Messy Firsts; A Compilation


Messy Firsts; a Compilation


Copyright 2013 Christine Ledet

Published by Christine Ledet at Shakespir




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Table of Contents

The Unknown

The Place That Held Me

The Olive Wreath

That Boy


In Your Absence

Confetti Kisses

Caravaggio Crimson

Aladdin Lies



About the Author

Connect With Christine Ledet

The Unknown


The unknown is gray,

with a hint of gold.

Not much,

but just enough to make you hope.

The gray settles,

like early fog on water,

like rain between trees,

in an Amazonian rainforest.

Loss drips on the canvas too,

Not much,

but just enough for you to see reality.

The sunrise glows faintly at the top,

shimmery and smooth,

not much,

but just enough to believe.




The Place That Held Me

A sanctuary. A nest.

It cradled me in my waking and in my sleep,

I believed that it knew me.

When monsters lurked underneath,

hungry for dangling ankles,

I knew to fly over the cave of the beast.

In midair, she would catch me.

She would wrap me in a feathery embrace, and lull me to sleep.

Eventually, the monsters took shape.

Male adolescents.


In my father’s opinion.

She caught my tears with cotton wings,

never offended that I left mascara smudges.

She never scolded me for kicking in my sleep.

She never judged me.

She only sought to comfort me.


The Olive Wreath

A circle of gold,

a beaten sun,

shining coyly out of its glass prison.

I wonder,

to slip it on would I disappear?

Or shine into eternity.

Surviving thousands of by-gone years,

have you grown deaf?

Or do you still hear the clang of swords colliding into spears.

Do you remember the blood that fell,

From foe and friend?

You will never see guns, tanks, or flying machines,

but you shine into eyes that do.

You will never adorn a noble head,

that conceives and dreams of a universal Rome,

a Hellenistic Pangaea.

But you see the blood drawn from paper and pen,

and cruel intentions.

Some say the world ends in fire and ice,

but I think you would say blood.

That Boy

This is a poem to That Boy

The ink stained C.S. Lewis of the South

We, your Inklings, gathered around and spoke of philosophy, theology, and of course, love

Of which you believed yourself a master

You kissed all the girls and made them cry

Strange how we longed for a depressed Casanova

Who held feathers and ink and turned them into words

You imparted what you possessed

Confusion, your favorite fragrant offering

Your mood swings unpredictable and wild

No place existed within you that gave a firm grip

Just hopes and wispy dreams

That I wrongfully turned into reality

I longed to walk with you on European streets,

Ringing with church bells and earthy espressos

Trade your Georgia peaches for baguettes

And my Texas roots for cobblestone streets

But Casanova lives too distractedly for dreams

You never kissed me but my tears traveled a long distance.



I used to think myself dizzy,

thinking over the vastness and minuteness of a paradox.

Death, can it beget life?

None other paradox so disturbing, but yet so freeing.

Death gives those who live so many fears,

sometimes easy to look forward to,

and altogether out of our hands.

Death lives forever, but does it?

Told that once we’re free from the chains of our bodies,

that new ones will be assumed,

eternity given not only in our souls but in our muscles and bones.

I fight the temptation to fall into believing that death just sleep.

That when I close my eyes,

they will see the sunrise,

in a more tangible array

A truer scent my nose will find,

more notes in a rose than ever before.

Sound will bear fruit,

delicious and pure, filling every crevice, opening every door.

Death, a paradox no more.

In Your Absence

They say “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

I suppose that speaks true,

but with you my heart grew fonder and darker all at once.

I flew between one extreme to another,

like a hummingbird at a feeder

all of it an anxious fluttering.

Vacillating between emotions like a dealer shuffling cards,

whiplash became the name of the game.

“The ending of a thing is better than its beginning,”

Ecclesiastes unknowingly speaks to our condition.

But our ending was filled with both rose and poison colored glasses.

False conclusions and right perceptions littered my mind.

Like shells in the sand,

I couldn’t count them even if I tried.

Yes, hope deferred makes the heart sick

and my heart never felt sicker.

Yes, desire fulfilled is a tree of life

and my desire never more fulfilled

when you grazed my hand and held my head.

Maybe absence becomes fond, but it also feels bitter.

Confetti Kisses

Thudding through the forest,

fingers tangled in a wild mane,

I raced against time itself.

With every hoof that beat the ground my heart beat higher and louder.

Snake oil voices slipped down my spine, burning every vertebrae.

Hoof beats stalled and I tasted bile.

They would surely find us.

Until, I saw it.

A relief, an oasis, a childhood backyard,

shining through the burning leaves.

Waves of relief,

crashed through me.

My steed collapsed beneath me.

Fingers still entangled,

But instead of a mane I gripped a slender leg,

which bore a feathery body.

And now me.

Lifting me above the forest’s canopy,

I found myself in a rainstorm of confetti,

Kissing my flushed cheeks.

Caravaggio Crimson

Caravaggio dreams in crimson.

Shrouded demons lurk at night, slipping coils of scarlet around his sleeping mind. The light dims and swelling nightmares rise like grapes. Lungs on fire; Caravaggio runs. Velvet waves crash and smother. Heart constricting. Mind reeling. Hands ripping at his breath. Caravaggio lurches awake.

Caravaggio dreams in crimson.

It bleeds from his brush like it bleeds from his dreams. For Caravaggio’s man in the wilderness, a cloak of vermilion leaks from his reveries. Russet weeps from ivory shoulders and swirls around a lonely staff. To flavor an outcast, Caravaggio knows the only rightful backdrop is drenched in black.

Caravaggio dreams in crimson.

The darkness around the outcast grows pregnant. Heavy with oncoming life, the darkness glowed a shade more luminescent. The man’s body tenses. His shout will ring in the distance, but only for those who hear it. His warning words prepare for blameless feet, soon to be marred with crimson.

Caravaggio dreams in crimson.

The artist twirls his glass and observes his likeness. Both men outcasts, both sinners, both announcing the arrival of something tremendous, but one man’s hands drip with crimson. Ironic, that a Roman who snuffed out a life depicted a man who heralded it.

Caravaggio drowns in crimson.

Aladdin Lies

Somehow we forget that Aladdin lied.


His job, a thief, whose very resume contained only plunder. But he lied about that too. At least to the Princess, who believed him greater than his actual net worth, who believed him more honorable than her sweet and bumbling father, and who believed him to have his life together more than the fraying of his patched-up pants revealed.


But if we look closer at the fabric, we see the threadbare reality.


Aladdin hid behind a genie who gave him three wishes, just because he stumbled upon his lamp. We honor him for his cleverness, and applaud him for working smarter not harder. The carpet that whisked him out of uncomfortable situations, when a true man stands and fights. The so called self made man really a self made hoax.


Something in us wants to forget that Aladdin lied.


We rejoice when he sets the genie free. We rejoice when he gets the girl. We rejoice when Jafar receives his due, but I can’t help but wonder what makes them that different?


“Christine?” Mom’s debutante drawl inquires from my iPhone. I sigh. Caller ID stole the surprise out of calls long before Steve Jobs graced us with our metal and glass children. Mom never seemed to fully grasp it though.

“Yes Mom, it’s me.”

Gripping my phone between my shoulder and ear, I can already feel the crick in my neck start to form. I hold my steering wheel in my left hand, coffee in my right. I maneuver between cars, brain half on the road and half on the phone.

“What mom?”

I ask, my voice coming out panicked, trying to catch my sliding phone with my chin.

“I said we must visit the fabulous Williamsburg,” she chirps, suddenly transforming into a schoolgirl with thick glasses and an eager grin. Her excitement towards anything with historical relevance bursts from a crack in her proper visage like a bobby pin springing from a too-tight bouffant. If on any given family road trip we dare saw a brown sign and felt the audacity to mention it to her, it immediately meant a two-hour detour. Even if it is just dirt, Mom will want to know.

“Mom, I’m not sure if we can use the world fabulous to describe Williamsburg,” I mimic her aristocratic intonation. I think of a good steak, a fine wine with hints of raspberry and notes of smoke, even a good movie can make me feel fabulous. But to my mother, old red brick towns where locals dress like Colonial figures, make her feel fabulous like her blue-blooded string of pearls.


More. My theme for twenty-four. “Act your age,” they say, but how can I? I feel younger than pigtails and lemonade, but older than jury duty and life insurance. Six and thirty-six can’t help but to explode at the same time. On the day before my twenty-fourth birthday, I asked those “older and wiser” for advice on turning twenty-four. Not one person could recall what twenty-four meant, felt, looked, or even smelled like. So I asked God for more, or at least to remember more. Is that twenty-four?

More. My desire for peace. I know it best after a storm. The swelling sky swells no more, the tempest loses its teeth, and heavy clouds tuck themselves into a thin, white line. Peace feels like a touch on the hand when tears spot your jeans. Peace breathes like an early morning stroll in the fall. Peace sips like peach green tea on a summer’s eve, the hotter the day the stronger the flavor.

More. I want to know Atlas more. The burdened scholar with a tortured heart, he daydreams of high culture and high art. With the world on his shoulders, he sometimes forgets reality. Once I believed his struggles made him silly. Until the day he looked at me with heavy eyes and held up a mirror. Is it possible for two Atlases to dwell together? Will the burdens crush us? Or will we fall into a balance.

More. I hope that I will write more, free to not fear the mistakes and the dropped details. I hope to find a voice that feels more. I hope to put a pen to paper and let the unencumbered and uncomfortable truth shame false beauty. I hope to let lovely things whisper an invitation into darkness’s cavern, draw her into a dance. If I hope for more, does that make me twenty-four?

About the Author


Christine Ledet is a graduate of Dallas Theological Seminary with a degree in Biblical Counseling. She is passionate about coaching people to have a better relationship with themselves and with others. She believes that life should not be lived in only black or white, but in a full array of all the colors from the beautiful to the ugly. When not counseling, you may find her writing about her experiences, watching Friends, or reading Harry Potter.





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Messy Firsts; A Compilation

  • ISBN: 9781311355331
  • Author: ChristineLedet
  • Published: 2016-04-22 20:50:08
  • Words: 2077
Messy Firsts; A Compilation Messy Firsts; A Compilation