Excerpts from the Celestial Cervices of My Mind (A brief book of poems by Jessica E. MacLeod)

1. Excerpts from the Celestial Cervices of My Mind(A brief book of poems by Jessica E. MacLeod)

2. Table of Contents 1) Morning Place of Prayer 2) Monk by the Sea 3) Chalk White Cliffs of the Seven Sisters 4) The Kettle 5) In August 6) The Battered crabapple 7) The Ambling Moose

3. The gates of morning open as each callous vein of sunlight pulsates to reach the sand the pier sways the wood has weakened and rotted he stirs their shrieks and squawks Their familiar hunger he knows A murmur drizzles out of him Surely goodness and mercy shall follow these brief days I have left in life He fumbles for his frayed Clipper bib pants, Apron, and soiled rubber boots As his boot rocks soundlessly in the waves Lies a submergence under a swathe of cobalt the nets, the traps, the lines acquire reckless victims of the sea And there he stands boning hook in grisly hand fillet knife in the other for he only wished to put an end to the snare of endless yearnings and help in crossing an ocean of hunger. Morning Place of Prayer

4. Monk by the Sea The sky is purged- the clouds washed out each ribbon of blue, and pink and sheer as night the blackest smog creeps How sinister an image such as when ink seeps Is thus: a bleeding prophesy of coming squall On haughty sands in pristine robes with perfect gaze the monk remains he yearns with absurd pleas Each tragedy endured in life could no longer rouse any verve and half in craze and half delight a sickness engrossed his veins to be one with the infinite His ache now strong so devastating for the storm foretells of curbing time Withered and shrunken, hollow in body and with hands that shake and swell but still sublime How quaint he looks to expansive lands as white caps break as wind rips at russet robes his gaze is kept A tempest will assail wrath of unknown kind There he stands All fears gone His soul vacant Come now it is preordained.

5. Memory: I can take my head and note down as in a log, every excruciating detail on Haven's Brow We stood there, you and I, separated by several paces, at the edge of the walk way, that suddenly cut off by the jagged, chalk white cliffs and open sea. It was one of those days that you referred to as, "God's gift to the sailor," because the wind was biting, the air felt moist from the white caps hitting the lighthouse One by one slowly as if trying to nudge it, plague it from it silence. There you stood, chest pressed out forward to the wind I saw the ache in your eyes, it was impossible to ignore. You bent down and touched the knapweed, eyes like before glancing down towards that sailboat which was persistent to drift but suppressed by its anchor. There the boat rocked, back and forth ravaged by the sea. My mind cast off searching much as when a fisherman must wait hoping that his nets will reap plenty. I was revived, when you called me over to look at the fishing trawler pulling into the bay How wretched it looked rust ruining and eating at its sides trying to split it spoil it make it devastated. You looked at it pleased For its life was docking and departing each time to leave its contents of haddock and cod spilled out against the livid sands I glanced at you hoping to catch the light of life in your eyes but nothing it was gone, worn away like the face of the cliff left serrated and compressed Chalk White Cliffs of the Seven Sisters

6. by the tide. I recall that first time we came up here do you remember I ask When you brought me to this place do you remember the migration of the butterflies the Nightingale that plummeted from the sky the spotted orchids you picked because you knew they were my favorite a smirk falls like a current, that smile which was once so familiar, now fleeting I try hard to remind you, instill something, anything back into you. You remained a restless quiet but mentioned the irony of a small Herring gull which was unrelenting in its slaughter of a Blue mussel. You turned back to face me your eyes an indifferent hue of blue You were striking but so unknown We were once like the twine of a rope, you and I. Then I remember You stood so close to that edge the cliff was so abrupt It was then I knew I was the lighthouse my beacon searching yearning for that sailboat whose anchor had been severed and had now gone a drift.

7. The Kettle remains half empty like former lovers. Surrounded by bustle. It stands cold and stoic. Ebony with vice. The crimson light flickers. On. Off. On. Off. On. Off. I am the Kettle With which you once filled. Last night as if natural A whistle. Short. And sharp. I spoke as though I had once before. Then cut off abruptly in the night. The kettle yearned to boil, to relinquish what it had left. The pressure was unnerving. But how I'm uncertain by my sporadic need to speak. For I have been futile for many years. Watch now, as the light torments unease. On. Off. On. Off. On. Off. It seems relentless to be appeased. Now you must watch On. Off. On. Off. On. Off. Hiss and spout. Paranoia amplifies in your head. Will I boil off or explode? How Unnerving for You

8. This I saw on an August Day: Sharp heat penetrating through laced white cloud, pastel red sky sear across a far flung horizon, And a wise young fox ganders round, coy with hunger and exhaust from the beaten pick-up idle on the dusty lane. And this I saw in an August field: The new white calf now lofty and strong, tramples next to the sampling limp from heat And the oleander dried with hay lies in stacks bored with decay. And this I tried to understand: The rust began on the biting plow. The seed now still in fallow ground. And the lonesome coyot’s insufferable wail from the stark moss bank In August

9. The wooden bench weathered and worn, pressed firmly against the sloping bank. And fixed below the tumbling green: A crabapple. And like weary woman, It worked hard not to founder, For the tortured trunk bowed. Its branches bare, buds to bloom, A shadow cast on the cobbled road. This silhouette spread wide, Each outline of a branch leading to the next. So eerie the bark split and spoiled, A vision fading out of winter. No blossoms, No leaves. The shadow unveiled is grim. From Slumbering boughs Where the slight crocus has emerged. Each crocus trembles, from unforgiving bellows of breeze. The whistle of wind and chill at the spine try to remind that winter will neither hesitate, Nor fall easy. The Battered Crabapple

10. The black bird perches light footed in the sorrowful limbs. And the crisp, russet leaves linger curled, and creased by the long winter's months. A crabapple I once knew, Stood stern in a garden belonging to a woman of familiarity. And there it lent its shade, A promise of protection from relentless heat. Yet, the tree that stands before me now, Can offer nothing of comfort or relief. For it is unaware. Only to be bleak, barren, and bashful. Now, it pauses for a sign of new. Then, every bud shall burst. Now is the time I whisper. Then all shall be well. The shadow has sifted as the sunlight flickers. Maybe tomorrow it murmurs- With each sway of a tiring bough.

11. The foliage remains stark, the shrubbery lifeless, the majestic moose wades in the water. Peaceful and passive. ignorant with solitude, His massive brown eyes tell he is wise in his years. As the soldering sky falls opaque to the shadow of night, He is doomed to forage, yet he eagerly stops The dark of the night tells him to halt He meanders and wanders through fog and gloom, mindful and patient he is almost humming a tune. For he knows where he is traveling as he lumbers along How is it he knows, as he wanders contently on? He boast instinct and impulse Courage and pride He has traveled this route many a time, searching for food in a far distinct land. The answer is unclear, Will he get there or not? But we can travel no further from this very spot. The Ambling Moose