Best Manon Poems
The candle light dances in the breeze.
It's calm and peaceful, feeling at ease!
Moments of sadness I can see.
Whilst looking at the candle; is this truly me?
The flame, shielded by the glass.
As to shelter it,
how long will it last?
Do I lead such an existence?
Am I lacking it's brilliance and persistence?
Do I emotionalize amonst it's luminescence?
Do I find haven among
its presence?
Questioning, wondering,
needing to know;
Solitude within its glow.
I wish to resonate its fight.
Against the winds that come to extinguish it's light.
I constantly stop myself.
Putting thoughts and emotions on a shelf.
I project anger and frustration
to those around.
In my words, I expound.
This is the only way; thoughts are released.
Helping me; indignation decreased.
I cannot verbalize.
I always externalize.
Making what is not real appear.
To the flame I wish to give my fear.
I ask for knowledge and understanding.
My own being withstanding,
everything that is set before me! Allowing myself to be free.
The flame ignites.
Screaming to remove my plights.
Have I reason to find concern?
In this life I yearn;
For balance; physical and emotional and psychological.
To discern what is illogical.
To again be who I was.
A fighter, strong with just cause.
Not this weak shell I have become.
A new year, a new life has begun.
As the flame I will push through.
I will stand up and construe,
what is false and what is true.
I will no longer bemoan
the unknown.
I will begin to trust what it is I am shown.
A new life arises.
Full of laughter, happiness and surprises.
The person I used to be.
Before afflicted with disease.
This shan't come with ease.
But know this;
I will no longer remiss.
I am Manon Peel.
Changes soon to come,
and this time....for real.
~mp (c)
Manon (Mary) and I, sat in the Tuileries gardens, by the Louvre Museum. Her 7 month old daughter, Devyn, on a blanket in the grass, was earnestly practicing a roll from her tummy to her back - of course, we coo’d and applauded each success.
We’d been girls together, years ago, in 5th and 6th grade - we were ‘like thieves at a fair’ back then - playing ‘la marelle’ (hopscotch) and pétanque until the boys, in early exercise of their ‘ed privilege’ ran us off the court, scattering us like birds.
She wrote me off a few years ago. But to be fair, I was missing. Growing up, my family moved around like we were on the run. I’d come back to Paris some summers and we’d check-in, but summer schedules are ephemeral and years turned into distance and a seemingly permanent silence.
Her last voice message, from 2017, is still on my phone, her voice bright, cheerful and expectant. I listen to it every once in a while, holding my phone to my ear, like a private seashell.
I was moved to China, where I’m told - thank you, Grandmère - I picked up a brash, incisive, Cantonese, ‘overly-direct’ manor, while Manon,went on to Institut Villa Pierrefeu, a finishing school in Switzerland.
Her hands move like ballerinas, her voice is as clear and refined as
Baccarat crystal, her look - bixie-cut chestnut brown hair, a white, Fontaine Zuave shirt over black, ME+EM Italian Linen Wide-Leg Trousers with Keds canvas sneakers, is Parisian simple and elegant and her posture is effortlessly perfect - she makes me feel like a scrub in my black Beatles t-shirt and jeans.
I passed Manon on an escalator, two days ago in Le Bon Marché.
I was going up, she was going down, with this little Devyn doll on her hip. The little firecracker I’d only seen on Instagram was dynamite in person. Her little expressions are bright-eyed and somehow familiar, their laughs - mother and daughter - are the same, rolling, lilting trills I know by heart.
My watch showed 69°f as we sprawled picnicking on a tree-lined embankment of the slithering green Seine. Rain clouds were gathering to the south - the river acts like a compass -which can be handy. Looking back on friendships is fun, but now we’re looking forward - which feels like home.
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Songs for this:
New Toy by Lene Lovich
My Old School by Steely Dan
Angel by Sarah McLachlan