Everything Costs Something

Everything costs something, nothing is free

Even a moment of joy, a single solitary moment

Means coming agony

If you find peace, anger and frustration are coming

Solace and comfort, discord and grief

Contentment, misery

Abundance?

Abundance will soon be followed by an

abysmal dearth of everything good and pleasing

Everything costs something, nothing is free

Those kind words spoken in effigy

Are soon to be your eulogy

An abundance of gifts leads to an abundance of nothing

Nothing has meaning and everything is useless

Plenty darkens in scarcity

In your despair nothing that was good will repair

nothing left in the larder answers the pangs that knock harder

Everything costs something, nothing is free

Rich, fine clothes now rags they become

In come worms, long you are done

The Pit

It is so very dark

The pit goes so very deep

Down where the light can not find

Stones are black and indistinct

The stairs are deadly and there you slip

The shadows have an icy grip

There is only one life down in the pit

The only sound to hear are echos

Down where the light can not find

There is no hope here

The walls are pressing in, crushing

The shadows have an icy grip

Aching bones and mind

No peace will you find

Down where the light can not reach

This pit I can not escape

This pit is in my mind

The shadows have an icy grip

Down where the light can not find

Shipwreck

The darkening skies

Bringing cold, wet winds

Against which, fire does but naught

Laid bare and open

To all the tempest

Barren rock with dangers fraught

Keels, ribs, and spar

We see from afar

The dark horizon

Heralds a dark dawn

Against which fire does naught

Laid bare as a chest

To all the tempest

Upon each rock doom is fraught

Seen through hardened eyes

Here, destruction lies

For all a watery grave

Like a toy is tossed

This, too, shall be lost

Not a soul here shall be saved

© Marcel Trepanier 2014

picture found at

isleofwightwalks.blogspot.com

Engraving of the Wreck of the Clarendon

sailing ship against rocks at Blackgang

Wood Fire

It's colder outside now, yes. But I'm still in my t-shirt

and I;m sweating a little now, too. I've been splitting

wood. Splitting wood for you. We could just use the

heater, but that just isn't the same.

I like the house with that faint scent of smoke from the

fire. You do, too, so you've said.

I like the way the heat from the fire feels so very

different, somehow it's warmer. You've said that, too.

The crackling is so comforting.

The light is a warmer glow than any lamp can give.

A fire brings a peace that is warmer than anything that any electric blanket can give.

But, for now, I've set my axe where it normally waits, in a sturdy log. It's there I will find it tomorrow when I come back to split more wood. Even though it's cold out now and it will be colder out tomorrow, you can be sure that I will work up another sweat splitting more wood. All to keep us warm in our little house this winter, just like last year.

After the Storm

What is it that they call the calm after the storm?

Is there a name for it? A thing to call it?

A proper name? A term? A word?

Storms have a multitude of names.

They are given titles like maelstrom,

tempest,

tornado,
twister,

cyclone,

squall.

The silence, that deafening silence.

What is the name of that silence?
What do people call it?

The thunder has left and the lightening gone,

after all the noise,

commotion,

upheaval,

uproar,

turmoil,

tumult;

Once it’s done, when it leaves, when that

quiet comes, I have a description for it.

I dub it depression.

The area is left broken and twisted. Like

the mind and heart, darkened.

Defeated.

Dashed.

Dying.

Riven.

Rent.

The Butterfly

It fluttered in on an unsteady path,

maybe unpredictable is a more apt

description. It looked as if it were

fighting against a mighty wind and

was being buffeted too and fro as it

went side to side and up and down.

All the while moving forward,

toward what, I had no idea.

The yellow winged butterfly finally

settled down on a patch of moisture

left on my driveway. I had sprayed

it clean earlier and it was nearly dry,

just barely moist enough to darken

the surface.

Whether boldly, or exhaustedly,

that little delicate butterfly rested

there. It rested and, I presume,

sipped moisture from the surface,

refreshing itself.

There it sat, sipping and sunning,

and quite content to be ogled so.

But, not for long, for it had places

that it needed to go. Minutes

after alighting on my driveway,

the little aeronaut was, again,

flying its zig-zaggy pattern through

the afternoon air.

Long Day

It's been a long day. It

seems like every day is

a long one now. My eyes

are tired and sore, my head

is heavy. I know that I

used to be able to stay

up all night.

Was a time that I could stay

up for days at a time. I had

stamina to spare. I'd study,

work out, drink, fight, make

love all night, and keep going

when the sun came up.

Now, once the children are

in bed and quieting down.

The dog is laying at my feet.

My head is heavy after the day.

You are here beside me on

the couch.

Grey now streaks my hair. Still,

nothing can replace the tenderness

and love that we share. The years

that you have always been there.

I love you.

The Hitchhiker

Garbage and laundry, the two never ending parts of daily life as an adult and parent. Begrudgingly, I yanked an empty bag from under the sink. 

The full bag didn't want to come out of the can. Being full, it created a seal, a poor one, but a seal nonetheless that always dragged this chore out interminably. Once the new bag was in place I could take the old one with all of the old garbage and smells out.

The four cans sat there, waiting like some large mouthed monsters waiting for their food. The cans stank from being used for so long. It's as if those monsters had never brushed their teeth.

Once back inside I felt safe from the garbage monsters and their breath. I picked up my coffee, now no longer hot, but still pleasantly warm.

As I prepared to sit down something touched the back of my head. I knew there was nobody there. My wife was in the pantry. Still, I distinctly felt something like the back of my head.

My face reflexively skewed up as I turned to look over my shoulder. There was nothing there.

I touched my head where I had been touched. There was nothing in my hair.

I looked at my hand curiously, as if the answer to this mystery was going to somehow appear in ink on my palm. Nothing was written there.

Sitting down on the couch, I tried to push the event away, as if I had imagined it. Something moved to my right. I barely caught the motion out of the corner of my eye. Cautiously, I turned my head. I found myself looking into the round alien eyes of what had, apparently, touched my head.

It's greenish brown triangular head with large round lidless eyes stared back at me. A beautiful praying mantis, a female at that, had hitched a ride on me.

She stood there, inches from my face, staring at me, waving her telltale forearms at me as if to say she would rip my head off. She was a lovely shade of brown with a thick bright green stripe down with side of her after section.

Quickly and tenderly, I put my hitchhiker back out where she probably came from. Where she belonged.

Suddenly, I realized, the drudgery of taking out the trash had been supplanted by the wonder and awe of such a lovely creature.

Fall Has Come Again

The fall has come again.

It's back with its cool air and crunchy leaves.

I like that. It always makes me smile.

Dark eyed ravens are watching.

I'm splitting and stacking wood for winter.

Memories. Of seasons that have passed.

Of when I played in leaves.

The way the leaves crunched underfoot was nice.

Happy days. Seasons and days long gone.

The games have become chores.

The games were always fun.

They still are. Now, they're

for you, my love.



(C) 2014 Marcel Trepanier

Rivers (an observation inspired by James Schuyler's February.)

People move like water

in a river. At the rail station

crowds ebb and flow.

The tides, they come and go.

Like large rocks standing against

the relentless current are benches.

Upon which cling various wretches

like moss or algae to the rocks.

There, on the benches, sit

people like frogs on those rocks.

They croak to themselves and

to others over the rushing

of the river around them.

At the thin edge of the bench

is a gathering, milling, swirling

eddy of people that look as if

they are trapped there as

the river rushes past. They

eventually find their impetus

and onward, down river they

rush.

The mass of different heads

and hats bobbing like leaves

move with a rushing into

their doors and drains as they

head aboard their trains.

A Simple Question

"Are you happy?" 

It's a simple question. A question of observation coupled with concern. The look on her face, her brow slightly furrowed, the edges of her mouth slightly, almost imperceptibly, turned down. 

A simple question that frequently has no easy answer. That is, if you're being honest.

"Are you happy?" The question hung in her eyes as they searched mine for an answer. 

The long years, children, our own issues, and more, have taken their toll. On both of us.

Behind the grey hair, the lines born of concern, fear, and fights. Behind those knowing eyes and the painful experiences through which they'd earned their degrees of skepticism I see young love.

Young love, the kind that is sought and found in the eager, bright eyes of my young bride.

"Yes," I reply. Taking her hand and pressing my cheek into her palm, "Yes, I am happy."

Always Silent

In death its cold embrace remains

Dark and shadowed like an old bloodstain

The grave awaits, her to contain

Always silent. Always Silent

Figures weeping in icy rain

Weeping over their loss and pain

Flower petals are overlain

Always silent. Always silent.

Veiled in gossamer and lace

To its cold embrace

No smile, no tears on her face

Always silent. Always silent.

Forever taken from my grace

Entombed within this cold, dark place

Forever locked in death's embrace

Always silent. Always silent.

At the Edges

Memories creep on the edges

Along the edges of my mind

In them I fear what I may find

At the edges. At the edges.

Faces peeking in from shadows

Shadows lingering from the past

Bony fingers, with icy grasp

At the edges. At the edges.

Voices howl out from the heavy mist

The mist that clings so hauntingly

Echoes with voices dauntingly

At the edges. At the edges.

Piercingly, their eyes, watching me

Watching me from sunken sockets

Peering out from long dead pockets

At the edges. At the edges. 

Passion

Eager glances

Hungry eyes

Uncertain, doubting

Stirred emotions 

Heated bodies

Lips meet

Tongues darting

Hands exploring

Grasping

Grabbing 

Squeezing

Caressing

Mouths and tongues

Tasting

Licking 

Sucking

Flesh heats up

Desire burns

Driving actions 

Skin on skin 

Sweaty, Slippery

Bodies sliding

Gliding

Slamming 

Ramming 

Against and 

Into one another

Hearts beat faster

Breath is ragged

Hands clenching

Legs entwined

Passion blinded mind

Muscles clench

Bodies spasm

Bucking

Tensing

Exhausted collapse

Limbs tingling 

Heart racing

Loving touches

Gentle caress

Teasing touches

Tasting flesh

Reigniting fires

Enflaming desires

Fresh again

Stroking

Licking 

Kissing

Tasting each other

Tasting anew

Is making love

To you

A blitz poem
(C) Marcel Trepanier 2014

Views From My Cats

“My people call me Eli and say that I'm an orange kitty, well, I am orange bu there's no kitty about it. You see, I am a protector cat, I watch out for my people. When they go outside I have already been there to make sure they're safe.” Eli has plumped himself into the Kitty Loaf position between a blueberry bush and an old tree. The mulch that was nearly his color has dulled with exposure and his bright orange fur stands out in
stark contrast.

“Yes, I am orange, but you must remember that the brightly colored things in nature are often the deadliest.” His eyes narrow as he calmly surveys the world in front of him. Small insects hop or crawl in the grass in before him. Eli clearly feels that he is the master of his domain. “Not even the foxes get near here.” Eli glances over with strength in his eyes at the yard where, a few years ago, he had slapped a fox and sent it running.

“Fiercely colored and fearsome in nat… ooooh! A leaf spinning!” In the blink of an eye, Eli is up and has pounced on the errant leaf. He is busy rolling over and over, locked in mortal battle with the crunchy oak leaf.

So enthralled with it is he that he misses the fact that he is being stalked. “Oh, Elijah, I am going to get you now.” The sly greenish yellow eyes of Spots, the girl and the youngest in the pride, are closely watching as Eli rolls and spins. Spots has never been that good at stalking, but the noises that her target is making hide the little crunches under her feet.

Spots, a gray tabby, flattens herself out as best she can, her tail twitches almost on its own accord. She creeps in closer underneath the broad leafed plants along the side of the house. She blended in nicely with the mulch and the shadows. “Oh, yes! I have you now, Eli!” She said in the faintest of whispers. Her chin was nearly on the ground, her back feet started to paddle against the soft turf, tension held every muscle taught. The distance was two, maybe three bounds and she would have him tackled.

Eli rolled onto his back clutching the leaf gently in his teeth, holding the edges with sharp claws as his hind feet shredded the tail edge of the leaf. “Ah! You fiendish leaf, I have you now! Ha! HA!” He growled at the helpless piece of foliage. He sank his long teeth through the fragile membrane and closed his eyes imagining his prey now gushing blood.

Spots sprang from under the vegetation where she hid. One bounce, two bounces, and … hearing something odd, Eli released the leaf and spun as quickly as he could onto his feet! The extra flab he carried under his tummy threatened to keep him rolling. A shadow in front of him had suddenly exploded in teeth and claws and flashing yellow eyes!

“Grraahahhghghgh!” Spots snarled as she impacted the much larger cat. Her momentum and his still trying to recover from the extra belly flab knocked him off of his feet.

Skill and years of experience took over, Eli spun in spite of the claws now sunk into his fur. He twisted his feet into position to kick against the soft belly of his attacker. The roll continued.

Spots dropped her body down onto Eli to thwart his kicking feet just in time. She then pressed her long fangs against Eli's throat making Eli screech in shock.

In a blink the two rolled in separate directions. They landed on their feet. Eli's eyes flashed in surprise and playfulness. “Ah haa! Spots! You may have gotten the drop on me this time, but you can't keep up!” With that he turned and darted off.

Spots grinned wickedly, laughed, and then chased after Eli.

Florettes

A Florette is a two line poem with an end rhyme and an internal rhyme. Each poem is line is six syllables. Here is a selection of my own addition to this style of poetry.

Thunder in the distance
Crumbling all resistance

Shoulders cold and sagging
Weapons and hearts dragging

Subterfuge and guile
Stabbing with a smile

Stalking me while walking
Threatens without talking


(C) Marc Trepanier 2014

Hunter, a 100 word story

The panther was placed in such a way that it still looked as if it would pounce.

Frank was captivated by the large cat. The eyes stared back as he looked into them.

Light in the room played on its fur. He could see the well defined muscles tightly wound ready to spring, it's lips curled back, and head lowered, preparing to leap. Fangs glistened.

“He's long dead.” Deadre's voice as well as her touch startled Frank. Her grip was light on his arm, but powerful as if about to spring. She smiled a wicked grin with glistening teeth. 

Midnight Flight

Night and shadows hide my hurried flight

Skies turn dark and deadly before your eyes

Frightening blades flash with speed of lightening

Sinew and muscle sliced deep within you

Screaming through the night haunting your dreaming

Rancor had long given way to anger

Calling for action and your line falling

Ravens come calling in tones so graven

Light and life are draining now from your sight

Eyes now cold that once were bold, cold as ice

Fighting against the new day's fresh lighting

Golden rays alight what death's beholden

Your ruling line now puddled upon the floor

Taken deftly your line now forsaken

Red stains spread about the freshly dead

Screams at finding dead abed in their dreams

Fast, wings flutter this flight will soon be past

Harken lest your eyes be next to darken