Myrtle Thomas
Two Sides of the Mirror
I’ve swam through the fog
trying to find what is lost
my eyes as empty as last night's cup
my laughter is muted in secrecy
my dreams are so short now
through the fog you sat on a tombstone
I washed it with my tears
there are no pretty flowers
no green grass
only the gray clouds
and visions that hold my dreams.
I walked through the foggy terrain
my feet heavy and my heart heavier
autumn left a trail I found so beautiful
the colors had already left the trees
I felt the cool fog on my face
my how cool and peaceful this night is !
and somewhere in the midst of nowhere
you appear standing as you stood long ago
your face full of love - your eyes like two blue oceans.
Time has no boundaries nor footprints
only dreams are harvested in my sleep
but the morning steals them away from memory
is it uncommon to search for these lost faces ?
or to listen for their voices in the wind !
sadly, the years have stolen the touch of your hand
and now my dreams are as far away as those who left me.
Twilight with its silver stars and haunting shadows
seep into my eyes like a flood of joy and sadness
my flesh and bones contain what you left behind
the faces that I see in the mirror watching me-
with the same eyes like two blue stars
they are too tired to sing or whisper in the tarnished glass
maybe there will come another night or daydream
of finding you waiting to take my hand and lead me-
through the fresh fallen autumn leaves.
Casting Shadows
it’s 1:AM and the moon still hangs the same
dimmer though are my eyes – everything remains.
October ghosts roam the empty fields
searching for themselves
the lives they’ll never find again
the veils become thinner around 3:AM
I assume they still have a yearning
for what they held in spirit and breath
before they journeyed between heaven and earth.
It’s strange to be awake in the witching hour
when shadows cross the floors quietly at first
here the moon lingers like love or hate
the moonlight resting on tree branches
illuminating their hidden bones
these orbs of light search for questions
their voices are shafts silver and gold.
all of the Kings – Queens the paupers
the workers of steel – old poets of classical
verses hover over their words like dust
eyes once guided the hands of artists opalescent
shapes without sight - do they weep
from the memories of novels or spilled ink?
maybe saints and sinners intermingle
in the desires of the flesh.
the windows are wide, and the glass is thin tonight
clouds of rain and the thunder of the heart
fear dances in the heart of fearful souls
tonight, the time has moved slowly with its hands
crawling into the light and disintegrating
in the minds of madness.
A Burning Bundle of Branches
let the north winds bring autumn leaves
brush strokes clear and concise
a harvest moon compels the heart
to see through its shadows
today I’m too tired to wait for the slow
arrival of bleeding leaves-
tired in body and mind.
It’s wonderful to remember the burning branches
the smoke of long-ago fires and desires
the hands that embraced me – some are in spirit
bundles and baskets of fragrant flowers
roses grown on thorny stems
the sharp hedge trimmers
honed twice a year.
my eyes are dimmer today as I inspect the colors -
that rest in my memory – today I’m forgetful with time
yesterday I walked through a cemetery kicking the leaves
stirring the scent of decay – the blessed soil of a motherland
today I’m homesick for the memories that have vanished
stolen by turmoil and strife.
a woman who is evaporating in the wind of time
someone that hides from the smoke and fire
a shadow growing dimmer & dimmer
tiptoeing toward the portal that whispers a welcoming
an old woman tired of smothering in the smoke -
while the world burns around me
a place of love & passion.
Is it a willful use of matches to set afire the book -
holding pages of thought and pictures?
for it has always been my intention to wade through my life
writing about mud puddles and starry nights
moonlit kisses – eyes the color of the world
or the whispering sounds as the wind sighs.
maybe nightfall will bring us all together like moonlight
sheds its love on all of creation – I don’t know the outcome
of one truth I’m sure we were all born – we all die
we chose our lives by the way we reflect our hearts
the substance of fuel maybe bundles of dry branches.
dream my fellow poets lift your pens – make love to the pages
stir the inner realms of your hearts – laugh and weep
keep a fire burning in your heart just as the first love
of your life left open wounds on your soul
the night can’t change the way the flame rises.
To Dream without Sleeping
The summer days so hot – the nights
so, sweltering and dreams smothered -
by insomnia – all of the fractured memories
of iced tea and the sour taste of lemons
the sun like a huge lemon flower
the moon a lemon drop
summer winds seldom sing softly
the night weeps too loud to sleep.
A day and night of memoirs – we all write
with black ink and emotions
of troubles and lovers – enemies and friends
I write in an empty room – I read to ghosts with
solid opal eyes and lips blue and silent
their bodies unaware of prayer or paragraph
no reviews nor accolades
always alone in my rooms of memory.
The darkness holds me in thoughts of moonlight
of how the light raced into his eyes – a field of stars
the night isn’t so dark in the reflections of dew and twilight
the kiss of moonlight is never a dead lover
my eyes sometimes are pained and painted red
two worn hands rub the wrinkles from my brow
two lips part for a sensual kiss
but only one hand writes of a life lived.
I sit here imagining the temperature of a star
I think I felt it once maybe not so long ago
but I also felt the moon’s fire and the cool grass
where we laid watching the stars sing in silence
the stillness whispered upon my breast –
the murmur of ancient lights hovers overhead
there’s no reason to lament over one or two
shooting stars.
When I write – I get lost in pieces of a puzzle
two blue oceans being flooded by two earthen seas
of hazel and green stars and fire as it burns me
love endures like the sun and moon – stars die and fall
to earth buried and hidden – we hold two smooth red stones
with redbirds and autumn vines – flaming beauty
the heart a wounded soldier.
The sunlight shining through the window burns my tired eyes
dries the dew on the front lawn – the light tracing the tree branches
while a bird sings after a good night's rest - the weeping willow dancing
the stars retreat and the clouds are like the robes of angels
sleep is finding me, and insomnia has given me a poem written by-
the withered hand of my spirit – the smoke of my life
time and life are always changing clothes - darkness to light.
Of Redbirds and Smooth Red Stones
my heart restless
daylight burns my eyes
nights that I held the moon’s hands
breath of warrior's tribal drums
of every woman and child
between the cusp of sun and moon
their blood washes the ground
my eyes still closed to the reality of
the pain,
leaves of emerald
hang in the wind of time
changes come to the ancient hills
the “trail of tears “still weep
from the memories sleeping in the soil
soft moccasins slipped secretly
in the autumn leaves
painted with blood and tears
carried by the wind “history.“
I saw his dark skin – tanned from the sun
his hair a dark brown, I didn’t know
his bloodline would capture me
hold me as the wind of time holds a flame
but his eyes spoke of the hues and tints-
of the stars and the earth -
hazel and green like the trees -
stars like a meteor shower.
I only knew that I loved his soul-
loved the look of a Cherokee man
a mason who loves the soil, sky and sand
the spirit that roams the earth awoke me
pointed to the earth and stars -whispered
to my heart of the elements of eternity
the height where life and love resides
and a mirror that never tarnishes
but reflects the sunlight and moonlight.
Amongst the Silence of Falling Leaves
silence is a beautiful place sometimes
rest in its breast and join in its song
use your hands to trace the face of the night
and then realize we couldn't see the light -
if not for darkness.
how can we find ourselves without a trail-
of our footprints or recall the feel of love
without fingerprints or the kisses, we've felt
or the hem of night falling on our skin
and the tingle of desire
that stirs the ashes.
sometimes we get lost within ourselves
our eyes blind from the busy landscape
I try to remember the sun cast's a long shadow
that we carry along with us as friend or foe
we should choose our battles and still remember
the war that lingers.
I try to walk through the green grass that brought-
me here to muddy footpaths along the ridges
of my youth that led to these trembling years
where life and death co-mingle in the breath of-
mirrors and veils of darkness.
- Myrtle Thomas lives in America and is retired from a large manufacturing company. She has been published in several poetry journals and magazines , she is a member of ALLpoetry.com , Penn name Bluebird74 . Myrtle self-published four poetry books and also has a new chap book on Amazon ( In my Land of Dreams ). She uses poetry as medicine to heal past wounds ; poetry has been a companion to her for over thirty years.
