up in a world of green and blue
Very far from Timbuktu
And I shouted at him the fuck did you do?
He said I freed your mind
You bit the hook and I pulled the line
And brought you to the land of the three headed shrine

There we met the god of tounges
Who colored the air coming out of my lungs
It said since your here come with me
And took us where the sky meets the sea

We stayed there a few hours more
Learning what was beyond the door
Truths that I cannot say
For they would melt your brain away

I suddenly woke as if from a dream
The rat nowhere to be seen
Where he went I’lkl never know
I guess thats just how these things go

——
Atticus Eaton is a poet and author who has been previously had a short story published in
Asheville NC’s Mtn. Xpress. He is 15 years old and goes to Asheville High School

FONTAINEBLEAU, FRANCE
OUR LADY OF THE ROSARY
7 OCTOBER 1887

I.
Through these old wooden doors, I welcome you,
To tell you my tale and give you the facts.
This seems the most sensible thing to do—
For it is not only me it impacts.
I became ordained as a Friar to
Obey the ten laws, just as God commands.
I have abstained from any impure acts—
Just as my sacramental vow demands.

II.
I shall now remove the hood from my head
With hopes that my audience understands—
In the evening, as each vesper is said,
I pray at the altar with folded hands,
On sleepless nights, I rise up from my bed,
And pace these silent floors the whole night through.
The countrymen know me throughout these lands
As Friar Jean-Louis of Fontainebleau.

III.
In a field near Avignon, I was born
To a poor family who owned a farm.
I used to roam through acres filled with corn,
When my youthful days were sunny and warm.
I played in clothes that were tattered and torn,
With no trouble to be found anywhere.
Then, one day, a fire brought terrible harm
Upon the farmhouse while I was not there!

IV.
With no home, nor family, I was sent
From place to place until I was seven.
Traveling across the country, I went
To live in Bordeaux at age eleven.
Devoted to studies, my time was spent
With books to help me overcome my loss.
I thought of my family in heaven,
And lived at the Church of the Holy Cross.

V.
When I finally reached my eighteenth year,
It was time for my studies to advance.
My mentors hoped that I would remain near,
And stay in our blessed homeland of France.
I read the letter with a joyful tear—
Feeling my life was given a rebirth—
The university gave me the chance
To remain in Bordeaux and prove my worth!

VI.
Taking on studies of divinity,
I began working the following fall—
Reading about the Holy Trinity,
And learning about the churches in Gaul—
I roamed the grounds of the vicinity,
And kept the teachings of the Lord alive.
Once I was ordained, I received a call
To Fontainebleau in Eighteen Eighty-Five.

VII.
Once my journey to Fontainebleau was done,
I moved into this old monastery.
At times, I felt distanced from everyone—
Except when I walked to the library.
One day, along the way, I met a nun—
A schoolteacher—Claudia was her name!
The step to her walk was light and merry,
And fully intrigued with her I became!

VIII.
Even though in love, anyone would say
I’ve maintained the life of a loyal priest.
I saw her outside her schoolhouse one day,
Located close to Avon, to the east.
I stood and watched the students and her play—
Then left for home to practice my singing.
In honor of a royal Lenten feast,
I heard the Château bells faintly ringing.

IX.
On the way back, she remained on my mind,
I thought about her teaching her classes.
How she kept her dark hair neatly designed,
And the deep blue eyes behind her glasses.
Her beauty and elegance were refined—
She put a lot of work into her looks.
I envisioned her attending Masses
On Sundays, walking with a stack of books.

X.
I imagined her precious smile shining
During her younger days at the convent—
With other nuns, at a table dining,
While celebrating the days of Advent.
And often was I privately pining
Over why we were distanced for so long.
I cannot regret how my time was spent—
For men to love women should not be wrong!

XI.
I accept that I am a mortal man,
And have learned how to reap what I have sown.
I endure all the heartache that I can,
When I dream of her, then awake alone!
This all seems far more honorable than
Giving up a lifetime of devotion!
The thought of that chills me down to the bone,
And hence, I have abandoned that notion.

XII.
With all the dues I had chosen to pay—
Love had stricken me speechless from the start—
I know I should see her some other way,
Than if she were a living work of art!
The very words I wished one day to say,
I kept to myself, as anyone would.
Although, if she could see inside my heart
To know I would marry her if I could!

XIII.
Fifty years ago, in the Château, where
Duke Philippe and Duchess Hélène once stood—
For them, it was a matter of fanfare—
Something they had done for the common good!
They assembled royalty here and there,
And from standard traditions they did stray—
Celebrating twice more than what they should—
They were wed three times in one single day!

XIV.
Their first wedding took place in the ballroom,
Which under the second Herni was made.
It was here where the bride met with her groom,
And here, their undying love was displayed.
It was Étienne-Denis Pasquier whom
Had united them in matrimony.
All around the ballroom, nobody prayed—
As this was the civil ceremony.

XV.
In the chapel was their second wedding—
The one of the Holy Trinity named.
This service Duchess Hélène was dreading—
As it was Protestantism she proclaimed!
Slowly down the aisle, they began heading,
Making sure their image did not falter.
Along the ceiling, each painting was framed,
And the bishop waited at the altar.

XVI.
Their third one was within the royal hall
Filled with large columns from floor to ceiling.
The elegant paintings upon each wall
Helped to maintain the majestic feeling.
It seemed like a good time was had by all
When Pastor Cuvier wed them again!
Visually, it looked quite appealing—
Yet, many must have been hiding their strain.

XVII.
I lament never having had a wife,
While others marry as much as they choose!
I know that this is all part of my life—
And my sacred vows I cannot abuse!
I must pause from vocalizing my strife—
As the Château bells now ring in the hour.
I take this chance to reflect and bemuse
Throughout the tolling of the bell tower.

XVIII.
As God once had instructed all mankind,
I must continue to labor and toil.
Fortune allowed me a true love to find,
Before I am buried beneath Earth’s soil.
With beauty, she is crafted and designed—
I could never ask for anything more.
To help to ease my internal turmoil,
I began leaving flowers at her door.

XIX.
First, I must mention how this came about—
As this next specific part of the tale
Began early last spring, when I went out
With my fishing pole and a wooden pail.
Heading to the canal in search of trout,
I happened to walk past Claudia’s school.
I saw an older nun—looking quite frail—
Knocking at the front door with her ferule.

XX.
The very sight at first had startled me,
When she handed Claudia a letter—
Her older brother had been lost at sea—
As she read, her eyes kept getting wetter.
After I watched her weeping with a plea,
I built a bouquet of mercy—and chose
Forget-me-nots to help her feel better—
Rather than sending a single red rose.

XXI.
As the days, weeks, and months continued on,
I maintained my duties to comfort her—
I prayed for her suffering to be gone,
And hoped bringing her flowers would ensure.
The summer had turned to autumn anon,
And the classes soon resumed at her school—
At this point in the tale, I must infer,
I clumsily had made myself a fool!

XXII.
One time, as I was dropping off her gift,
Just when I presumed that the coast was clear—
I watched a frosted window quickly lift,
And behind it, her students gathered near!
My retreat was immediate and swift—
With the Château bells announcing my fate!
I then returned to my chambers in fear,
And sat at my window, to watch and wait!

XXIII.
Just this morning, in the crisp autumn frost,
I saw the footprints of the blessed nun!
Along the courtyard grass, a path was glossed
With her rapid steps—but not quite a run.
I rubbed my eyes, then my blankets I tossed—
When, from my upstairs room, I heard a sound.
As I opened the doors in the bright sun,
There was a basket of bread on the ground.

XXIV.
She left a bottle of wine for a toast—
In my confusion, I looked all around.
The note under the bottle mattered most—
Telling me her lost brother had been found!
He was located on an Irish coast—
After several months of being lost!
This discourse has allowed me to expound
Upon this tale of how our lives had crossed

You were only a mother—distracted or disordered through
my unknowing eyes. Childhood was breakfast in bed

stacked stagnant on nightstand, curtains drawn collected
dust, thinned skin and far away eyes buried sick beneath

bed sheets, withheld wanting sweat from pores left clothes
stained dark colors. I know what it feels like in closeness,

a cold space on chest, living outside looking in. What
is the opposite of growing? Swallowed breath and bitten

adolescence. I only knew to blame myself— mistook tired
for a corpse, carrying weight still light in living. You once

told me that you would have died if it weren’t for being
in closeness. I search for closeness in empty hallways.

You wake up early in the morning
and it’s already raining,
can’t even understand how
and you find yourself in a crowded train
nice girls in their fancy tights,
newspapers talk about debts, markets, television
it is too much.
Someone is reading The Catcher In The Rye
still, there is hope.