Author: poetryfest

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.

Go deep enough in the ocean,
you will be where the fingers of the sun
can’t reach.
There are creatures here.
They mate in a forever night.
Cephalopods find each other
through light they make themselves.
Flashlights of urges, bioluminescent tentacles
feeling in the dark
like lightning strikes holding hands at midnight.
Soap bubble jellyfish, gargoyle anglers,
they swim through the ink sightless,
squirming in an echoless black
hoping for contact, connecting the gaze
of eyes that will never see sunlight.
Most living would be crushed
by the weight of water
but they procreate under the pressure,
acting intimately
and always aware
of the predators
who embrace the dark.
Those looking for a lover
will never know
if those they meet in deep
are there for connection
or there to eat.

Lined up like dirty pearls
on an old necklace
are all the little things that wronged me

lined up behind each other
lined up next to each other
It’s a collection of unforgiveness
To forgive does not bring me peace
I would cry if I ever loose that old necklace
I need to wear it during happy hours
I need to look at it during sad nights
Not forgiving brings me peace
Plotting brings me peace
Being petty brings me peace
Destroying brings me peace
I’m sorry
but also
I am not

To qualify for any situation, there’s criteria. Leadership, takes extra steps.

Reputation is built, off of action. Not position… Propositions.

Embrace the beauty in active listening. What attributes will set you apart? Analyzing, makes a self criticize.

Because what’s realized, leaders waste no time…On events, which seems to be scrutinized. When one rely, on the hunger that awaits…And hide.

Must challenge the inner critic within self. Invest in positive necessariness.To fight against the naysayers craziness. Allow it to be minced.

Overstand, as a leader…Have to get rid of what you once were. Alternate what you used to know into abundances, that only results in growth.

Thank you.

Seat oneself, a sudden catastrophe
shaped as furniture, creasing anatomy
pleating paper and origami sighs.
This is how a grudge doubles over steel:
handle heavy metal like a weapon.
Swing down judgement and cognitive delay.
Baptize foes with aluminum poison.
Remember the shape of concave alloys.
A dented collision of hard headed
ego reverberates serious hurt.
The sound promises cognitive problems,
proof that concussions sing cymbals lively.
Crowd participation demands your turn.
No flinching. Wince through. Just take it.

I look at him now, standing there—
this twelve-inch figure of wood,
a statue of stillness, simple and personal,
a witness to my quiet studio since the 1980s.

How many hands have shaped you, posed you,
in studios far from mine?
Did you stand in a Renaissance workshop,
where masters sketched the human form in conte crayon?

Or in Parisian garrets, guiding young eyes
to see chiaroscuro light fall on flesh and shadow?
You’ve seen centuries of art unfold:
the brushstrokes of oil on primed canvas,
the bold abstractions of modernity.

Each creator left their touch,
a memory etched deep in your grain.
There is something in your stillness,
a reflection of time itself—
not just the decades I’ve known you,
but all the time before,
in other studios, under other lamps,
among other dreamers.

You are more than a tool,
more than a mannequin.
A model for countless studies,
a silent muse for my artist’s hand.

Now you stand by my work,
beside the carved “B” from a block printer’s hand,
amid brushes, pencils, and bottles of India ink.
Sometimes, when I turn away,
you shift—ever so slightly—
a hand raised, a leg poised mid-step,
as if you, too, have a life
beyond my easel.

What stories does your polished wood carry?
What secrets lie within your joints?
I wonder if you remember them,
or if they’ve faded
like my old charcoal sketches—
shadows of what once was.

In this small studio,
you are history, you are memory.
And I never asked your name—why?
My silent companion,
will you see it all again,
long after I’ve put down
my artist’s pen?

I call upon thee
To take away my sickness
Rip away my sins
And to save my soul
My greatest punishment for sin lays beside me
Her light appearing like a fiery depth I want no part of
Is Heaven an eternal greatness if it commands pain?
Will heaven satisfy if my sickness is incurable?
Or is my actions the only determining factor of my soul?
My thoughts are not any purer
My eternal damnation is no love to worship
And no God to serve
Please see the white light that I yearn for
A purity and innocence I no longer possess
My indisposition can hide in the shadows
And please do not place shame the one my heart yearns for my disease is not
contagious
Only disgustingly intolerable and built up on subterfuge
Then once I lay to rest
Brought down by earth’s conditions instead of the disease I learnt to live with
I may worship the only God my faith recognizes

Fear not,
for you are your brother and sister’s keeper
Fear not,
for your brother and sisters-keep you
Fear not,
your destiny, for you and yourself already
decided which path you will walk?
Fear not,
the loss of loved ones for death itself may
not be – predetermined, but it is determined.
Fear not,
those with convincing words, smooth knees
and soft hands. Their work will speaks for
itself.
Fear not,
An agent provocateur can only provoke
those who thrive on provocation

Fear is not a barren emotion. When
neglected it bears the fruit of inaction. When
pruned with protective, persistent hands the
fruit it bares, action in the absence of fear.
Fear Not