Dear seven year old,
Yes, there is a monster
But it’s not under your bed

The monster is in your head
But maybe it’s not even a monster
Maybe it’s just buried pain
Because they told you not to cry

Dear seven year old,
Yes, you should keep crying
Otherwise the tears will build up and flood your insides

The tears do not care for being stuck
They need to be released
Into the stars

Dear seven year old,
Yes, your plea for better times are being heard by the stars
They always will
Keep wishing on them

Wish on 11:11 too
Because to wish is to know what you want
And knowing what you want
Telling it
Makes it so much more likely to happen

Dear seven year old,
Yes, you still feel like the kid sitting under the slide and just observing life
And you’ve come to appreciate it

Observing, looking, watching
Make all the difference
Almost as much as writing

Dear seven year old,
Write.

Watching the sun
cut into a new day
everything drenched
in pale colours
clouds move with
the dead of grey
I know a place
where a velvet moon
is thrown across the
soothing sea
where the spring
mornings are endless
where there are more
flowers than tall buildings
where the ocean breeze
blows salt on our skin
where the lavender
dances with the wind
we can dream forever
escape this ordinary life
I know a place …
Clay.M

I know there are many here who pray,  
So if my words aren't yours today,  
Please turn away, for this is mine—  
A truth I carry, yours not to define.  

When they speak of God, their voices pure,  
I can't take it in, can't feel secure.  
For God was not there when I called,  
In moments dark, when I had fallen.  

I search for answers in the silence, deep,  
Wondering why I was left to weep.  
So when they speak of faith and grace,  
I question if it's just a trace.  

I don’t deny their right to believe,  
But in my heart, there's a different weave.  
For God was absent when I needed light,  
Leaving me alone in the longest night.

When a black sheet has been
thrown over the moon
and a million lazy stars
have fallen from view
I hear the wind has
grown tired of traveling
I hear the sound of mandolins
crying in the mountains
I hear the rattle of
gypsy wheels
I hear the heavy hearts
of horses upon the
restless roads of
broken poetry ...
Clay.M

It calls to me,
Like a mother calling to her child,
Offering a soothing love,
Able to take every pain and burden off,
In a sip,
As if it's telling me it can free me from the shackles,
A warm comfortable hug,
A lullaby to my soul,
The scent of your warm favorite meal,
Is it true,
Is it all worth the risk of death,
To feel the numbness it so dearly calls for me to grab.

In her gauzy garments
Above the bowing trees
The moon has many lovers
In the sighing breeze.

They all take her dancing
In exotic lands
They give her sparkling diamonds
They kiss her milk-white hands.

She is round & fullsome
Or slender as a waif
When she is then waning
Her flowers are kept safe.

Silken skeins of darkness
When she's waxing full
Are parted by her brightness
She is NEVER dull!

Her beaux are all so courtly
But she eschews them all
Her only love can make her pale
She burns at his call...

She lets out her moonbeams
Through her eyes they weep
She loves the one eclipsing her
They can NEVER meet!

She, so strong within her court
Will curtsey when he comes
The moon has many lovers

But she's taken by the SUN.


Catherine Jarvis
(C) 12/14/2019