A Collection of Poems from My Youth Veronique (Nikki) Willett

My earliest recollection of writing was around the age of nine with my girl friend next door. Impishly we wrote mystery stories as we both loved Nancy Drew. Few years later, I began a passion of my Dad’s in science fiction and began writing short sci-fi stories. I didn’t really start writing poetry until I was in high school and this continued til a few years after college. I can’t find my early writings, though I know my Mom saved everything I ever did. And I don’t know why I stopped writing stories and poetry. But at least these few can be remembered especially those written about many of my friends and their experiences at that time.

Mother and Daughter
In my mother’s memory (1925-1996)
A Poem by Veronique Willett, 1985

Mother. Mother of my years. Teacher of my mind. Many times we turn to each other in anger and pain. Daughter. Daughter of my youth. Child of my body. Many times we look to each other in love and joy. Mother. Don’t cry so. Don’t let me hear the sorrow I cause for staying away. But let me see that smile in the lines of your face. Daughter. Don’t rebel so. Don’t let me see the anguish I cause for keeping you near. But let me hear the laughter that comes from your heart. Mother. I need you. Daughter. I am here. Always close to your thoughts, to your love. Daughter. I need you. Mother. I am here. Always close to your heart, to your soul. Daughter. When I go, be here. Mother. When I go, be there. Daughter. You’re the child I wish to be. Mother. You’re the woman I shall become. Daughter. I love you. Mother. I love you. Forever last, Forever cherish, The love of Mother and Daughter.

A Poem by Veronique Willett, Copyright 1981

Sweet Remembrances

Oh sweet remembrances of yester years, Of ribbons gone and faded jeans. Oh brightly smile that morning glow, That whispers now of long ago. Where once we climbed, joyful and free And labored and toiled so easily. Those times they rest in places of woe, Where cobwebs and dust are all that show. Sweet remembrances… Oh sweet remembrances. And all I need for these, Is a grain of sand, seagulls, A song, or mellow breeze. Then turns the hand that passes time That makes the image come alive. And life stops, a dream begins Full of sound and gentle winds That bring back smells of earthy green Of lavender, sage, and blossoming weeds. They all rise from the simple ash To return only while this dream lasts. Sweet remembrances Oh sweet remembrances. And all I need for these, Is a grain of sand, seagulls, A song, or mellow breeze.

It Beckons
A Poem by Veronique Willett, Copyright 1976

I walk down the long Road of life and I see Before me a deep blue Lake lying listfully in The sun. On the other Side looms a forest. Rays of the sun peep Through the breaks in the trees Chirping of birds can be Heard faintly from tree Tops. Although it looks Inviting, it is still dark and mysterious. Before I walk onto the forest of death, I pause to look at my surroundings, and I begin to wonder if I really see and hear.

Thought for the Day
A poem by Veronique Willett, Copyright 1975

I thought, Perhaps, To the trees, The sap Was Soft, thender Tear drops.

A Ship's Tale
Prose by Veronique Willett, 1982

The old ship is worn, yet has sustained the scourge of weather through fishing trips, leisurely tours and world races. It is gazed upon by flocks of people; of which most are known to be reputable sailors. There are other more beautiful ships, among the passages and canals of the harbor, which perhaps have won more races than the older ship, yet they sit in restless silence. The ship is known for being rustic, meaning lacking of refinement while maintaining an air of simplicity, and has wooden planks and handmade sails. One characteristic of this ship, its sails and floors is, that they are never replaced. Worn, aged, and used, its frame always remains the same. The ship never moves, unless professionally borrowed. It is found sometimes wandering but always near home, around floating gulls and elegantly painted buoys, where the leisurely rich sail, where everybody recognizes it, and where most of them stop to say, "I wish I owned that ship." It ignores these lightly said appraisals with the rest of its ancient history and slowly floats among the waves.

Of Life (Part 1)
A Poem by Veronique Willett, Copyright 1984-1985

"I'm tired of life," said the young man. "Life is too short for you to be tired. You have to grasp each day and live it as if it is the end. And when the last one arrives, you'll know at least you've lived life to its fullest," said the old man. The young man smiled, though he did not agree, but he knew that this was what the old man was doing.

Of Life (Part 2)
The cemetery, cold and bare, where no flowers lay, the young man stood. "Rest in peace," he said. But the old man didn't smile back. "Is this is the end of living life to its fullest?" he asked. The young man shook his head. Saddened, he turned away. "I guess he finally got tired of life." The old man kept silent, but he finally agreed.

What the Mirror Reflects
A Poem by Veronique Willett, Copyright 1984 A michevious imp with twinkling eyes, Sweet, carefree and wild – but superficial. A mask to scare off reality. It hungers for pizzazz, adventure, the fun in life. It looks for direction, but stands alone. Always along, untouched, As reality untouches the mask. Fear puts it off at a distance, but it also distances others. This is what your eyes would see, If they looked upon my mirror. This is what your eyes would see, If they'd only look inner. The mirror blurs, appears – half a smile, A loving caress, That of understanding, sympathy, caring, One that reaches out and touches others, And others are touched by it. A feeling only age and wisdom share Brought on suddenly to submerge once again Not a mask is hidden, but deep love. This is what your eyes would see, If they looked upon my mirror. This is what your eyes would see, If they'd only look inner. The image fades, a new one replaces, With eyes full of awe and wonder. Expressing joy of new discoveries; Bird or book, morning or music, poetry or paintings. New sparks for ideas, goals and friends

An innocence turned toward the world unafraid. Always delighted in each day that surpasses the next. A day filled with fiction, fairies, miracles and hope. This is what your eyes would see, If they looked upon my mirror. This is what your eyes would see, If they'd only look inner. Arrogance breaks in, tough, harsh, insecure, Quick to judge, ready to run Afraid to show weakness and emotion. A man's protective mask, Revealed only in the depth of your eyes, And the sounds of your melancholy songs. But your arrogance belittles truth, in that, past hurt does not beget hurt. And all these faces are reflected If you'd only look upon my mirror, To see what my eyes see… The child, the mother, the youngster, the man – you.

A Poem by Veronique Willett, Copyright 1977

I like to wish upon a star at night when I am thinking. I like to fly above its head to see where it would go. I like to hear the calling of the owl to its mate. I like to see the moon beams afloat up in the sky. I'd like to follow it one day to see the world up high.

The Years to Come
A Poem by Veronique Willett, Copyright 1974 (this is the earliest writing I can still find)

All is dark and peaceful. the mechanical bird goes higher and faster. Technology is like a whale in a drop of water. Life cannot be destroyed easily. Our lives are like a river, until they are stopped by a dam. When the great dam bursts, our lives will be no more. The pieces will go to the vast unknown. The great light will die of exhaustion. All galaxies will mourn. Until our creator comes and points his hand; And the world shall start all over again.

"?" - An Alphabetic Poem
A Poem by Veronique Willett, Copyright 1980

Alpha? Beta? The beginning or Can it be Defined as the End? Filled with this Gravity of doubt, I asked, How can it be both or neither? It's not the beginning, because it's past. It's Just not the end, because it hasn't come. So where are we? Kinds of puts doubts in your mind, doesn't it? Like the question of another's friendship; Many of said it was the beginning No, I said it was the end. Of course I could've been wrong... But Probabilities showed I had fifty percent chance of answering the Question right. Right? Still, there's that question of doubt. Why? To be or not to be? Where are we in time? Unanswered problems, Vacant stares in a World of philosophical analysis. X + Y = Z, Alpha + Omega = the middle? You are here. Or, are you there? Ziddle dee dee, who really cares? Surely, not me... ??

Weeping Willow
A Poem by Veronique Willett, Copyright 1982

golden leaves sprinkle the ground gently settling like tender teardrops branches of the tree then move silently as long sweeping eyelashes

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