They say you should write what you know, but sometimes, I need to reach further. Sometimes, it doesn't matter that the person whose emotion I am expressing does not exist; they still require expression. The poems that follow follow three people who you can find at the address in my title, who leaped into existance from postcards, snatches of overheard conversations, or just stray thoughts. I hope you enjoy their company, my friend.

Who will take care of my Lisa,
	Who makes up her face,
	Lives the latest craze,
	And seeks out the friendship of flakes?
Who will take care of Annita,
	Who buries her cares,
	Eternally shares,
	And gives of herself till she breaks?
Who will take care of little Tom,
	Who breaks ev'ry rule,
	And goofs off in school,
	And only wants someone to care?
Who will take care of Johnathan,
	Who rare' speaks a word,
	A self-proclaimed nerd,
	And whose friendships are at best rare?
Who will take care of my children,
	When you say I give,
	Much more than I live,
	And I shouldn't share all my time?
Who will take care of my children,
	If I go away,
	Vacation, you say,
	And make more of my hours mine?

No music

I never knew there was no music
  To the rose scented lullabye my mom sang at night
  To the throbbing symphanies that played in my fright
  To the sparkling fairysong of shattering glass
  To the steady drumbeat of sands in the hourglass

I always thought there must be music
  To the ballet of the leaves tossed about by the storm
  To the jazzy sunsets when the nights first grew warm
  To the trumpets and horns so in love in my heart
  To the soft wistful waltz when he must depart

Who's to say that there is no music
  To the cinnamon carols of Christmas time good cheer
  To the stained-glass gospel that always shined so clear
  To the tassled marches of graduation day
  And to every moment of life- there is, I pray.

Blank Signature

Bullethole in the wall, a long remembered word,

Lipstick on her glasses, ashes on his dashboard,

Skidmarks on the pavement, initials in a heart,

Sturdy homemade bookshelves, that never fall apart.


Please take only photos, leave no more than footprints.

The silent observer, leaves her own subtle hints.

We all have our own marks, our signs of our nature,

But hers is none at all, the blank signature.


A phantom in the fog, she comes and goes unseen.

No land she calls her home, no royalty her queen.

No difference if she's here, no difference if she's not,

No grass her feet will crush, no doorknob will be hot.


Why for what I don't know, always, maybe, watching.

None to help, none to hurt, 'less nothingness's catching.



From Riders to the Sea

We find sons dead by black cliffs and black night

To wear fine clothes, and fine boards alike

Bound between earth and the grave by a rope

Her rest now comes with the death of her hope

She an old woman, talking forever

With one thing and she saying it over

The sea brings death, "were destroyed" and wails

All are mourning in red, pretticoats and sails

Keen women, for horses speed messages that come slowly by man

Keen women, for she tells of your news before you open the door

Keen women, for your self-same loss awaits in your destiny's plan

Keen women, for now with you she will keen no more

She gives them her blessing after they're dead

Not quite the same as "God speed you" and bread

Holy water blessings, not of the sea

The end of the cup, to her child gives she
 
All measuring only what is now gone

Dropped stitches, missed chances, and dead men

She's destitute with no living son

Just one word of young daughters who live on

Whisper girls, because you know that your dead brother's clothes are not lost

Whisper girls, because someone cries for your brother by the seashore

Whisper girls, because of a gray pony tween black cliffs and white rock

Whisper girls, because the sea makes her cry no more


Now these people exist in your mind, too.  Let them live on.

If you have any comments or if you write poetry yourself, mail me at MHRochette@hotmail.com.  



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