DRIFTWOOD

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DRIFTWOOD

washed up on the shore,
so exquisite, so polished;
Feels like silk in my hands,

For days, weeks or longer
it has travelled,
across oceans and seas,

hammered against rocks
varnished by sand.

Reminding me of many unfortunates,
living in the shady side of our cities,
by gleaming edifices of beauty and wealth;

Driftwood of humanity.

Playthings to those who exploit,
sleeping in doorways, under bridges,
washed up from an ocean of society;
There was no space for them within,

they see the sun, feel the rain,
but can they feel joy?
when their mattress is concrete?

meanwhile we sleep in soft beds
pampered and fed.

How my heart bleeds
wishing to rescue, to help;
Praying those with knowledge will,
as I give my support,

yet the sorrow and helplessness is there.
Around the corner glittering skyscrapers stand
holding wealth beyond sense.

Still, I pick driftwood by the shore,
feeling it’s journey in my hands;
Journey across oceans free,

Washed by the sea
Kissed by the sun.

© miriam ivarson

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A bit of my heart

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A bit of my heart

I send out, as I publish thoughts and dreams,
yet the heart remains unbroken;
being replenished,
filled
By the act of giving.

It is a moment of “knife-edge”, a friend said,
do you give or do you withhold,
take the risk of being misunderstood

Or just ignored.

Is it the fear of being unseen,
creating hesitation,

like a child building a castle of sand
wanting praise and smiles,
To be known.

Creating is a force within,
without outlet we burst;
Let it flow with abundance,
Never to be a chore.

It is enough if a soul or two
recognise each other,
find succour in the words.

Share song and tears
with free and trusting hearts.

© miriam ivarson

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PER UNIVERSUM

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Dear fellow scribblers, writers, authours and poets. Whichever title
we choose, we share the love of words and believe in their power.
We walk this beautiful Earth together – Star dusts as we are.

One, nowadays quite mundane experience we share, is the joy or stress
of economy short haul flights. I do fly many of these within Europe and especially to visit Sweden. Using the practice of non-thinking
mode helps. Just shuffle forward, stopping, shuffling…
Eventually sit down in your seat and visualize the relief of stepping off at the destination. 

It was on one of these flights that I unexpectedly experienced what 
became the poem “ Per Universum”. Such a quiet and smooth boarding.
What a blessing that flight was. 

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PER UNIVERSUM

I flow through universe,
It flows through me.
Can’t say where one starts,
Or did we always belong?

I am It and universe me.
extraordinary feeling, at 36000 feet,
safe and warm.

Three monks in row behind,
meditate.

Journey flows, in peace.
Universe is me, I am It.
Oh to keep this surety;
36000  below.

where  I meet problems, tempers,
unformed thoughts.
Yet mindful of angels on the path,

who also flow through universe,
In  tranquil unity.

They are everywhere
I see clearly;
We make up universe,
Angels with spirit
Clear and kind.

Through universe we flow
and It through us.
Ever increasing harmony.

© miriam ivarson

 

FEROCIOUS EGO

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Ferocious Ego

Mingling among the festive crowd,
a party in lively swing,
I was struck by the conversation
or the lack thereof.
Many had much to say,
louder and louder.
Few did listen nor respond.

A greedy entity ruled,
Ego was its name.

Happily the triffid fed
Growing, thriving,
Gluttonous.

Unhindered it will expand,
causing damage untold,
Including wars, suppression, greed.
Given the chance.

Unmask this mutant called Ego,
Stand it naked in clear light.

Take a daily inventory
of our inner selves.
Our aims, our thoughts;
so we can stop.
Ego’s mushrooming growth.

As long as it rules
We will never live:
Just exist in the future,
The past
In more.
Never now.

© miriam ivarson

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Whispering Wings

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Whispering Wings

They whisper as the breeze in the cottonwood trees,
as the grass drinking morning dew,
like a butterfly languidly moving its wings;
Just being its subliminal self,

Whisperings from small branches
moving gently in soft breeze,
Like Dragonfly hovering, such beauty
are their shimmering wings.

I lie down in the meadow with deep content,
hear the morning birds join in
singing sheer songs of life and joy,
partaking with delicacy and  skill.

Whispering like the hope in our hearts,
finding the tune we recognise from afar,
Songs sung for eternities
losing each other, but now

Recognising the whisperings anew.

© miriam ivarson

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Lines in the Sand

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I did post a rather serious but hopefully positive poem last week
so felt that something gentle and warming was in order.

As it happens there was a prompt some weeks ago and I felt tempted 
for the first time; I must admit that I have only written three poems
where the title was given. This prompt though rang well with me. It was called “ Lines in the Sand”.

My version is romantic and hopefully will warm your hearts. 

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Lines in the Sand                                   

We drew lines in the sand,
you and I
after walking hand in hand
along the ocean front,
seeing so many wrinkles in the sand;

Lines that little waves made.

Our hearts filled with song
as our eyes met and held,
deep and questioning,
but shy of our love,

looking at life forms in the sand,
angel crabs, shells and such,
all the while wondering how to say;
I love you.

A stick of flotsam, no two
drifted in to the strand,
we picked one each
And wrote in the sand,

I love you.

© miriam ivarson

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Power of Spirit

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 Power of Spirit

We often hear the word, Fight
Negative in its perception.
They fought to the end
Against cancer, disease,
crime, drugs and terror.

Yet, the people I know
who met these adversities
Have taught me what peace,
and real courage mean,

as they persist in enjoying each day
more than ever before.
Seeing clearly the preciousness,
of life and love.
Their smiles humble me.

Crime is rising, so is emptiness;
Lack of spiritual clarity and light.
Drugs, the false antidote
to desolation, inanity,
Pursued goals barren.

More and more now choose,
to spend their days creatively,
maybe less paid.
The gain is a life fulfilled;
In harmony.
                               
As body and mind belong
In unity,
might it not be the truth,
That a happy and positive mind
moulds a better vessel,
Within which to reside.

© miriam ivarson

photo courtesy of pixaby

T I M E …

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TIME…

So linear and confined
I am told,
and it does seem true;
Yet I think of all the skips,
all the turns,

the flowing river makes
as it twists and bends,

from its origin as a newborn brook;
down mountains
through valleys
weaving its way,

until finally it merges
with the mighty river below
strong in its purposeful flow;

Letting us be streams within
meandering as we go.

We calculate our progress 
in years and days,
following the calender prescribed;
Not the rhythm of the moon or sun,

Some panic, they fear the big 0,s.
I say, it is just another day and night,
if you wish, tell your friends
you took another stream,
so they have to wait with the balloons

another year or so;

Whilst we twist and turn, leap and sing
before joining ocean so vast and deep,
becoming part of the whole.

© miriam ivarson

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photos by Miriam Ivarson

Deny Your Heart

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Deny the Heart

Friendship, love, care
are they but one?
Philia, Agape, Eros
blending to a singular Self,

one without the other
the circle is broken;
A sickle moon.

Love born by the spirit,
Sensuality
Kindness,

aren’t they part,
of being complete?

How can we then deny?
Close the heart in a safety box?
so as not to get hurt,
kill what we are
what we can be;

Fearing Life itself.

The little bird in your hand
rescued but stunned,
tender is our love,

as is holding a child,
so trusting and soft;
Who with a smile wins our hearts,

as a loved ones kiss on your neck
whilst you pen your lines.

© miriam ivarson

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photos by miriam ivarson

Spilling Over

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Spilling Over

Spilling over, spilling over,
over arbours and fences
Over my Arched bench
Spilling over,

The sheer greens of spring,
every shade of green.
mostly so glowing,
with dark Fir a faithful backdrop,

Sunshine through million of leaves
Lighting each one all through,
I am exalted, in awe
and so blessed too;

First breakfast out this year,
on favourite bench,
around me Forget-me-Nots,
Lavender in bloom, golden bush too;

So much more but would you believe
Butterflies keep doing fly past in front of me,

Even they are in many hues.

© miriam ivarson

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