THE MANTLE

THE MANTLE

Write, my friend, write
Let your heart pour forth,
with honesty tell your truth.

May your words always be interspersed
with threads of gold,
weaving life, shining into your thoughts.

Into your woven cloth.

With silver moon beams,
Do the same
let them shimmer in dark corners,
lighten your mind.

These threads of gold and silver rays
Represent love and hope;
Without, your cloth will dull and die.

Once created, keep it as your mantle,
Your blanket;
So you will never forget,

The importance of light

© miriam ivarson

THE BEWILDERED POET

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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

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