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. Galen 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
Fevers of the Mind 
Wonderful writing
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very good stuff
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