 |
| Myrtle Thomas |
Not Another Lullaby
Luna - her face a mysterious shade
turns from night to day
a realm I’m blind to – in mind and eye
white diamonds scattered across the universe
where is that man’s face?
Tonight, the moon is full – shifting its light
the stars like ghosts seem to dance
music the tinkling of silence
lingering acts of antiquity – realms without
flesh and blood – light and darkness
without war and death.
Tonight, the moon howls – the grass weeps
the earth moans in anger it vomits molten rock
hours and hours yearn for eternity
the war between nature and humanity
the sun has risen from sleep
Luna never rises alone – but has stars in its eyes.
I once was a young girl without thought of a universe!
a time in my short youth when I saw fireflies as stars
the moon as my pillow – my dreams were the vast sea
of stars – time alone holds these things folded
in the dense body of old age.
Today I have that same child’s heart of yearning
listening to the moon and stars whisper to my soul
for so long I’ve been lost in the middle of a green meadow
where the music is softer and more resounding
the silence of a ballerina’s feet –
the stirring residue of those dreams are indeed visions
of a child who knew the world around her was disappearing!
Setting Fire to Autumn Leaves
maybe I’ve been torn by thorns
maybe I was indeed the thorn
my hair was a golden sunrise
my eyes the blue side of a star.
a summer lily as the moonlight shines
the tired unmade bed where passion sleeps
I was never the flower I watched with
a tender fire - flames and ashes.
there’s a hidden box tied with black ribbon
pushed far away from searching eyes
words sprawled on stained cards – dried flowers
the dirt and dust I breathed in my youth.
why did I save the sentimental fire that caused me-
to tremble – the dead flowers lack luster and scent
I recall the sparkling water where the winged souls-
drink and shed their winter feathers – walking on water.
It’s hard now to find what was put away so long ago
to retain those feelings or bring dead flowers to life
no easy task to mix shadows with stale water
to pretend that ghost will not haunt a tombstone.
nights become deeper and darker when the rain whispers
or thunder reigns with its loud bell as though the moon falling
on the autumn leaves I saved long ago could indeed notice
a sense of impeding finality – the odor of burning bridges.
Between the Distant Sun and Moon
like fragrant petals falling in the rain
my heart has felt this too
the terror of loss – every storm
every petal has known birth and death
rain stains a book of memories
like a flowering mimosa soft and sweet
a gift from my lover – such treasure
now lays torn and broken.
summer rain and rainbows bend pointing-
to the end of the earth – it seems so lonely
daylight sprinkles the dew on those thirsty flowers
moonlight splinters the trees and fire rises
within the hearts of romantics
love – lunacy and loneliness
the moon a lemon pie sweet and tart.
the longer that I search for sleep – restless spirits
come with their gifts of memory – sweet like rain
pictures dressed in imagination- robes of black velvet
crowns of bright stars – cold and watching
my head suffers with the pillow – it’s always been a labor
to fight with pain and its troubles – daylight is another enemy.
I’m on a quest that tires my body – an invisible god
that hears no weeping nor prayers – the strange wind
that comes and leaves through the window
the stars are loud, and time is lost in the chapters of my mind
I turn the pages stained by life and there’s a deepness
that I can’t yet reach nor see – filled with the scent of flowers
and a reflection of his eyes that loved me.
for those who fall asleep on soft pillows- the stars watch
the moon is the guardian
but these eyes have been burned by life and drowned by disease
nights are oceans that strengthen us – renew our soul giving dreams
insomnia strikes me with a thorn branch giving me poetry
a pen writing with a ghost’s hand – in a quiet house
the cats stepping secretly by my chair.
Myrtle Thomas is a poet who has written for many years and has been published in several poetry journals. She lives in the USA in a rural historical area of southeastern Indiana , in writing she finds poetry is a healing way to bring comfort to her wounds.
