Borrow my place

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Borrow my place

I watch them pass, children and adults
Humans of all ages, walking to school.
Skipping, hopping, running,
strolling, marching,
some slowly proceeding.

Just like the tempo of nature itself
we vary our strides, as time goes by.
Girls and boys from four to eleven;
Parents, grandparents, all ages.

All manner of mastering the hill
looking happy this sunny morn.

What delights me most are the bonds I see,
a mother and daughter giggling together,
a father running with his child on the shoulders,
a grandmother with and adoring girl by the hand.

Laughing together.
As do many children whilst skipping ahead.

That is when I feel reporters should borrow my place
by the sunny window, facing the road.
What pictures and stories on the first page,
replacing the grim and the dark.

Fill the papers with vignettes of our daily lives,
There is so much beauty in a smile,
contentment in a bakery or a store.
People sharing lives and caring for one another.

Creating, writing, painting,
planting gardens.
Making homes a place of fun,
of comfort and love.

A sanctuary
A place to just be.

© miriam ivarson

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HOLD THE HELM

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HOLD THE HELM

Fear, pride and joy filled my being
I was only eight when my father said;
Come here and stand on this box,
I will show you how to steer 
whilst I check the machines below.

The trawler was huge, how could he trust,
a little girl standing on a box?
I trusted him, but fear was putting up a fight;
Sure I can’t do this, look at the waves,
the enormous rolling waves.

Still, I listened to his instructions, drank them in;
Repeated the beacon to hold in sight.
Excitement and joy overtook me for a while
as the boat did obey my hands on the mighty wheel;

I could hardly believe; My pride grew miles.

Suddenly the vessel was shifted by waves,
my mark disappeared to the right,
Fearful I managed to steer back on course,
took a deep sigh but tension replaced trust.

Another big wave threw me off course;
Now the marker was to the left,
desperately I steered straight again,

I am afraid we wove a wavering path.

When finally, to my relief, my father came back
I was quick to relinquish the helm.

We turned our heads and looked at the path,
the swirling trail behind.
The path I had steered the ship, with my hands.
He smiled and gave me a hug.

You tried so hard but didn’t know how to trust,
the wave would bring you straight back,
Besides, I was always there and felt every move.

Keep your eyes steady on your goal
but relax as well
don’t forget to trust yourself,

also remember, I am always there.

Should a storm blow up, sail against it,
hold firm and ride it out,
Once it is over, return to your goal;
To your beacon.

Without fear continue your path,
Feel the harmony between yourself,
the sea and the sky.

© miriam ivarson 

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WHERE IS IT NOW

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I wrote the poem / lyric below a couple
of weeks ago and smiled at its seeming 
childishness. Snippets of strong memories
we all have but what is this. A song? A poem?

Listening to people in America talk with such
glow about Thanksgiving and family togetherness
I revisited this poem and realised.
It is just that, praise and gratitude to a home 
and people who made it so warm and safe.

So, with this I wish you across the Atlantic a
Happy Thanksgiving and all of us gratitude to 
love given in any form.

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WHERE IS IT NOW

I once had a dream
such a beautiful dream,
But the dream flew elsewhere;

I now wonder, where is it now,
is the ether keeping it away?

I once had a doll from Aberdeen,
I loved her so dearly
She even could say ‘mama’,

I often wonder, where is she now,
did the loft fairy take her away?

I once had Red skiing boots,
they were so very new,
Smelled sweet and shone,

I wonder, where are they now,
are they still skiing, all red?

I once had a hut high among the rocks,
we built it ourselves,
It was a most wonderful place.

I just wonder, is it still there,
home for other young to dream?

All the treasures I once had
that gave me so much joy,
they still make me warm;

I only wonder, as they live in my heart
are they happy,
Knowing they are loved?

© miriam ivarson

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I RAN

 

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I  RAN

Fit as an athlete of body and mind,
I ran,
faster and harder every day.
To reach and achieve, what? I ask today;

Stopping for quick breaks to see and breathe,
heather, the Sea, meadows and snow,
Only to return to the run.

It was fun at times but what about the soul,
no time for it to fully live, to sing;
No time for the body to know the breeze.

I knew but pressed the knowledge down,
Thought I had to run.
Until one day a shot hit my neck;
in and instant I crumpled to the ground.

the structure crashed down,
Now, the ambulance ran.

Against all odds I survived,
It took time, I learned new truths,
or were they the old?
finally getting space and time,

As I no longer ran.

A picnic by the shore, sensuous and slow,
I saw, really saw,
the sky, the sea and shifting sands;
The colour displays took my breath away.
Time didn’t have a meaning, just Now was life.

Walking instead of running, seeing wonder in all,
Like a newborn child,
I promised never to lose that again
even if I learnt to run.

I lost a lot that day but now wonder,
Did I not gain even more?
The time to write a poem in the morn;
Or listen to a frightened man,

To feel the blessing and joy of giving comfort,
of connecting with those needing support;
To find the positives born from pain.

© miriam ivarson

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D A N C E

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DANCE

Dance as if freedom is yours, your right,
sing as if all are free, like heaven above,
smile the guileless smile of a child;

Dance to the song of life,

history will tell me I am wrong
so will the news,
that evil is inherent in man;
That my dreams are naive,

maybe so, my friends, yet
you might also find,
your beauty, your song.
Hidden under historical wrongs;

Let us choose the light
and not imitate the throng,
nor applaud just because …
Without thought, without reflection.

Believe in you, in us, in freedom
Dance in the sun with a guileless smile.

© 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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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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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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