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Mark Trichet Poem
It’s not what she hears that day
No. It’s what she sees,
The image very nearly killed her
The neighbours say the scream was heard two blocks away
Though she can’t recall hearing what was said
No. It’s what she sees alright
Even to this day, she can feel the envelope
She can see the “WESTERN UNION” through the milky window
She can see the “THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES ME TO EXPRESS…”
What she doesn’t hear, is what the Telegram Boy had to say
She still has the Telegram
Its yellow parchment a little brittle, the typed words
“HIS DEEP REGRET THAT YOUR SON…” a little smudged, tears she guesses
Though she doesn’t remember any tears, they came later
Along with the pain of not knowing, and the sorrow of knowing
Then almost a year to that day, it’s not what she hears
But what every mother would want to see
What every mother would want to feel
And every mother would dearly love to hear
“Hello mum, I’m home…”
8 May 2015
Craig Cornish’s Poetry Contest “A Mother’s Ears”
Copyright © Mark Trichet | Year Posted 2015
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Mark Trichet Poem
Last night I stole a little - from time.
Don’t worry he’s got plenty on his hands
You could call it daylight robbery, but that wouldn’t be strictly correct, since
It occurred on the first of spring, at a minute past midnight.
But it’s really only semantics – isn’t it?
Oh I intend to give it back, but not until fall, I promise you that.
So for now, I intend to give it to those who
Hate waking to insipid mornings but instead,
Prefer the comfort of a long, alluring evening…
Time still has enough on his hands of course
To wake me in the usual way, the additional
Daylight finding gaps in my louvered blinds, it
Finds me; blinding me with stripes, a colouring of
Dusty motes with that angelic silver
A sliver of morning’s grace piercing my sheets
But the mornings are for birds…
And they don’t give a hoot about what was stolen.
Oh there are plenty of people who wake up to that inky blackness
Or even that rusty red, that bleeds all over the horizon
Oh they’re definitely not receivers of stolen goods,
Simply lovers of a pantomime, albeit in the morning.
She is one of those lovers… My wife Bronwyn,
A Welsh name to match her pale pearlescent skin.
Skin like perfect porcelain, that’s not in
Need of the proceeds of thievery.
Bronwyn stands over me now, the daylight interrupted
My slivers of dust broken
My colourful stripes stolen
Grace no longer piercing my sheets
Instead a finger piercing me…
“Get up!”
I did get up, for I needed to
Spend a little of the proceeds from my crime
Let the morning unwind naturally, feel the hush of
Time press upon my skin, when the sun is at its zenith
And ease into the evening like sliding into a warm bath…
John Lawless’s Poetry Contest – Saving Daylight
14 February 2015
Copyright © Mark Trichet | Year Posted 2015
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Mark Trichet Poem
Left out in the cold
Silent night; my jilted star
That once blazed in cherish across her world
That once lit up her heart and twinkled her toes
Now, no longer glows
Once; upon a long time ago
A memory now of old forgotten times
A star now in decline
It lies there – dead
A death star now exploding into Supernova’s
Of hope
Hoping against useless hopelessness
That bleeds you to the core when
Drowning in repetitive
Wonderment
To choking on what could have, should have
Been
Before Him…
Before. It was just Us
Her hands, I clearly see, frozen in pantomime
Of words unsaid
They spilled across the floor like a whore
His smell upon our bed
Insanity climbing through my head
It spreads, like a disease
Only time can purge
Only the clock
It mocks
Tick tock
Tick tock…
"Write me sad"
11 September 2014
Copyright © Mark Trichet | Year Posted 2014
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Mark Trichet Poem
I listen to my shadow as it wakes
Contemplating its solitude, hearing how peacefully it
Settles over dawn’s breath, and how it looks upon
Last night’s fire, now a stain upon the earth
I listen to the sky cleft open the dawn
Watch as she tears a strip from her canvas taught with night’s frost,
Allowing the last of the stars to slip away, unseen
Whilst my shadow watches sleep invade my breath again
I now listen as dawn unfolds about my camp
Watch as the shadows slyly acquaint themselves
And how impishly they mingle with the tall trees
Until sunlight chases them all away
I listen to my shadow bashfully retreat beneath me
Solitude dissolving in birdsong and the
Growing pains of the forest, as
Clouds now collect to frighten the sky away
I listen to the wind chase itself through the trees
Moaning in search of those shadows, as
Tired leaves fall amongst the cries of the forest, where
Tears gather into cups of the fallen
I listen to my shadow slurp greedily from the forest floor
Gathering the tears of the fallen, cradling them
Like his own flesh and blood, until the solitude returns
And the night’s fire makes the shadows
Dance with the forest once again
Copyright © Mark Trichet | Year Posted 2015
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Mark Trichet Poem
Golden threads finger through the fog
To whisper at frosted boughs
For dawn is yawning at quilted trees
Where sunlight doth tap the pane of silent glass
Reflecting the blaze burning bright
Through misty Elms denuded
Of shame through natures stark humility
Poet Destroyer’s contest: Autumn Day
11 September 2014
Copyright © Mark Trichet | Year Posted 2014
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Mark Trichet Poem
Last night
The shape of love
Made from the creases of bed linen that
I now smooth with an arc of my palm,
Gather and dissolve in an instance, whilst
Last nights’ secrets giggle in the shadows
To wait out the dawn
Yesterday as we ran barefoot
Through the surf; painting our noses with the foamy
Brine, me brushing the taste of summer from your lips all the
While watching your eyes watch mine
- I could feel the drum beat of your heart
That changed some small little part
Within me
Even as I sit here in the dark, your
Goodbye no longer ringing in my ear, the memories
Slow, unwilling to fade along
With the suns last, sad flush
They say nothing lasts forever
Although love is not nothing
Love is the sand I shook from your towel
The dry salt I wiped from your brow and
In the words I failed to tell, yet
Women came and went – mostly
Went
Nonetheless I can still feel the drum beat of your heart
Here - as I smooth with an arc of my palm,
The creases of bed linen
Made from the shape of love
When a man loves a woman (man only contest) - Poetry Contest
31 August 2015
Copyright © Mark Trichet | Year Posted 2015
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Mark Trichet Poem
Snow flakes
Tapping glass
One by one,
Scraping silence
From the pane of autumn’s stare
Where they gather
In mute reflections,
Like moths to a flame
Blustering into chaotic rhythm
White upon light,
Cart-wheeling crystals
Frozen in free
Falling eddies now
Gathering upon a wind,
In violent whiteout
As a fire stares
Back from beyond the hearth
A sentinel
Of warmth bearing
Witness to fair warning
From an army of
Snow
Copyright © Mark Trichet | Year Posted 2014
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Mark Trichet Poem
The monsoonal matriarch cradles her pregnant belly
Delirious with life giving blood from the womb of all nature’s gifts
As she lays distended, expectant and grey
Upon the craggy summits
Her breath billows above the bloated forests
Nurturing ominous notes as she sweeps through the trees
Like the phantom of the opera
Tuning her timbre, yet masking her desire
And now
Her contralto; it begins…
Her song breathes across the valley in rhythmical sheets
A symphonic auditorium of liquid splendour
Inciting a libretto of Lyre birds to concert in the mist
A monsoonal medley
Enticing insects to assemble in an ensemble
Their raucous chorus imploring the humid madness
Through a cacophonous chorale
Teasing the tempo from the maestro
As the crescendo climaxes to thunderous applause
Her encore; a sweeping army of waterfalls
Advance upon the sodden valley
Roaring to deafness over
Exploding banks and streams that gouge and tear
And then
It all stops
To a breath of drops…
Leonora Galinta’s contest: Rainy Days
12 September 2014
Copyright © Mark Trichet | Year Posted 2014
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Mark Trichet Poem
Mother Nature has all but consumed
Their little graveyard by the sea, where
Sands bleached white, slide
Across the cemetery floor
Drifting like pale capsized hulls
Floating between tablets marking
The long forgotten dead
It was here, fifty two years ago that
I held my Grandfathers weathered hand,
More so for the want of a brace
Than the sympathetic touch of a Grandchild
My little hand lost to the wrist, gripped
By a generation lost to the elements
I watched him kneeling by their angled stones
Tracing their names; first his father’s father, then
The mothers, with a finger crooked by age
The sandstone letters crumbling in the wake of his trace
Grit sifting through his heavy fingers; history, being erased
Returning it back – to where it all began
I followed behind his shuffling shoes
Kicking up dust that settles on the bones of ghosts
My Grandfather’s voice lost to an ocean breeze
Is he speaking to the dead?
Whilst our shadows lengthen, then dwindle into dusk
I imagined, back then as I do now
Of a graveyard full of pirates and thieves
With their ship resting - just out there
~ At sea
But for the stout chimney and hearth, beyond the grounds
Baring testimony to pioneers that
Once toiled this barren coast and now
Standing defiant, resolute against the
Advancing flotilla of sand
He is buried just beyond the little graveyard
My Grandfather, next to my Grandmother
On his farm; or
His father’s farm before that
My farm now…
On a hill
Overlooking the sea, where it all began
8 Dec. 2014
Copyright © Mark Trichet | Year Posted 2014
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Mark Trichet Poem
The monsoonal matriarch cradles her pregnant belly
Delirious with life giving blood from the womb of all nature’s gifts
As she lays distended, expectant and grey
Upon the craggy summits
Her breath billows above the bloated forests
Nurturing ominous notes as she sweeps through the trees
Like the phantom of the opera
Tuning her timbre, yet masking her desire
And now
Her contralto; it begins…
Her song breathes across the valley in rhythmical sheets
A symphonic auditorium of liquid splendour
Inciting a libretto of Lyre birds to concert in the mist
A monsoonal medley
Enticing insects to assemble in an ensemble
Their raucous chorus imploring the humid madness
Through a cacophonous chorale
Teasing the tempo from the maestro
As the crescendo climaxes to thunderous applause
Her encore; a sweeping army of waterfalls
Advance upon the sodden valley
Roaring to deafness over
Exploding banks and streams that gouge and tear
And then
It all stops
To a breath of drops…
Leonora Galinta’s contest: Rainy Days
12 September 2014
Copyright © Mark Trichet | Year Posted 2014
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