Our love is like the flow of
Water and gravity.
Month: November 2025
-
Matriarch of Light – by Heather Mirassou
Her hair, platinum dawn,
a crown of winter brightness
that caught the sun in
flowing threads and
wove it into wisdom.
Her face, porcelain serenity,
lined not with age,
but with soft etchings of
laughter, prayer and unbroken grace,
Her hands, strong as river stones,
shaped by years of lifting children,
steadying hearts,
and tending the fragile work
of land and of love.
She taught the young to
wonder,
and the grown, to hope.
Her voice, an open door,
her patience, a lantern
that swings and sways.
Mother, grandmother,
keeper of stories,
she stitched generations
together.
Her memories spread wide across
many lives.
A friend, who listened
as though each story
were sacred.
A faithful Christian whose
faith glowed like candlelight
to be shared to all that would listen.
She was a treasure -
an emerald in a deep forest
brilliance born of pleasure,
and courage shaped by time.
Bold and unyielding,
a woman carried by devotion,
lit by fierce beauty
of a heart that kept giving.
Now she walks in a
gentler world,
yet her footsteps echo here -
in our laughter,
in our courage,
in everything she taught us
in her memory.
Matriarch,
memory-bearer.
Light that does not dim.
We carry her forward. -
Journal Entry November 26, 2025 – by Heather Mirassou
He tells me I am as precious as a gem
I am like a brilliant star in the sky
Shinning bright and full of life
That my soul shimmers
And that I am full of delight
I am his beloved
And his treasure
He is blessed beyond measure
This love enlightens my soul
And makes me feel whole
That I am a graceful lady
And he a strong man
We spend each day anew
And love each other as best we can
Making a future together
With a promise to love one another -
1967 – a d’verse Challenge, Numbers – by Heather Mirassou
1967 hums like a vinyl worn groove,
a year stitched in paisley, drifting into it's move,
tie-dye dreams blooming wild in summer heat,
sandals slapping freedom down every sun-washed street.
It smells of sage smoke spiraling into the sky,
a caravaning wanderers learning how to fly;
guitars ringing truths no textbooks ever knew,
voiced braided together in a rainbow heaven.
1967 is a lantern lit in dusk's soft hold,
a peace sign carved on the bark and being bold;
a constellation of minds refusing to resign;
their thoughts drifting upward like incense.
It's the river of long hair catching wind like sails,
the hush of midnight drumming in dessert trails;
love painted on faces with a expert hand.,
a promise chaos can understand.
And now 1967 rests like a faded patch on a vest,
worn smooth by time, but still beating in the chest;
a whispered rebellion that somehow survives
steady in the pulse of every life revives. -
Autumn’s Quiet Spell – by Heather Mirassou
The hills breath amber whispers through the day,
as drifting leaves rhythms play;
the maples hang their lanterns low and sway,
then hush the light at dusk collects its grey.
A river mirrors skies molten gold,
its ripples slow, obedient and cold;
each stone reveals a tale the currents told,
each reed leans in like monks serene and old.
The wind becomes a painter, soft and wide,
brushing bronze calm beneath the paling skies;
the sun retreats with weary, embered eyes,
and wields its warmth before the evening dies.
The twilight quilts the orchards into rest,
violet folds laid gently on each crest;
the branches sigh, releasing fruit they blessed,
their quiet offerings drifting from the nest.
And in dusk, the slender deer appear,
their shapes like wandering thoughts that venture near;
they pause as though the fading world were dear,
then fades away as nights intent grows clear.
The stars ascend and stitch the dark with light,
their lullabies unspooling through the night;
the night exhales, surrendering to sleep's invite
while Autumn folds the earth in silken quiet. -
Dust Ball – by Heather Mirassou
Well I am too LATE to submit for the prompt. But, here is my Quatrain, 12 line poem.
I roll across the floor without a command,
I catch what drifts, accept what lands.
I move when pushed, I stay when still,
I gather weight without a will.
I spin through corners, rest in light,
I shrink and grow without delight.
No thought informs the shape I take,
I simply am, for movements sake.I settle under tables, drift near walls,
I answer neither reason nor calls.
I exist without start or end,
I am a thing, alone, unpenned. -
The Mirror Below – by Heather Mirassou
She knelt where night and dawn entwines
the water cold, the air like wine.
The lake lay still, a breathing glass,
where souls of old and shadows pass.
Her face appeared, yet not her own,
a younger ghost, in silver tone.
The girl, she began to rise,
with moonlight burning in her eyes.
"Why do you call me from the deep?"
the spirit asked, "why do you weep?
The years you lost are not your chain,
they bloom as lilies after the rain.'
Her hair once gold, like Autumn fire,
now wove the wind's lyre.
Her hands, pale sails on aging seas,
released her life with trembling ease.
Beneath the knotted boughs,
a veiled breath whispers secrets
trees cradle old ghosts,
their root's clutching shadow's dark heart,
where silent horrors grow.
Owls with hallow eyes,
chant wisdom from abyss,
their calls as lips tremor,
a warning in feathered sound
the dark knows what we hide.
She saw her childhood face fade,
her laughter though rippled, played.
The voice below began to sing,
of birth, of death, of everything.
The lake drew close, a mirror's kiss,
a hush, a pull, a drowning bliss,
and when the dawn rose, soft and slow,
the shore was still, no face below.
Yet every wave that met the sky
still hummed and hummed her name
as it passed by.
A whispered vow that will not die.
I am the breath that holds her sigh,
the dream beneath the earth and sky.
She came to me, with mortal grace,
and left her tears upon my face.
Tears slip to the lake -
her older self gazes back
breaking, then blooming. -
Whirlsong – by Heather Mirassou
I usually write Free Verse poetry but after thirty years of writing poetry, I have decided to start writing some strict Forms of poetry. What has kept me from writing poetry in Form? Fear! Fear of failure. Fear of acceptance. Just fearing I am not good enough. Well here is another poem I have written that is not Free Verse. It is in the Quadrille Format. It includes 44 words and centers around the word “Whirl.”
Here we go!
Whirl and twirl, the twilight streams,
Twist of color, woven dreams.
Whirl again, the soft winds sighs,
Twirl of stars across the sky. Whirl of heartbeat, wild and free, Twirl of moonlight on the sea. Whirl and twirl till dawn's unfurl Endless dance, eternal swirl.
-
d’Verse Challenge Dizain Poem
Here is my Dizain Poem:
Ember of the Heart
Love burns in silence, soft as candle flame,
It flickers low yet never fades away,
A breath a glance, and nothing stays the same,
The night turns gold beneath its tender sway
Through storm and shadow hearts will lose their way,
Yet still they circle back, by unseen thread,
To where the first sweet whisper stirred the air,
Love's voice us both the wound and balm it shed,
It breaks us open, teaches how to care,
A fire we fear, yet crave yet crave the heat to bear.
The dizain is a 10-line French poetic form, traditionally composed of a single stanza. It follows a strict rhyme scheme of ABABBCCDCD and typically uses 10 syllables per line. Popularized by French poets in the 15th and 16th centuries, it has also been adapted by English writers.
Structure and characteristics
Stanza: The poem consists of one 10-line stanza.
Syllables: Each line typically contains 10 syllables, often in iambic pentameter. In some instances, poets have used eight syllables per line.
Rhyme scheme: The standard rhyme scheme is ABABBCCDCD, creating a distinct pattern. The second half of the poem (CCDCD) is sometimes noted as a reversal of the first half’s pattern (ABABB), though with new rhyme sounds.
Origin: The dizain originated in France and was embraced by French poets during the 15th and 16th centuries.
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