Conversation

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Conversation

Conversation is a flow of thoughts
of listening, truly listening,
response with the ease of ripples,
With the joy of a stream.

Let it be the smiles between you
and the tears too,
thus your hearts can meet
Sing in harmonies bright and new.

Your mind will want to play, so let it;
Care that the balls flying between
are soft and gentle.

Always mindful of listening to each word,
keep it still before the next throw.

Let there be quiet within whilst you digest,
kernels of truth and wisdom, let them sift;
Let them grow
whilst you rest in a forest glade.

There are shouts and angry speeches,
on media, podiums and private groups;
Don’t mistake this for conversation
suppression is a more apt sentiment.

So, please, join me by the clear stream
in joyful and caring commune.

© miriam ivarson

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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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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

THE MATCHBOXES

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I had this poem ready to publish on Saturday morning but suddenly
found myself in my very doubting Thomas mood.
What am I giving? A sweet story from childhood.

My spirit got low and I got a feeling of meaninglessness when I 
listened and looked at events in the world.
This planet we say we love but yet destroy.

If it was lack of scientific knowledge we could be forgiven but can 
complacency for the sake of earning more money be forgiven.
Consequences are known but hidden in strongholds. After all, we will 
all be gone when the worst events take place. Our children, grandchildren and future generations are left to deal with the result.

Then, for some unknown reason I read a poem by “Ella Wheeler Wilcox:
‘To sin by silence, when we should protest, makes cowards out of man”
Reading up about this woman I was in tears and you can understand why
I felt doubts about what I am writing. Although I have attempted poems on this subject in e.g. “Flower to behold”, I feel we all can say it stronger and with passion. Believing so matters.

Meanwhile I will after all post my peaceful poem as we also need to know what is important in life. 

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THE MATCHBOXES

I remember him clearly, my gamlefarfar
though I was only five, six and seven;
First memory to enter my conscious being
is one of happiness and warmth,
His eyes glinting like sun on sea, with mystery,
as they rested on me. 

I was told he is my gamlefarfar,
that didn’t mean much to me;
It does mean he is my kin.

I know I will find him in his treasured workshop,
slowly I open the door, he waves me in;
On the workbench are placed
some matchboxes,
I know they are for me,

excited I walk forward
give a curtsy, as our eyes speak,
His with humour and love,
mine shy and happy.

He has tought me to build
out of match boxes,
furnitures for my tiny dolls;
he left out paint and glue;

Happily I set to 
using fantasy and dreams
all the while feeling his warmth.

He smokes a pipe ever now and again
whilst creating woodwork so grand,
I am in awe and keep quiet
as not to disturb,
but often I catch his eyes on me, with that glint.

As his pipe burns out,
we work together 
in total harmony,

I hope he also will tell me a tale.

© miriam ivarson

gamlefarfar = great grandfather

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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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Sorrow and Strength

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Sorrow and Strength

Grief is commensurate
to the depth and intensity
of love;
Part of your life is gone
future dreams an empty abyss.

Leaving you to face bottomless pain.

Is the deep trauma of so much love
worth the price of loss,
someone asked.
Yes. A resounding yes
rose from my cracking heart.

You will never live fully without.

In numbness, suffering, confusion
We do not yet know,
that through the pain, this purgatory;
New strength will germinate.
Will grow,

new course will unfold
new clarity of mind and soul.

Often I think of my mother,
thank her for teaching me love,
with kindness, laughter and song.

My father was my hero
until I let him be a man,
He often visits me from beyond.
I thank him for teaching me strength,

about the world we live in
about honouring each man.

My uncle who sang so serenely
of Swallows arriving in spring;
Lifting hearts to the heavens.
Like an angel he was and is.

So the unfathomable pains,
that seemed to crush the heart
Has turned to deep and rich wells,

that is with me each day.
My great love for those passed,
my grief;
Is now my smile and strength.

© miriam ivarson

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SECRETS

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I will not regale you long today as I feel the music
and hopefully the poem will speak for me.
I do so hope you will listen to the music, it has a         
tremendous start with musicians playing on a hill in a 
stunning location. 

 

SECRETS

Will we leave this planet
with secrets untold,
Nuggets of beauty and grief
stories of joy, maybe rue;
I fear this is so, do you agree?

Tears felled for a year or more,
playing favourite songs each night;
Because he or she was gone,

or listening to magnificent symphony
Beethoven’s Fifth it was,
resting in a warm and firm embrace
feeling death was same as life;

Float in the ether in peace never felt.

Dancing tango down the Kings Street
singing in unison, not to loud he said
the friendly policeman on beat.
Feeling exhilaration and life’s flow;

The secrets of darker hue,
those who left deep scars,
will they forever be hidden;
Like atomic waste secured.

Maybe they better remain untold?

© miriam ivarson

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