The Poets Niche
join | meet the family | about us | submission guidelines | order products | book store
moni's updates | poem of the week | events | poet resources | bulletin board | home
tell a friend about this site

poems of the week

Enjoy these poems and please email the poets (where applicable) and give them some feedback!


He always deceived with ease.  He eased into 
his lies like a comfortable pair of slippers. 
His breath never choked as the words rolled out.

His canvas -- a woman’s soul.  His intent was to 
make his victim swallow his deception with ease. 

Everything about him was tailored, tasteful, orderly 
and never excessive.  His timing was effortless, cool, 
calm and collected.   

His aim was usually to please.  He never coerced his 
prey into feeling weak.  He simply eased you into 
believing he was doing you a favor by just being with you.

He used only essential words to make you believe he was 
interested, and left just enough vagueness to question 
your own sanity. Did he answer the question?  Maybe.  
Did he say he’d call?  Probably.  Did he say he was 
coming over?  We’ll see. 

He wanted nothing, and gave just that -- nothing.  
But somehow he convinced you he wanted more, simply 
by listening to your needs, or simply by nodding 
timely, or responding with I know what you mean,
when you took a breath.  

He was skillful not to share any part of himself.  
His past, fears and dreams, were all locked within 
this mosaic of a man.  

As you may have already figured out, I was one of 
those unfortunate ones, a canvas, a victim, a silent 
believer in what was never there.  A hoper of things 
he never shared.  A pretender that he somehow cared.

You see, my self-worth was not based on how a man 
saw me in his eyes.  I was educated, independent, 
and comfortable in my own skin.  

I didn’t need, or for that matter, want a commitment.  
I was content with the little things.  A call whenever, 
dinner wherever or a trip no matter when.

I was sociable when the occasion called for it.  
Being a loner was a choice, not a sentence handed 
down by some man that I wasn’t worthy of being loved.  
I just hadn’t found Mr. Tolerable yet.  

But it was at the end of the tenth year I wanted more. 
More than a call whenever, dinner wherever or a trip no 
matter when.  

And, it was during a casual conversation with my father 
about my semi-reclusive lifestyle, I began to reflect on 
the ten years of nothing shared.  

The simplicity of my father’s comment that I was “Every 
married woman’s nightmare,” hit me like a ton of bricks.  

And as I stood outside myself and watched stupidity 
unfold, “Every married woman’s nightmare,” rang in 
my ears and I swallowed my pride.

I’d never taken the time to ask all the obligatory 
questions or listen closely to the answers.  His 
hypnotic voice and smooth mannerisms tricked my 
senses into believing whatever his answers were, 
were right.  

And I rarely remembered hearing the sound of my name, 
Cassandra, cross his lips.  It was always Honey, 
Darling, Sweetheart, when he phoned between 9 a.m. 
and 5 p.m., or Baby between 10 p.m. and 2 a.m.  

His intentions were honorable, or so I thought. 
But actions do speak louder than words, and his 
actions were loud and clear. 

“Every married woman’s nightmare,” was swirling in 
the pit of my stomach, and heartache was just about 
to scratch the surface of my sanity.

I’d never harbored any harm to anyone before.  
But all that changed when I followed him home 
in that 11th year and one day. 

Dragging a child’s bike, he eased out of his 
two-car garage.  He kissed his lovely wife, 
who seemed as naive as me.  

Later that night, he eased himself up from my bed, 
smiled, and said he’d call.  I said, “Would you 
like a drink before you leave?” “Yes, Baby please,” 
he replied with ease.  

I watched him sip his drink as he dressed to leave.  
He never knew what hit him. “Honey, Baby, Sweethea---,” 
he gasped as he looked at me with that ohhh sooo 
pathetic, panicked look.

     “So, how does it taste, Mr. Ease?”

The day this soulless ghost was laid to rest was 
the only time I went there.  I stood out of sight 
behind a willow tree to feel the breeze.  

I saw no headstone for a man who lived his life 
with such ease.  And as I left, I’m sorry to say, 
I was quite pleased.  

I never thought of him until I received a note from 
Mrs. Ease, on the one-year anniversary of his sudden
passing. I was stunned to receive this note, because 
I wondered how she knew about me.  

Her note was instructions to his gravesite.  

Four other women were there at the dearly 
departed’s eternal home.  And it was safe to 
assume they were also canvases, victims, and 
silent believers in what was never theirs. 

His headstone was draped with an oversized picture 
of him he had apparently given to all of us.  The 
one with the confident smile, innocent eyes, and 
premeditated heart.

And as we stood there silently paying homage to 
our pain, Mrs. Ease pulled back the drape and 
read the headstone with ease.

    That's What You Get For Being A Tease

Monica D. Blache (c) 1998


Nothing in life could have prepared me
for the simplicity of his touch, the 
love he brought, the tenderness he 
shared, or the hope he evoked.

I knew the end was near.  I felt my eyes 
well up.  So, I held on tight to my drops.
I was afraid that if they fell from my 
skies, the downpour would flood my heart.  

He held out his hands to catch my drops
so he could drink up my pain, and help 
me find my lost soul.  

He drank from my cup of nothing and offered 
to fill it with everlasting wishes only he 
could grant and fulfill.

Hoping that what I found in his place of
comfort would somehow rub off on me,
I wrapped myself in the sleeves of his 
shirts hanging from his closet of history.

I wanted to leave a piece of me in his closet, 
so I could summon his sleeves to caress me, 
and remind me of what it felt like to be whole.

And there, I felt it again -- my drops on 
the verge of falling, reminding me that I’d 
never been held or loved like that before.

As they raced to find a home on my cheeks, 
I could no longer hold onto my teardrops. 
He said he would not let me drown.
So I let go.

And the screams from inside finally cried out.
Now, it was safe for me to go to the place where 
I had chosen to hide.  Stepping out, one foot at 
a time, I swam in the river of my teardrops.  

And somewhere, between the drops, I was rescued.

Monica D. Blache © 1998
(dedicated to the hands that caught my drops)


He stood in the doorway and gazed at me one last time. 
He smiled, then tiptoed out.

I was still lost in my dreams when I heard the door close
behind him.

Silent keys.
Fading footsteps.
Hours apart. 

His day would be filled with make-believe people in 
cardboard buildings.

Throughout the day, thoughts of us together will cross 
the threshold of his mind.

One more thought of me broadened his smile. 

Approaching footsteps.
Creaking porch.
Doorknob turned.

I knew he would return because he gave me the
keys to his heart.

He knew, no matter what door he opened, I would
be there to love him with the passion I vowed to 
God that no other would or could undo.

He knew, no matter how many keys he used to unlock 
the past, that on the other side of the door was his 
present future.

Door opened.

He returned and crossed the threshold into
what was real.  

He saw in my eyes that all was right in the
Land of Wrong.  

He saw that after years of searching, the only 
soul he hungered for would carry him to a place 
where it was safe to slumber. 

And, when I called out his name and welcomed 
him back to the safety of my bosom, and kissed 
his lips to quench his fire inside, he sighed, 
"Thank You."

Monica D. Blache ©1998


Spring cleaning. 

It had been packed away for years in the left 
pocket of my brown coat.  When I held it again, 
a tidal wave of emotions washed over me.

I fell to my knees and dusted off the box which 
carefully locked away the mementos of those five 
days we shared together. 

There was nothing chance about our meeting.  An 
improperly addressed thank you note to a friend 
found its way to his post office box.  He sent 
it back with a note apologizing for opening it.  
He said he wished he had a friend like me who 
cared enough to send thank you notes.  He said he 
liked the way I signed the note with a single 
letter - "m".

Now, scattered on the floor were seven hundred 
and forty-eight love letters he wrote to me for 
five years before we finally met, when the leaves 
turned red and orange.

He sent me a ticket, and the stub stamped "used" 
is what I held in my hand.  It's funny how time 
slips away, and another five years can separate 
people for various reasons.  

I closed my eyes and remembered.  

I remembered the first sight of him.
I remembered his smile and thunderous laughter.

I remembered him holding my hand as we left the airport.
I remembered his first kiss melting away all of my apprehensions. 

I remembered the beautifully wrapped heart-shaped wire
basket filled with new love letters written in calligraphy. 

I remembered that the only sound that broke the silence 
was our beating hearts.    

I remembered slow dancing by candlelight.

I remembered the gentleness when he washed me in the 
fresh scent of gardenias, and how he dried me in his 
homemade love.

I remembered crossing bridges of time and space, when 
we made love under the sun and moon. 

I remembered sleeping in his arms, and kissing him 
every moment of the day. 

I remembered how I didn't want our time together 
to ever end.  

I remembered with such the certainty that I'd never 
known before, that I loved him.

I remembered the pain of leaving him and returning 
to my routine of details.

I remembered I couldn't understand why we weren't 
together anymore after those five days.

That night, I slept on top of the seven hundred and 
forty-eight love letters he wrote to me.

I put the ticket stub back in the left pocket of my 
brown coat, and packed away those five days remembered
until I needed it again. 

Monica D. Blache (c) 1998


I lived during the time of the baby boomers and 
Generation X.

I lived during the time when Kings and world leaders 
were assassinated.

I lived during the time when Presidents thought they had 
the power to proclaim a day of peace, yet, the end is nearing.

I lived during the time when the hands of the moral majority 
were in the pockets of those without.

I lived during the time when having a job meant you were one 
paycheck away from homelessness.

I lived during the time when the innocent were prisoners in their 
own homes, while the evil one ran amuck in the streets.

I lived during the time when vicious words and racial slurs were 
spewed to incite, degrade, and separate.

I lived during the time when children were taught to say "no" 
but exposed to "yes".

I lived during the time when women were the silent partners of  
violence but their bruises revealed what they were afraid to say.

I lived during the time when the elderly were not valued for their 
years of wisdom but forced to live their final days shut away.

I lived during the time when the slaughter of nameless and countless 
unborn was a choice.

I lived during the time when lewdness and vulgarity were bought, 
sold and viewed as entertainment.

I lived during the time when trust was shattered by the unscrupulous 
perpetrating scams in the name of need.

I lived during the time of when many believed the solution was sold 
in a bottle or bag by the ounce.

I lived during the time when rolling the dice was the spice of life.

I lived during the time when morality was sacrificed for material 

I lived during the time when one’s sexuality was secretly locked away.

I lived during the time when epidemics wiped out entire nations.

I lived during the time when distorted views of life’s destroyed 
the basic principle that all were created from love to love.

I lived during the time when holy wars were fought in the name of peace. 

I lived during the time of when religious beliefs contradicted My 
Father’s teachings.

I lived during the time of recession, oppression, depression, obsession 
but little confession.

And, I lived during the time of when many claimed to be Me.

I say to you

No shelter will protect you;

No government will sustain you;

And, no drug will sedate you from what will surely come;

So listen to the inner voice within for it knows all your sins.

Don’t sell your soul for a mere piece of gold.

Salvation can’t be bought.

Revelations revealed the signs to even the blind.

Life was Mine to giveth and Mine to taketh.

I lived during your time, which meant . . . 

you lived during Mine.

Monica D. Blache (c) 1998

NEXT:poem of the week---->    |   tell a friend about this site