Smoke curls over shattered
walls,
the sky bruised in shades of
sorrow,
yet beneath the rubble,
a flower presses through stone,
tiny and defiant.
Gunfire writes its harsh rhythm,
shattering windows and
hearts alike,
but in quiet corners,
laughter spills like warm tea,
soft as unbroken promises.
Soldiers march with boots of
thunder,
and children trace chalk rivers on
cracked streets,
their songs ripple across
trenches,
a fragile bridge over molten
hatred.
War rages with all its teeth,
but peace waits in the spaces
in between,
in hands clasped,
in eyes meeting across ruined fields,
in stubborn pulses of hope.
Mirror to My Soul by Heather Mirassou
A personal blog sharing heartfelt poetry inspired by nature, beauty, and soulful reflection.
-
-
Pain opens doors I never built
Stairs fold, ceiling drops
Bones hum in Morse
Thirty years, dripping
Time leaks like marrow
Silence gnaws
Joints scream their coordinates
Fog curls my throat
Nerves twist into knots
Skin whispers treason
Muscles clutch shadows
Doctors pass,
Feathers of language
Flutter, useless
Manage cope chronic -
Words swallowed by bone
Night folds itself inside me
Counts
Each breath a ledger
Mercy absent
Pain grins through ribs
I wake
I am fractured
Scattered in mirrors
Smoke collects in my spine
Habit grows claws
Insists
I persist
I persist -
I stretch my legs like rubber bands,
then flop sideways without a plan.
My whiskers twitch at empty air,
my tail flicks twice, then swats a chair.
I pounce on shadows no one sees,
my paws land soft, but sometimes sneeze.
Ears rotate like satellite dishes,
nose sniffs crumbs, then hasty wishes.
I knead the couch, then bite my paws,
stare at walls in perfect awe.
I blink slow, judge every move,
and nap again - because I approve.
I curl in circles, tight and small,
claiming the sunbeam as my all.
A sudden sprint across the floor,
then flop again, and snore some more.
I tap at dusk, like it’s foe,
then trip on nothing as I go.
My tail waves with secret glee
I reign supreme, as all cats can be.
I yawn wide, exposing teeth,
then lick my fur in careful sheath.
A sudden prance, a started glance,
then back to sleep a true perchance. -
The night exhales along the breathing shore,
tide loosening its silvered seams.
Salt rocks remember older names
than those we give to longing.
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon
holds nothing back.
Light drifts across her skin
in slow devotion,
a hush taught only by distance.
Stars hover, while clouds learn restraint.
I stand emptied by the listening dark,
heart tuned to the pull and release.
Foam speaks once, then repeats itself.
Morning waits, patient and undone.
-
We are born reaching
hands empty but already
shaped
like questions.
We learn the weight of time
by losing what we love -
first toys, then people
then versions of ourselves.
Hunger drives us forward:
for touch, for meaning
for proof
that this brief spark matters.
We build names, stories,
nations, gods,
trying to steady the ground
beneath us.
We hurt each other
by accident or on purpose,
and spend our lives learning
the difference.
Joy arrives unannounced,
a laugh, a morning light,
someone saying our name and
meaning it. -
Under foxfur dusk, ponds seal
shut with glass,
lungs of soil exhale frost and
iron sleep.
We hibernate, embers cupped
in ash and silence through
wintered veins.
Listening for sap, for bones,
for snow-drifted hours,
slow heated dark inside earth. -
She doesn't want to be touched
until she is understood.
Not the outline,
the weight beneath it.
She carries longing
like a second pulse.
Quiet. Persistent.
Learned from being unseen.
When desire comes,
it's braided with memory,
every time she stayed,
every time she left,
every time she loved anyway.
Her body opens
only when her chest does.
Only when the ache
has her name.
She wants connection
that lingers after the lights.
Hands that don't rush.
Eyes that don't look away
once she's bare.
There is heat in her, yes
but there is also grief,
and hope,
and a need to be met
where she actually lives.
When she gives herself,
it is not hunger alone.
It is trust.
It is saying:
I am here.
Please stay.
And when she is held,
truly held,
her body softens
not from touch
but from relief. -
The Tule fog has stayed too long.
It presses against the windows
like a thought that won't finish.
Days blur into the same gray breath.
Cold settles in my bones.
Even light feels tired,
arriving late, leaving early,
as if it too is discouraged.
I walk through hours half-seen,
wrapped in layers of waiting.
The world feels muted,
like sound swallowed by wool.
What am I to do
when the sky forgets
its own color,
when warmth is only a memory.
So I make small fires.
A cup held in both hands.
Music low enough to trust.
One honest breath at a time.
I remind myself:
fog is not the end of weather.
It only teaches patience,
how to stay until something lifts. -
Choose one of these three artworks and let it take you wherever it wants. Write whatever it stirs in you — a memory, a question, a scene, a poem. All images are open-use selections from the National Gallery of Art website.
They lean against the angle of the street,
bodies balancing where the buildings
bend like tired backs under
invisible weight.
A man pauses at the corner,
hand brushing the brick,
as if it might steady him,
hat tipped, eyes following a line
that refuses to be level.
Two children chase each other
up the slope of the stoop,
zigzagging
with the crooked geometry of the wall.
A woman's coat flutters in the wind
that sneaks between eaves and rooftops,
as if even air
is leaning to walk sideways.
The couple leaning under the roof
hands on each other's necks -
hold each other in the insanity
in the imperfect city
of calamities.
Every figure finds a rhythm
with the tilt of the city,
steps and shoulders aside
angles of habitation
the poetry of imbalance
where life refuses to be flat.
The city breathes
steel, street and
human endurance
Pittsburgh People. -
Loving you is like pressing my ear
to the hollow of your wrist,
as if the rhythm there
could teach me how to breath.
Your lips on mine are like a secret
I've always known,
as if every pause and sigh
was written into my bones.
Being in your arms is like
sinking into a room
only for us,
only our heartbeats.
Your touch lingers like
a shadow that refuses to leave,
as if even light
can't pull itself away from you.
And when you leave,
it is like forgetting how to move,
as if the part of me that knows
I remain behind, waiting. -
Love is a dim motel sign
flickering vacancy/no vacancy,
never quite telling the truth.
It's a locked briefcase
with your name etched inside
the code changes every time
you think you've cracked it.
Love is a subway map
with one forbidden line,
the route you take anyway
because it hums like fate.
It's a pair of borrowed keys
that fit doors you didn't know
wanted to open.
Love is a neon confession
buzzing at midnight,
too bright, too loud
and impossible to ignore. -
My body sends a
push notification
before my brain can catch up,
a sudden spike,
heart glitching
like bad code.
Something's off.
The air encrypted,
the room buffering in
slow frames,
corners pixelating
as if reality.
I check my breath,
thin, throttled,
running in the
background
without permission.
A tremor
climbs my spine,
a quiet vibration,
like unseen messages
typing itself
into my nerves.
instinct kicks in,
primal software,
older than logic,
shouting move
without explaining why.
And that's when
I know:
the threat isn't in the hallway,
or the street,
or the feed -
It's inside me,
rewriting my pulse,
line by line
until I can tell
what part of me
is still me. -
The granite and schists of my dark and stubborn country
loomed ahead like a grumpy old giant, arms crossed and
refusing to budge. I had packed only a backpack, a
dubious map, and an overinflated sense of bravery. Rocks
jutted like teeth, trails twisted like pretzels, and every
squirrel seemed to judge my clumsy feet. Somewhere a
goat - or was it a wild-eyed hermit?, bleated a warning. I
slipped, tumbled, and somehow ended up dangling from
a cliff by my shoelaces, like a confused marionette.
Yet, through sheer luck, stubbornness, and an embarrassing
amount of swearing, I found the summit, triumphant.
From up there, the land glared back at me, granite and
schists unyielding, as if saying, " So you've survived. For now"The first line, “The granite and schists of my dark and stubborn country.” is
from the poem by Nan Shepherd, “The Hill Burns”
-
-
Yellow, yellow Sunflower,
what did you say?
I almost missed your bright petals
in my path today.
I ask what would you be
if you were on a big stalk
like me?
Oh, I think I would be
a red poppy.
Not as strong as thee,
so my petals can whisper
in the spring breeze.
My stalk flows weightlessly
so my petals can whisper
in the wind you see?
You bloom in the summer,
I in the Spring.
You drop seeds from your wide eye.
Mine from pods to keep and seep.
Well I must go now,
My pods are about to burst!
The breeze is calling
and the earth is thirsty for firsts. -
Some mornings I wake
in a world stitched shut.
Sound sealed, behind a frosted window.
Other days, a thin crack opens slightly.
It's just enough for a murmur of living to slip in.
It sneaks in like, a timid animal.
I read people's lips
the way others read the weather.
The slight curve of a vowel,
the storm-glint of a consonant.
Mouths flicker like the lanterns in the fog,
lighting the path to meaning
one pulse at a time.
But behind me
that is where fear lives.
The space that lives there,
I cannot name,
I cannot hear.
I don't know how to react.
A stranger stepping close,.
a loved one calling my name.
Danger whispering its arrival,
all of it becomes the same
A silent ghost at my back.
Music is different,
If I turn it up, as loud as possible,
I can hear all of the instruments.
I inherit each sound, each rhythm, each word.
Drums rumble through my bones,
like tectonic secrets..
Loved ones speak
and I watch their words
unfurl into soft architecture
of their lips, their breath shaping
meanings.
I gather them like fallen petals,
Sometimes I miss a few.
I live in the hinge
between silence and
almost sound,
between what I feel and
what I can't reach.
Some days I vanish into
quiet completely.
Some days I wear hearing
like a veil.
But I keep moving,
through light,
through lips,
through walls,
through music.
In a world that speaks
whether I heard it or not,
and a body that listens,
in every way that I can. -
Zero is a shutter of untouched light,
a polished loop that holds the breath of all beginnings.
It waits like an unclaimed PIN code, humming with invisible charge.
Framing the crisp threshold where possibility gathers
before stepping into form from quiet core to nothing. -
This week’s challenge is to write a piece of “musical poetry” inspired by an instrumental guitar track. Listen to “Canción Triste” by Jesse Cook from the album Vertigo: If you can’t listen to this track, choose any instrumental piece (with no lyrics) you like — preferably one featuring guitar — and mention the piece you chose in your post. Your poem can be in any form, but should be no more than 20 lines.
I have written two different poems for this prompt:
Poem #1 Reflection of Instruments
The guitar opens a portal, a blue flame wavering in air.
Notes drift out like wandering spirits searching old paths.
A silver tremor circles the room - ghost-light on water.
Shadows lean forward, learning the language of dusk.
Minor chords rise like smoke from an unseen alter.
Each vibration unfurls a forgotten constellation.
The melody glides in loops, a moth orbiting moon-fire.
Soft pulses shimmer - etched in disappearing sand.
Bass tones echo like footsteps across ancient stones.
A warm wind stirs, though every window is closed.
The strings glow faintly, as if touched by star-hands.
Notes fall slow as opal rain, blessing the dark.
A tremolo flickers - lightning within cedar wood.
The room inhales, drawn into a deeper dream.
The tune rises winged, a bird sculpted from candle smoke.
It hovers, trembling, between sorrow and prophecy.
Silence gathers in rings haloed and luminous.
The final chord drifts upward like a soul released.
It lingers - thin gold dust swirling in midnight air.
And the world tilts slightly enchanted by echo.Poem #2 Reflection of How the Music Made Me Feel
Breath drifts, endless carried on invisible tides.
The world hums beneath my skin, soft and infinite.
Time bends and folds, a river curling around itself.
I am weightless, sinking into a sea of feeling.
Currents of longing ripple through my chest slow and luminous.
Shadows lean in, gentle, like the hush before dawn.
Light trembles in the corners of thought, quiet and unclaimed
I dissolve and dissolve again, yet remain.
Joy flickers, a pulse within the deepening dark
Echoes spiral infinite, spinning threads I cannot follow.
Sorrow hums, warm, a tide I float upon.
My mind expands, porous receiving vibrations.
I drift through corridors of quiet that shimmers like water.
Silence folds around me, like falling stars
Each moment stretches, elastic with unseen light.
I move, unmarked, along the curve of something eternal.
Heartbeat and breath and longing merge into one small wave.
I am lifted, carried, unmade, and remade in the same instant.
The world dissolves and reforms in a wild pulse.
When it ends, I remain suspended, echoing the music within.
by, Heather Mirassou -
She tells me in whispers
the secrets I want to know.
She shows by example
the way I want to care for others.
She rests peacefully in ways
I wish to be still.
She breaths in the air of life
as do I, with great passion.
She has become timeless
and never far. -
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.
-
October is a beggar
Knocking on doors
Snatching golden leaves
In Autumn
-
Some days silence seals me tight,
a locked-glass world, a vanished night.
Other days, sound threads its way
through thin cracks, of half-lit days.
I read your lips – each curve, each flare,
a cloud mouth shaping fragile air.
Your words bloom open, soft and slow;
I catch the ones that choose to grow.
But behind me waits the quiet fear –
footsteps quiet and near.
A whisper brushing at my spine,
a shadow crossing into mine.
Music hums through skin and bones –
a deep pulse, only I can own.
Drums rolls under the floor
a thunder waking me from within.
Guitar strings spark beneath my ribs,
a trembling chorus no one fibs.
Loved ones speak, and light unfurls
light ribbons pearls.
Sometimes I catch each
shining tone.
Sometimes the meaning alone.
I walk the line from deaf to hear,
some days to dust,
some days clear.
A flicker of sound, a swallowed call,
a world, I grasp not at all.
Yet, still I rise, through beat and breath,
through half-heard life and borrowed depth.
A body listening, fierce and true,
in every way it’s learned to hear you. -
Our love is like the flow of
Water and gravity.
-
We are glowing together
A smile that lasts day and night
Whether separate or apart
The heart crack is wide open
We are at the center
Exploring the edges of love
I am here
You are near
Love is grand with you
My grace
Your strength
Will carry us today and tomorrow
Love unfolding naturally
Acceptance draws us near
Unconditional love fulfills us
A love story is being written
Our future together is clear -
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. -
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 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. -
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. -
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. -
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. -
First came pudding -
a pale and wobbling
plastic spoon.
He called her sweetheart,
his voice all sugar and orderlies.
The air was lemon and bleach,
so clean it hurt.
She tried to thank him,
but the words caught -
a wing in her throat.
He said, let me help you sleep.
The lights dimmed,
and the walls leaned closer,
listening.
Inside her chest,
a river began to drown itself.
Trust-white-silk-
pulled through a needle's eye,
then tore through her.
Later, the bed whispered
betrayal,
the monitors blinked
like eyes that looked away.
Her skin forgot
what safety was like.
Days unraveled,
voices muffled behind curtains,
yellow flowers dying in paper cups.
Each night,
his ghost rearranged her
dreams.
Then the long quiet -
years measured in therapy
rooms.
In trembling mornings,
learning to touch her own hands
without flinching,
She stitched her soul
with invisible thread
she built a cathedral
from her breath.
Now when she walks past
hospitals,
windows blink in shame.
Her pulse once hijacked -
beats in protest, steady, whole,
She tastes pudding again
one night,
just to prove she can.
It' only vanilla.
It's only sweet.
The room only remembers
him. -
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.
Visit d'Verse Poets:
https://dversepoets.com
https://dversepoets.com/this-is-us/ -
I am wakeful
when clouds are
nesting and the wind
is thrusting.
Stars twinkling
in painted fields
A moon overflowed
and the rain begins
to rouse.
I rise in a dream
where my spirit soars
I faintly kiss
the stream. -
Disillusioned
Smoking cigarettes
Drunk at 3:00 a.m.
Spinning into nothingness
With whiskey in my hand
Hookers walk strange
Yellow streets
Women who fear intimacy
Or falling in love
Depraved
Depressed mannequins
Are consumed
Guilt and shame asunder
They dance in their
Tangerine slippers
Under a hopeless
Moonlight -
In dawn’s soft cradle,
dew-kissed leaves arise,
silver where sun and silence meet.
The forest breathes
amber lullabies,
It’s a drumbeat buried
deep in peet.
Each branch a brushstroke on
the sky’s ledge
Each bird, a lyric in
morning’s cage.
The river, winding like a
serpent’s dream,
coils through glad in
whispers, swift and sly
It’s voice, a choir of stones and
moonlight gleam.
A mirror cracked with
fragment sky.
Beneath its skin,
the secrets of land.
Slip through the fingers of
silted hand.
Mountains loom like gods
with satin skin,
their spines etched deep
in unspoken lore.
They wear the snow like
crowns of discipline, and
watch the valleys tremble
at their roar.
A single hawk cuts silence
with its scream.
The wind, its herald, racing
down the stream.
Fields unfold like golden
tapestries unrolled.
Bees hum psalms no winter’s
frost can claim.
The earth, a priestess clothed
in root, chants birth and burial.
The ocean roars,
a lion caged in blue,
a mane of foam.
It claws the shore and
swallows the stars anew.
Each wave, a breath between
the storm and peace,
each tide, a pulse that
never finds release.
When night slips its
velvet veil on high,
the stars ignite like
lanterns in a mine.
The trees stretch tall to
cradle the dark sky,
their shadows dancing with
the moon’s design.
All nature hums a lullaby
of grace.
A living poem
cannot erase.
-
The grapevine sighs beneath the sun,
its knotted roots and tendrils spun.
Through rows of gold and fading green,
a dream of fruit, a sacred scene.
The clusters swell in dusky light,
each orb a kiss of day and night.
They glimmer in deep purple skin,
with all the summer soaked in.
The leaves like aging hands unfold,
still fierce with fire aged in gold.
And everywhere the scent of wine
of earth, of time, of blood divine. -
She is ivory like linen
kissed by dawn
he is tan like sand
warmed by the sun.
They hear canaries sing
outside their windows
as a flamingo sky
unfolds.
He says,
"Grab your camera -
we must catch the
magnificent sky."
Together, they run,
chasing brilliance,
feeling it pulse
in their eyes.
Tranquil they stand,
delighting in the sky,
as light spills over like paint
from an artist's hand.
They cherish the moment,
of this new day,
knowing tonight's sunset
is coming their way. -
She planted violates with callused hands
and a summer and winter suntan.
Soft-spoken strength in every bloom.
I watch unsure if I would
ever grow a garden, or a voice
or a room to hold the gifts
she held plain.
It took forty years to see
the soil she turned
was also mine.
That I too, hold a poet’s flame,
and healing hands,
and roots like pine.
The mirror shifted
and there she was
not ahead, but within.
-
Honeydew rain drips languidly
white icicle confetti falls
on a glory of wisdom fields.
Savoring murmurs weave
webbed in dreams, still droplets
cling to the kindred moon.
Periwinkle dusk hums
sweet madness
where stars are shivering.
Velvet spirit breathes deep
winter loses the sun’s glow
and hearts quiver with life.
Realm and elements entwine
earth’s eternal globe turns,
tilting trees in calm rudder skies.
Masquerading camouflage fades
pearl taffeta clouds,
bursting transparency revealed. -
Open up you rain The summer is sweet thickened mud My knees are bowed Beneath the broken wind Heaven rises Kicking the giant fallen sun Open up you rain The summer is sweet thickened mud
Mirror to My Soul by Heather Mirassou 