Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
13.2k · May 2015
Ireland's Wild Orchids
Marie-Chantal May 2015
Through the rain stained glass,
With a sickly purple hue,
I can see early marsh orchid,
And it makes me think of you.

The gardener's son
Is looking at it too,
His sickly grey suit
Makes me think of you.

I was not born a bog child,
I was only passing through,
The Irish Lady's Tresses
Made me think of you.
Beware, beware keep your garden fair,
Let no man steal your thyme
9.0k · Dec 2014
The Garden Owl
Marie-Chantal Dec 2014
It's within the grown out roots
where the Garden Owl still hoots
Sings the melancholy song
Of how the blue eyed girl was wrong.

It's within the thatching of the dwelling
And a failed attempt at fortune telling.
Beyond the garden of the bugs
Beyond the magpies and the slugs

A moon was folded into quarters
Grind it with pestle and mortar
Strip it down to crater powder
Feel it till the song sounds louder

The Garden Owl sings his song
Of how the blue eyed girl was wrong
And under the brown thatched roof
The girl detests her blue eyed youth
I think I could work on this one a lot more, I guess it's sort of like a first draft, but what kind of write would I be if I did not have lots of unfinished pieces?
6.7k · Dec 2014
Observing Raven Feather-Full
Marie-Chantal Dec 2014
Observing Raven feather-full,
A gleam of blue on black.
The beady eye could look at me
And widen every crack.

Mocking with
Hollow call.
Watch! Don’t let that feather fall.
Promises it’s not hole.

The Raven whispers thoughts of doubt,
Insides sobbing “let me out!"
A thought indeed bizarre
But one can only think that...
“Maybe these birds are?"

A glooming sense of winged wisdom,
Although black and beady eyed,
It would not come as a shock
That their little birds, they never cried!

One cannot help but wonder
If they can see indoors?
Of course it may not seem so
but they always come in fours!

Look out the window frame,
Take a peek!
Observe the Raven’s coarse black beak.

*Just mind he doesn’t watch you back,
Or he will widen every crack.
I have always had a fascination with ravens, and I just found this and edited it. It's been a long time coming, I think.
5.6k · Jun 2015
Cosmic Quiet
Marie-Chantal Jun 2015
In the cosmic quiet of
A solitary dream,
I swam through the stars
Navigating upstream.
more to come I hope????????
3.4k · Oct 2014
Selfish Bugs
Marie-Chantal Oct 2014
Stink up the beer house with unadorned putrid self-thoughts.
Poppy-eyed and hating others is easy for blue bottled buggers.
A sweet thing for you!
A growing circle of six-legged empty.

Filled to the brim with puffed up space. A white brim with a shiny red exoskeleton.

Oh, what a dreadful sight!

Hair strewn across a face and hooked into the teeth of the blushy lullabied insect screech.
Clear liquid not blood, but blood all the same on an empty stomach with full vein-shot bones.

Not milky bones with calcium-love..

A dead, deficient, cracked, neglected, insufficient skeletal frame, limp.

Yellowed with hate-smoke and old book notes.
Splintered, crazed and buzzed through the gridded bulging eye-window of every single one of those insect like Self-Loathers.

Chosen out of pure sympathy "We should talk more"
.......To the sun, the moon and the stars?

Every star mocks,

Every beam scoffs

and every moon likes to deride on the pain that hides beneath the lies of human bug eyes.

A simply formed pound of vertebrate flesh leaks soft plasma on the scaly moth floor.

Oh how we are dusty and unsure!

Forestry consisting of a Sitka Spruce and of a Japanese Larch was a claim I made from the start.
Over gardens of attention arachnid lurking selfish bugs and even those half winged "friend people".
The bell has rung the scariest of chimes and with every soul wrenching 'ding' a furry fang digs at the blotchy eyed, softly fleshed girl.

Oh such a sweet thing to be surrounded by selfish bugs who spin webs with tear stained tissues!
a poem about how horribly self absorbed, selfish (and bug-like, of course) we all are!
2.9k · Aug 2015
Bursting Bouquets
Marie-Chantal Aug 2015
I've seen bodies aching,
freshly groomed,
seeking to fill the void with
Sleeping under vibrant bouquets
of drowsiness and lethargy.
I can see the figure in my future
He's drowning in the plants of lust
But I should wait until that time.
I must, I must, I must.
2.5k · Oct 2014
A Stream of Consciousness
Marie-Chantal Oct 2014
It's an animal beastly thing wrapped up warm in stigmas headlines daydreams sleepdreams ice cream headspin. pain.
Sirens call in my upper chest or my abdomen, maybe. a ****** sea. fish of mens' hooks eels and seaweed wound around aorta blood pumping mind squeezing toes cracking new blister dried fluid. cracks and flakes a flushing cycle, not over the **** yet.
salty eyes heavy chest silver parcels unending quest not shiny particles. Head spin crack of dawn hey look the moon is gone. observed the craters they were my neighbours a hole in my heart like the one......
Don't play mean i try and try green bean carrot pencil brush pen, still here? Run! too hard. Curdling scream turns sour on my tastebuds my tongue has been dissatisfied. Add it to the list! lately I know these things should not have been acknowledged. Bed. No. Kitchen work? Yes. Hurts me through and through and I know it's because it is me and it cannot be handled but it settled in the pit of my stomach and it made itself a happy home. I HATE IT.

sanguine fluid
vital fluid

why would I ever use blood?

Porous salt bruises help mind chooses slugs and moths but i want insects like ladybird bees. Keep me weak and feed me lies because not once did you see me you only looked right past me. how does it feel, little peach, to be dishing out bowls of dinky lies. i ate it you were trusted you were good there's just so many people coming.

when the moon rises and the sky twinkles lights about you its easy to be sad but its time for you to *blossom
A total stream of consciousness. It is utterly lacking in another y structure or logical punctuation/capitalisation. I'd love to hear some feedback
1.9k · Jan 2015
Petit Jean Chevalier
Marie-Chantal Jan 2015
Jean Chevalier was
A Parisian man.
He led a simple life,
He had no big plan.

'La Résistance'
In took he part,
He felt it was right
In his Parisian heart.

The German soldier smirked,
Strapped in his ranks,
He looked down at Jean
And fantasised war tanks.

Jean was stuck in the métro
Since about half past three,
His stomach was aching,
A cigarette needed he.

The German Soldier, however,
Breaking the 'law',
Lit one up and
Opened his enormous jaw.

His pink, beefy face
Took a long drag,
Jean clung to his country,
Clung to his flag.

Jean gasped for a cigarette,
The soldier saw in his eyes.
But Jean managed yet
To stay dignified.

The soldier whips out a fresh one,
For Jean, condescendingly.
But without batting an eyelid,
Jean declares:

*"Non, Merci."
Merci Jean, tu as aidé Agnes Humbert et tu ne l'as jamais su
1.8k · Apr 2015
I Must be a Bobbin
Marie-Chantal Apr 2015
I think I must be a tarnished bobbin
or a spool,
Or something you think you can
reel in
Like a golden thread or a worn leash.
My answers may not wrap around your
little ego the way you would
like them to.
But sometimes bobbins and spools
need to unwind too.
Lol, I am a person too and I would appreciate if you acknowledged that every so often. x
This isn't really a poem or something that I like at all, I just realllllly needed to vent.......
1.8k · Jan 2015
Marie-Chantal Jan 2015
I have developed a twitch in my body-brain.
It jerks at my organs and my violet thoughts.
I can control it to make it work,
Use it to dance on your rusted metal cogs.
It's like a spinning tree,
With interwinding pine cones of
Gold that hang from satin branches
He is perched up there again!
Tall and proud.
Not a bird like other animals.
Not an animal like other animals.

I know your most shameful thoughts,
Let me tease out the guilt and despair
Pull it out in worm string from your
Bloodied Guts,
Your gilded towers where you lock them away
Shame on you.
Bell chimes three times: Death call
But blue tears still cling like sharp thorns to brassy plumage
plumes plumes plumes

Frère Jaques, Frère Jaques, Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?

Slumber not next to the satin tree,
Layered under the shrieks of your old loves
Where they suffer timeless tortures that make your tongue
Taste like fish feed.
Poppy breathed inside his beak-jaw, mongrel!
White faeces stain the satin branches again.
Bloodied, bloodied, bloodied.
Pandora makes you bleed
White faeces.
Leech, your brain is a leech-vampire.
White faeces.

Quick, walk around the tree three times in clockwise motions,
Not like a tick-tock more like the flap of a wing.
Do not forget the tear ink,
Her tears were ink,
they were ink,
ink, ink, ink.
Sink into the poppy field!
Churn in your toxic nutrition
Choke on your reflux
Do not taste.
Do not see.
Do not smell.
Do not touch.
yikes no idea where this came from.
1.8k · Sep 2014
Swing Crack Swing
Marie-Chantal Sep 2014
Sway of a tree, rope hanging down.
Swing, crack, swing, feet graze the ground.
Scruffy old shoes, laces like the rope,
If only you had known that you still had so much hope

Pill Popper, made you feel.
You needed someone to know that this pain was real

Swing, crack, swing, go the branches above you
They called out with the wind and begged you not to
Mutated in the brain, lay the mangled secret
And it whispered to you softly *Keep it, keep it, keep it.
1.7k · Apr 2015
White Pearls
Marie-Chantal Apr 2015
On alabaster ear lobes
Were two white pearls,
And to the sweet Marie Celeste,
Would sing the joys of the world.

She was born in June.  
Loved to dance.

It's quite tragic, really,
That she was on that ship,
The one called the Marie Celeste.

A mystery never resolved, you see.
The pearls whispered the joys of the world,
But they never whispered the joys of the sea.

Pearls do not lie, but sing
On the lobes of an odd thing,
White pearls on white lobes,

Marie Celeste would only wear white robes.

The summer months were not enjoyable,
Marie Celeste hated the heat.
She was always the one who asked the questions,
And the one who died at sea.

If by chance, when under water,
You find a pair of dusty pearls,
Will they still sing, I wonder,
The joys of the whole wide world?
Marie Celeste has been a character in my head recently
1.6k · Sep 2014
Munchkin Grin
Marie-Chantal Sep 2014
Ruffles your hair in the soft of the summer patch, sunbeams cling to you like honey then later cling to my ever growing hopes of happy happy love. silly silly silly winky-**** he bruises you with stains of purple-pink which later fade to yellow like 'le soleil' friction burns will come from 'le soleil' and linger and cling to your chest like an arrow through the heart. heart-throb. you belittle me one too many times doodle-bug.

Rosie roses are nice to fancy and fathom but thorns only puncture pale skin and drain you of your ruby juice until you are nothing but a dusty, hollow skin shell. pale naïve and empty to be filled with dreams, desires and demands as well. hate is not easily boiled in your kitchen kettle water but I think that's a good thing munchkin.

Hold back your disdain bite your tongue crack your teeth and do not repeat what your brain whispered it has been lying to you since the day you were born you silly silly silly... this is a ripping seam in your moonbeam and your emotions begin curdle and to leak out like fish but then you remember crying is okay but **** such salt water back in and say naught. distraught.

At witching hour it will come at you a cold sweat in the night where your fingers tingle and your meat twinkles faces before you with holes for irises. they have been sent to inject mishap and upside down rainbow viruses. when was the last bedtime you had cloudless soul with organic thoughts? oh fleshly girl tip-toe lightly as blood trickles down your ego and melts it away to stardust to form another cheeky doodle-bug munchkin grin
1.2k · Nov 2014
Obsessive Thinking
Marie-Chantal Nov 2014
You can busy yourself about the day
Keep the wretched words away
Write, so they are not so strong
Read, so you do nothing wrong.

They will catch up on you, however
With you and your heart forever,
These tiny little gnawing thoughts
With their presence you are lost.

Among the headaches and the pain
In this place nothing to gain

Shut your eyelids tight
When the stars are high
And the moon is bright

But try and wish what you may
You cannot keep the thoughts away
On your little devoured soul
You wish, you wish you could be whole.
I suffer pretty badly from obsessive thinking, and this was just my way of dealing with it tonight.
1.2k · Apr 2015
strawberry scream
Marie-Chantal Apr 2015
there's a glass jar around a heart
with titanium tubes feeding into the aorta
It's on a display in a museum
it's art
it's art
the blood looks sort of like
strawberry cream
look im so crazy there are no capital letters or any punctuation
its killing me inside
Marie-Chantal Feb 2015
That beautiful sir keeps watchful eye over the land. He carries an armful of lilacs, he says nothing but walks, his black plumage glinting in the near-spring light. He swings something along his side. Too afraid to ask. Why does he hide it? That's because the trees have eyes.

Roasting, dripping pig flesh and sweet dough, cooking ever so slow. A warning whisper is sent through the woods. How do trees know? They have eyes.

One lilac drops on the floor above the decaying bird carcasses. There are bird carcasses. Is this one of the beautiful sir's kind? That cannot be. But it is because the trees have eyes. They don't say much, trees, but they send a whisper up the woods and warn the fleshed pork eaters of coming lights. Snap! Fire out. Don't make a sound. Can they hear?

And suddenly the trees whisper as loudly as trees can:

For the beautiful sir is hardly man. There swinging at his side is nothing but a human head hanging on some golden thread. There is a stench of death that could never be described as anything other than fear. The beautiful sir with his black plumage is death.

His head jerks and he looks the fleshéd in the eye
they know they are the next to die.

But, how did the trees know?

*"That's because the trees have eyes."
Have you ever noticed that trees have eyes?
1.1k · Oct 2016
The Lamenting Lady
Marie-Chantal Oct 2016
Great Hollow She Home, the peacefully there's Mystery.
Dearly she labours.
Blood running, on to the summer flowers
WAIT till I come,

Left her, following low singing --
bare of everything

Let us go!
Go to the Devil!

Scorching heat and burning --
hang her by the neck

Thy trees mourned. She a Hollow labours....
Ah who was I that hidden from truly -----

Thy the end

Erected so obscure away.
Based on Aberdeen's history
994 · Jan 2015
Marie-Chantal Jan 2015
Do you have a superiority complex?
If you think so your pedestal is invisible,
Like your sickening
Mind Games
And Time Frames
And Fake Claims.
Do you think I'm your marionette?
My strings are growing thinner,
They're not taut
Like you thought
So you can just

954 · Oct 2015
Ceramic (s)Hell
Marie-Chantal Oct 2015
You threw a stone down the wishing well
And put your faith in a ceramic shell,
As the rock disturbed the water
You thanked the Lord, your Father.

Your ceramic shell is full of sand,
And you must obey every command.

In this I mean no disrespect,
But it has to be what you expect
For centuries you've tortured souls
Claiming it will save your own

If I don't believe in him,
That must be the greatest sin,
Worse than denying human beings
Of their own instinctive feelings

Can you blame me for my hate?
When you stole, murdered, lied and *****?

.........."But all that you need is Faith"
Sure it won't be popular but this is how I feel growing up in a previously hugely catholic country, which still affects Irish people's lives today.
Marie-Chantal Feb 2015
The feather stirs,
She lives!
Howl, she does not,
If she did her breath would mist the stone.

My poor fool,
Look on her,
Her lips,
Look on her lips.

How pathetic a mirror and a feather
and an old king seem now.
She was Christ-like,
Look on her lips.
The Fool,

Do you see this?
No breath mists the stone,
No feather stirs,
Look on her,
Look there, look there.

You men have hearts of stone.
The heartbreaking ending of King Lear. Had to adapt it in some way since it was so beautiful!
906 · Jun 2015
The Items on My Windowsill
Marie-Chantal Jun 2015
There is a statue of some people holding hands
around a pomegranate scented candle
and a metal, naked woman
and a *** with a lost lid.

The *** with the lost lid
resembles me,

And the pomegranate scented dancers
resemble what I would like to be,

And the metal, naked woman
has no problems with intimacy.
890 · Nov 2014
Marie-Chantal Nov 2014
I could stick to you.
I could wrap myself around your tightening waist.
Cling to the tiniest hairs on your
shrinking skin.

Clawing at your attention and your blue eyes
The windows to the soul
So why do I never look in?
My eyes are abysses
Your eyes are pools of independent waters

I want you to stick to me.
I want you to wrap yourself around my growing waist.
And cling to my thickening hair.
But You won't.

And when I get that pushing feeling
in my right toe,
I make you give me the silent treatment.
My abyss fills with tears
and I drown from
Sea to Pond
Pond to Sea
There may be a part two to come
654 · Sep 2014
Marie-Chantal Sep 2014
And the petals they cried.
And each of us sighed
As we looked at the sky
And we hoped to get by.

And the rest of them tried
As none of us lied
And though they worried and spied
They would never get by

And as the tears, they did fall
I would do nothing but call
For my petals to heal
And their small tears to feel

I could see through your fog
A deep grey black smog
And the pink petals flew
trailing behind you

And they whispered My Dear
Almost too quiet to hear
We will always be here

And the tears disappear.
This is about friendship  (I think)
614 · Oct 2014
Living dead
Marie-Chantal Oct 2014
A cold sweat body with bladed coils sinking teeth
remove myself from interior hate into exterior time
throbbing with self underneath
not a crime not a crime not a crime
string little berries on a thread
butterfly butterfly
the little bird said
wouldn't it be easier to be living..dead.
no idea what this is or where it came from. Meh..
520 · Dec 2014
Où Habitez-Vous?
Marie-Chantal Dec 2014
J'habite dans mon corps,
Dans mes cheuveux,
Dans ma tête.
J'habite dans mes mains,
Dans mes pieds.

Je suis une bête, non?
J'aimerais habiter dans mon cœur,
Dans mes oreilles, mes yeux.

Hélas, ce n'est pas le cas.
J'habite au future,
Dans mes cheveux
et mes bras.
Inspired by my talented friends who have written french poems too! Trying to live in the moment but I am failing...
512 · Nov 2014
Party Loneliness
Marie-Chantal Nov 2014
Alone a constant mind chatter
Sticking to sweaty inner parts and
Broken hearts
Stray hairs
Pink layers
Broken chairs

Too busy to have thoughts
Stomach in knots
The threshold crossed
I'm safe.

Made it so far
But Alone

Until I am filled with ends
"You are completed by others"
When the heart cries
It's the inner eyes
That fill the soul
And make it whole.

Only I.
503 · Jul 2015
Marie-Chantal Jul 2015
I'm sinking into myself
Deeper and deeper
Until I'm so small
That you can fit me on your shelf
Beside the
Stained lace and beloved
To keep them safe
Forever and ever
I hate human beings
(Well I felt like I did the night I wrote this)
447 · Jul 2016
Soul, IV
Marie-Chantal Jul 2016
Soul doesn't feel alone any more

"does soul have a duty?"

"She does,
to spread message."

Soul cried yesterday.


*I don't know.
446 · Sep 2014
Marie-Chantal Sep 2014
Soft curves on smooth skin showed little but a turquoise soul without sin. A sunny heart with no flaws, it was strong. The burning started soon after, a light tingle tingle, nervous laughter. Push away, close your eyelids tight, button. It will go away with the light button. So they say.

My core began to melt through my swollen fingers, down the drain. Then the scorch marks came! Craters, meters deep where it would be easy for sadness to seep and blackness to creep. I'm ******* sick of counting sheep so let me sleep let me sleep.

All that was left for the turquoise soul was crawlspace. Turquoise turns to green and quickly there is no more balance only mean. And it eats at me and I can't see so the worms and rats burrow inside and impatiently I wait for the pain to subside. Twirl my hair, feed me lies, take my hand and smother my cries.

A tear falls softly on your cheek and the guilt in my bones makes my heart weep. The fluid inside begins to boil and suddenly I'm smothered by the blood and the soil. The worms are there too, they're everywhere. I scream and beg...but worms don't care.

Chilled to the bone, I scratch and pull but then I can't move my coffin is full. Little dove, rosy cheeks, no more tears for weeks and weeks. Stop your turquoise **** it dead. Go to bed with GREEN in your head!
294 · Nov 2018
Marie-Chantal Nov 2018
E coli colonies
And clusters of blisters
Pink clusters of blisters
And scabs and lice
Do they taste good your cockles?
Do they feel satisfies your mussels?
Do you feel alive, alive, oh?
Candid she is ah
The women of the water
Of beds of sand burrowed deep
Shadows under rocks
On the corners of streets
A parasitic mass
Not the proverbial grain of sand
A fluid called nacre
Or mother of pearl is
Layer upon layer
Until a pearl
Is formed
The product of an irritant
A cluster of blisters
Opalescent blisters
Sweet pink satisfaction in
The labial palp
The entrance way to the mouth

‘I’m so cold and I’m so scared
And I’m so alone’

I just
So, a pearl fisher needs to wear waders
There’s no dignified way to put on waders
And when it gets cold you have to **** yourself to keep warm
You also need a set of tangs
Mine are hazel
I got them from the wood
I cut it down but first I asked the tree if it was okay
The tree is part of the river too you see
It nourishes the peat
That filters the water that
Drips back into the river
That is filtered by the mussel
That the salmon and trout swim in
Then the mussel
The larvae attached to the salmon and the trout
And it forms a symbiotic relationship
Where the mussel filters the water and
The salmon and the trout
Spread their offspring
The way you can tell the difference
Between a male and a female mussel
Is that when you pick up a male it's
Literally dripping in *****
A constant *******
The females all spawn at the same time
A mussel is an indicator species,
Which in ecological terms means
That it is a species that will
The perfect indicator of the health
Of the river
The other things you need are
A river speculum
I haven’t made mine yet
But we used plastic ones
With glass cut to shape
But it enables you to see the river
The secret part of the secret river
It’s red down there
And it’s cold
The women of the water
They hide in the shadows under rocks
And burrowed deep
They can move very slowly across the river
A colony of mussels
A family
When you find mussels
When you f
When you find a beautiful
When you find lots of them it’s
Called a
Good crook and this is where
You’ll find pearls
If you ask me the man who takes them is a good crook himself
Bad crook
And it’s I’m looking at it now and I can see
It with the moonlight on it
And it just it
Keeps going
But it’s tidal here it’s not fresh
I’d have to distil it myself
With copper pipes
Copper tubes
Copper coil
When copper ages it turns blue
And you don’t weld copper
You braze it
Soldering at a high temperature
A Heat
Mussels can live up to 150 years old
I held a 120-year-old one
And it was so wise and venerable
I didn’t know what to do
I couldn’t speak
This mussel
She was alone
Down there in the red
The angry red water
She lived through
WW1 and 2
And women’s suffrage
My grandmother was alive two
I wore silk because it’s pure
And women are supposed to be pure
Don’t know
Freshwater nymphs
I can see it right now
And it’s just like little tiny mirrors
Little tiny mirrors that are reflecting light back
Speculum is the Latin for mirror
Maybe the water’s a mirror
But it’s tidal here so I’d have to distil it
Saltwater mirrors
Saltwater speculums
Spectators of atrocity
And mussels they grow
With annual rings
They reach maturity around the
Age of 30
Like tree trunks
Like the hazel
That helps me to keep them
Catch them in its tangs
But I want to protect them
I am one

Little plaster shells
But I cracked one
And it wasn’t plaster
Split her in half
Not with tongs
With silicone
Pink flexible
Gooey silicone
Their linings bleed every month

It was a dark orange
Red colour
Because of the peat that was draining into the water

But I have to protect them
Cause I am one.

— The End —