A Poetry Showcase for Monica Sharp

white lightning

photo by Florian Olivo (unsplash)

Black Shuck

If on a thundering night you chance hear him
When strikes the bolt hard on the earth’s wet floor
He howls that he comes to settle a score
Yea, your dark heart with its sins will fear him.

Farmers from sucking murk cannot clear him!
His ravenous hunger returns for more.
Scant does it matter whether rich or poor!
Courage will falter and patience wear thin.

Black Shuck - the hellhound - roams only at dark
He sniffs and snuffles and knows your mean ways
Teeth clench and jaws snap - follow his sharp bark

Clear thy heart! Order well all thy bright days!
Pray that lightning not become evil’s spark -
When Black Shuck prowls the town, sinners will pay.


Sanguine, choleric, phlegmatic, bile:
Capricious humours tow us through the world,
Determine whether lips or toes be curled, 
Whether we bolt, or tarry here awhile.

No soul can say who glides smoothest with style,
Who beckons to charm all strangers, teeth pearl’d;
Or who slumps to gloom, lost in cold wins whirl’d,
Who cannot summon even one wan smile.

And yet we are born, and claim our blood lot;
We move through this life. We struggle to see
That which we choose, and that which we choose not - 

Not understanding this quick trinity
I feared finding myself in fine webs caught!
There’s naught to fix here: I am who I be.

Global Perambulations

Through the damp night came a ferry’s low moan
From my bed I dreamt of journeys afar
Guided by an invisible bright star
Speaking in languages I’d never known.

Trusting was I of the dreams I was shown,
So weary was I of that Baltic Bar!
No more did I wish that rare caviar.
And though I’d miss it, by then yon I’d flown.

Thus we must heed whate’er our visions tell;
Do not discard them ‘ere rise the next sun.
Ephemeral glimpses bid us there dwell.

And lo! slumber sparks daydreams so begun
That our life continue smoothly and well.
And wake we in another scene: this one.

Ghost Ship

O noonday Demon with your wearying Complaint,
Why takest Thou my weak-willed heart,
Whose Pulse doth beat in manner faint
Making all efforts a failing art?

How can Thee take the Sun for a Cloud,
Turning that Star as though a thin Dime?
My stubborn thoughts whistle aloud.
Heart loses track of Space and Time.

O wretched Devil - hungry Ghost!
Go - find Thee daring and faraway lands!
Sail in search of some new Coast!
Leave me - if not my Heart and Mind - then my Hands.

I crewed on deck for years with Thee
I know thy Maps - thy Labes and Charts
But here in this fresh Century
I’ll lay down Thy writ to make clean Starts

Keats and Me

A marshy spring meadow
In the weak sunlight
It had just stopped raining
I knew he was waiting

The apples in blossom
New grass soft and green
The creek clean and full
Rotting logs sweet

Sky blue and grey
Big-bellied clouds sagging
Quick on the path now
I knew he was waiting

I skirted the puddles
I took care with my shoes
There wasn’t much time now
Rain coming soon

Bunches of violets
Who’s shrinking now?
Not I, I murmured
And furrowed my brow

He won’t say I lagged
He can’t say I don’t love
My darling, I’m coming
With our treasure trove

I’d always been so good
I’d always done right
I wanted to meet him
Out here in the light

I no longer cared now
I wanted to see
I wanted to kiss him
Irresponsible me

Mr. Brown in Pandemic : A Spenserian Sonnet

What rollicking man once rolled round the world
To alight where his fancy might draw him
Disembarking to spy each flag unfurled
Clutched to the bosom of friends who saw him.

But the pandemic drew near - spread thin
Too thin, those ties which before held him fast.
And he lost within months the merry din
He hoped would to his final years last.

Confronted instead by a silence vast
And his heart limited from all it loved.
Now dull as dust the joyous years he passed!
Replaced by elusive shadows unproved.

And each day he now roars forth Tech! - loathing Zoom,
Looking round in fear at his silent room.

The Dream Woods

Deep in the wood 
where the old heart hides
where the ghost grabs flesh 
grasps bone or less
Dreams fly low 
as though true memories made
Background surges 
foreground fades
Until each everything everything everything
Gone over 
Over again
Until the tread is lost
the sinew slips
The gears grind
The picture fits.

Bio: Monica lives and writes in Florence, Italy. Her international spirit travels with an American passport but she's lost count of all the relevant metrics. She currently moonlights as a legal researcher for a local law firm. Her off-hours are filled with parenting, managing various people and projects, and literature. Read more about Monica at sharpmonica.com.

Social media handles:
•	Instagram: occhiatafiorentina
•	LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/sharpmonica/
•	Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/msharp73
•	My author website https://sharpmonica.com/ 
•	Twitter: @finnch

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1


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