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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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

CANDYFLOSS LIGHT

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Candy floss Light

The powerful display by masters
by setting sun over snow and dark wood,
In shadows, on light drenched ground
How can one wish for more;

In silent awe I sit with a friend
we whisper quietly our awe,
To talk loud seems a sacrilege,
in this Temple not built by man.

For a while the snow had taken
hues of bright white with diamonds aglow.
With light blue shades
and deeper blues, like a fathomless lake,
shadows the mighty forest threw;

As sun sets further, colours of candy floss,
soft pink coloured the snow,
Lit it as from within, such eerie light,
against black-green  forest behind;

The sun sank into the sea,
Light still glowed
As now the full moon lit the scene,
even she was pink.

@ miriam ivarson

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And one photo just to make you smile and wish you a Happy Weekend.

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Photos by miriam ivarson

Light Through The Crack

Butterflies on Aster

Light through Crack                                         

So paint the butterfly you love
You will be painting me,
I am the light in the cracks;
your awareness
Your consciousness,

the butterfly, the flower, the tree
the smile on a face.
You see them with more clarity
They fill the soul,

Don’t despair,
thinking your voice too small              
without reach.
Remember the ripple effect,
on lake and sea.

This is how the message will spread;

The message of power of love,
compassion and peace.
Hate is powerful but will self destruct           
It can’t create.

Rivers of anguish and blood
flow through your lands.
help where we can, remember;

Evil and hate will self destruct.

© miriam ivarson

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THE BOX

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The Box                            

He tried to put me in a box,
not a happy choice.
Put a cat in a box,
disaster will befall
So, don’t try with me.

I warn you, I will mess up
every box on that form will overflow.
When and where were I born?
Do you work or not.

I only sprained my toe.
I say with a sigh.

Wherever we go, we tick boxes,
fill in forms with narrow spaces for lives lived.
panic, the line is too short,
My life doesn’t fit at all.

I pray there will never be a form,
a form for a “home” for the old.
I couldn’t do that at all.
I rather take what I own, and flee.
To somewhere with no boxes to fill.

Where young and old live together
With honour, respect and joy.
Where we all share and help.
Live in dignity.

© miriam ivarson

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CHANCE ENCOUNTERS

 

      CHANCE ENCOUNTERS                                          

      I met a gracious lady, she smiled,
      light lit her eyes;
      I dropped a curtsy to the wise woman
      showing my respect.
      Do we honour those wiser than us, often enough;

     The Lady spoke to me, we shared,
     experiences of life.
     of joys, pains and love.
     Her road was gilded but her heart had bled,
     my mother would love her, that is enough said.

     We walked among  roses, talked about heroes,
     of our children, with humour and delight, 
     about countries and people.
     About the sky, the oceans and nature’s force.

     We found unity.

     I walked up a mountain in a far away land,
     met a Shepherd resting with his flock.
     You have come, he said, seeking long
     please sit down, share my fare.

     Quietly I did as the old man said.

     We talked softly about life,
     its passions and grieves, it’s beauty and joy.
     What can you hear, the old man asked
     I was quiet for a while, then said;

     The mountain stream, the wind through the grass.

     The old man smiled and his eyes shone bright.
     You have come a long way, he said
     but you found the core of peace.

     Do never forget the mountain stream, the wind
     Let stillness and wonder live in your soul.

     © miriam ivarson

The creek (crick) outside our balcony

SONGBIRD

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Many of us “bloggers” have talked about what prompted us 
to write a specific piece. Be it a book, a poem, an article or 
something visual that caught the eye.

I find it interesting to learn about you and how your conscious
and subconscious work together to trigger a story. There are as 
many different ways as there are writers and no work would exist
without some inspiration. This is my belief.

My  poem ‘Songbird’ below came to me in the morning two days
ago. The word SONGBIRD just came and I felt that compelling feeling
to pick up my notebook. I wrote what you see below without thinking 
or stopping – this time even without editing. 

That it was written in first person I cannot explain. The “ I “ could be a male or female.

The hidden message that seems to be there I can still only
guess at, hopefully it will come clear as it otherwise is strange.

So, this time the source of inspiration comes after the poem.

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SONGBIRD

A songbird landed on my hand
looked at me and sang,
sang from her pure heart;
With delight I watched and listened

But didn’t join in
nor give her even a crumb,

Next day she came back
pecked at my hand, then sang,
the most wondrous song

I didn’t say a word
nor give her a crumb,

I was delighted and told my friends
but what about the bird
that sang her heart out

I just didn’t think of her
Didn’t give a crumb,

One morning she sat on my hand,
she didn’t sing,
Just looked in sadness
moving her head back and forth,

Then she flew; higher and higher
I never saw her again.

Finally I understood my selfish ways
I hope she found someone who knew
how to love.

I will forever miss this soulful bird.

© miriam ivarson

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