are the Spheres’ whispers and music
the moon and the stars.
Among all noise and commotion,
the heavens just serenely are;
Spreading life giving light and warmth.
the word floated past this morn
tickled my spirit and tongue,
a delicious word
What does it mean to you or me?
I don’t doubt the timelessness
of oceans and seas,
Believe they will always hum and roar;
Their soothing, eternal and rhythmic song.
Whilst storing heat for our Earth.
The sky above, so exhilaratingly vast,
star studded at night.
I am sure it will always be
Timeless, beautiful, filled with mystery.
As to our beautiful, shimmering Earth,
how will it stand the test of time?
Our husbandry is awry and must improve
May we find harmony with the planet we love.
What about us humans, will our love, thoughts,
Creativity of all kind,
be a timeless force
forever drifting in the ether and inspire.
© miriam ivarson
THE BEWILDERED POET
Just sat there,
Neither happy nor sad;
No words came, all were spent.
So it seemed,
Can you listen, look,
yet not find one, a single one
lazily floating by?
Bewildered the poet sat.
She already told about the morning scent,
About whispers and hums,
about a sky, sheer blue;
In its new washed morning hue.
About troubling contrasts,
rivers of pain
as the beaten and dispossessed flowed;
In slow and defeated mass.
About the morning birds’ song,
the flower’s hue,
even Lines in the sand;
Did the words get washed away?
A tear spilled down the poet’s cheek.
c/ miriam ivarson
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