You wanted me to have secrets,
even knowing that
the blunt truths of the world
took so much,
I didn't have energy to spare
for hidden things.

You wanted me to have secrets,
for me to give them
as demonstration of an intimacy
that didn't need
such contrivances between us.

You wanted me to have secrets,
for me to wear them

like lingerie
draped about my soul,
so that you could
peel them away
layer by layer.

You wanted me to have secrets,
you never seeing
that my bared and naked story,
offered up without guile,
was enough.

You wanted me to have secrets,
and you wanted me to have them
with you.
                       ©2019 Annette Meserve

Sacred Geometry
I am a single point in space,
A dot on a page,
A period,
Restricted in my reach,
Limited to this one tiny place,
This singluar view,
Occupying a space
Where no one else can,
Because I am here
And unable to extend
In any direction beyond.

And life here is relational.

To define a line,
A direction,
A journey,
Outside of my one little space,

To extend my existence,
Two points are required,
My senses creating
A sense of myself
Through the perception
Of that which is around me
My life becoming a direction
Joined to the secondary point
Of the sensual.

A definition of the self
Slowly forming
In relation to the mango sweetness
Eaten gratefully,
Feeding a grumbling morning hunger

In relation to ice crystal coldness
Blown from snowy branch
Down the back of an exposed neck

In relation to crinkling of paper
And match's first scratch
Fire life roaring
The sound warming
Long before the radiating heat.

In relation to the round disk of sun
Faint behind clouds,
The father observing through a veil,
Viewably dimmed for earthly eyes,

In relation to tree blood wafting
A lumber-yard scent
Of a broken forest
Carried aloft on wild mountain breeze

But my existence must be defined further,
By a third point,
That gives a line,
My line,
A third dimension,
That raises it out of the me
To create me
In relation to another,
To many others,

My self triangulated
By where I fit
Within the spectrum of beings,
As seen
And reflected by other selves
Occupying other points,

Each of us creating for each other
Fixed coordinates
By which we can begin to glimpse
Our place in the geometry of things. 

                             ©2017 Annette Meserve


I hear him up there,
Up there in my ceiling,
And I can picture the damage
That his living there is causing,

I imagine him scratching away
At the insulation that protects me
From weather and cold,
Chewing at the structure of my house,

I hear the squeaking of his babies,
Babies that will grow up
To impose on my world
That much more,
The next generation 
Of scratchers and chewers.

He lives right above my head,
And yet,
I’ve never seen him,
I don’t know what he looks like,
Or what he believes,
I don’t know what he had for breakfast,
Or even what species he is.

I don’t know what he thinks of me.

I call him a ‘him’ out of ignorance,
For I don’t even know his gender.

Still, it’s anger and fear,
That I feel most days,
When I hear him up there,
Most days, that is,
Until today.

As I sit at my computer,
In this warm early spring,
A day warm enough
For the space heater to be quiet,

As I sit at my computer,
I hear a different sound,
Not a scratching
Or a squeaking,
But a deep rhythmic humming,
Undulating within the silence
Of my office.

And I suddenly imagine him
Not as the devouring set
Of teeth and claws
That is my habit,
Not as the malicious force
Coming to destroy my home,

But as a sleeping
Ball of fur,
As an individual creature,
A fellow living thing,
Trying his best
To find food and shelter
To find the opportunity
To live peacefully
In a place of safety
High up in my ceiling,

And I am charmed
By the thought
Of living, not in a house
Where humans are the only residents,
But in an apartment building,
In a community,
Where we all must find balance,
Where we all must make allowances
For the others’ needs,

Where we all have something to offer
Even if it’s only
The calm, quiet snoring
Of my upstairs neighbor. 
                               ©2017 Annette Meserve



It could be a metaphor,
A physical illustration,
Of the violence
In evidence so closely around me,

Could be that my subconscious
Is needing for me to experience
The shattering
In real time,

Needing for my ears
To hear the crash of fragility
Against the grooved
And stained

The surface uncaring
And unaffected,
In the sickly fluorescent glow.

Needing for my eyes
To see the jagged sharp edges,
The earthenware’s rust interior
Showing through the familiar sage green,

The viscera of someone dear
Irreparably exposed,
No longer functional,
Forever changed

In a split-second of unconscious action.

Needing for my heart
To experience the powerlessness
As I gather the pieces
And try in vain
To put them back together,

All the king’s horses
And all the king’s men…

It must be that,
A metaphor,
An attempt to make sense,
Of the larger senselessness,

Why else would such a small loss
Make me cry so?
It's only a trifle,
A utensil,
A tool.

But it’s not,
Not a trifle,
Not merely a tool,
And not a metaphor.

I feel this loss deeply
Not because this is the ‘one more thing,’
It the straw
And me the camel,

I feel this loss deeply
Because of our history,
Because, in this world of much,
This was a beautiful, singular thing,
A companion
Through all of the years
And all of the miles.

So I will not try to justify,
To make it bigger
So that it reasonably warrants
The degree of my devastation.

I will mourn with the gravity
That this friend deserves,
And bless its passing,
Grateful for the time we had
Knowing it is likely
That only I
And it
Will understand.
                              ©2016 Annette Meserve

Desert Flowers
Is it a flight of fancy,
An artist’s fantasy,
Contrived justification?

Some might say it’s impractical,
An extravagance,
Frivolously naïve.

On the contrary,
It is of primary importance,
One of the many key pieces.

A divine vocation,
Among the chaos
A singular calling,
Within the fear

To cultivate the intangible,
To conserve the improbable,
To protect
                       ©2016 Annette Meserve






New Poetry

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An evening of Myth and Poetry

February 1, 2017  in Trinidad, CO