Heaven’s Sweetest Gift

My heart it is an open book.

Come in, sit down, please, take a look.

Many chambers has it there,

Colonized by those for whom I care.

 

Mother, father, sisters, brothers,

That’s where it had its start.

As I grew, quite gradually,

More filled this growing heart.

 

Like honeycombs the chambers teem,

Husband, children, all who mean

The world to me, this growing love,

Sourced from up above.

 

For all I’ve loved and lost through life,

In role as mother, daughter, wife

And friend, of course, let’s not forget,

All tenderness for those when met

 

Gathered in one place you’ll find

Those dear to me, I keep in mind.

And sweetness all I do amass,

Then contemplate in looking glass.

 

When heart is full, this golden rule,

Important one, you’ll see.

In giving all to others,

Is chamber left for me?

 

I stop then. Search and look beyond

Those inside. For though I’m fond

Of each and every one therein,

Not loving self is greatest sin.

 

A mirror’d image in their eyes,

I see their love for me, their sighs,

That all my love’s capacity

Should count as love for me.

 

Scan and focus inwards so

Some loving self may start to grow.

For those that love you do not lie,

Reflected in each winsome eye.

 

I turn again from thoughts like those,

Recollect that love it grows

In hive of heart where honey lives

And sweetness tastes so good to give.

 

This I know, my little chamber,

Built for only me, remember

Is when I keep good company

In loving all and loving me.

 

There’s nothing special about my heart,

No more than others here.

It fills and swells, develops

With the passing of each year.

 

And though some others may decry

When love you offer. By and by

You’ll learn that nothing bad will grow

From any love that you may show.

 

So look above, unending source,

Absorb, believe and then, of course,

Fill each little chamber full,

But don’t forget the golden rule.

 

Love is not a passing phase,

It fills your heart and all your days.

Its measure is a boundless gift

And spirit so will lift.

 

Resist it not when comes its call

For greatest gift to one and all

Is love when offered, received and given.

This, sweet gift from heaven.

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Imagination

Sheltered in secret,

Quiet nook,

Imagination

Peeps to look

At what lies

Way out there.

 

Monsters in their

Magic dens,

Fairies fluttering

And then,

Sparkles

Fill the air.

 

Peep some more,

To better view,

Believe in things

Only partially true.

Possibilities

Abound.

 

Now standing in

Fairy forest ring,

I know, feel all

And heart does sing

At glories

All around.

 

Come, take my hand, I’ll guide you there,

Flying rug of woven gold,

Close your eyes and hold on tight,

Fantasies unfold

In darkened,

Blessed night.

 

When moon departs, to bow to sun

And endless sleep is through,

Fragmented figments will abide,

Subconscious mind to view

In early

Morning light.

 

The Night Is Young

The night is young,

Quoth he to me,

All sounds around

Are calm.

Let me caress you

Lovingly,

A gentle,

Soothing balm

 

Of scented oil

Stroked on

Your flesh,

Porcelain in hue.

Valleys of

Togetherness

And mountain peaks

We’ll view.       

 

A tender kiss

Won’t bid adieu,

With passion’s flame

Ignite.

Come quietly,

To me,

My love.

Youthful is the night.

 

OK, Oliana, this one’s down to you. ‘The night is young’, you said.

The Dragon’s Gift

A fire burns

Within this cave

And sulphur

Fills the air.

Exploration,

Through the mire,

Finds

The dragon’s lair

 

Where slumber’s rest

Holds still

His breath, flame now

Quietly quenched.

Wait, survey,

A quiet snore,

Now the time

To wrench

 

One scale from tail

Of beast of lore

Bless’d magic,

Glitter’d gem

Holds promise of

Imagination.

To brave only,

It is given.

 

Sahm’s idea of a dragon paves the way.

Places In My Mind

 

Daily Prompt: Blogger in a Strange Land

by michelle w. on October 12, 2013

What’s the strangest place from which you’ve posted to your blog? When was the last time you were out and about, and suddenly thought, “I need to write about this!”?

Photographers, artists, poets: show us STRANGE.

 

 

Not on a downer! And I know it’s now 13^th!

Just thinking that all sorts of strange ‘places in our minds’ create the need to write.

 

Black hole

Engulfs

And swallows

Whole.

Belief

Belittled.

Buckled,

Aimless goal.

Devoured,

Dark

Abyss,

Devoid of light.

Diminished,

Dented days.

But still

I write.

 

Sparkling stars,

Unending joy

And flight.

Even then,

I feel

The need

To write.

Missing You

Missing you

In desert lands

Bereft of growth.

 

Barren waste

And emptiness.

This most.

 

Missing you.

A great divide

Between

 

Actions, words

Personified

To mean.

 

Missing you.

Starless sky

Beheld

 

 

Moon disappeared,

Unlit orb.

It fell.

 

Missing you

In dreamless days

But sleep

 

In dreams

Of love,

Fantasies may weep.

 

Missing you.

Serenity

Escapes.

 

Patient

Understanding

Gently waits.

 

Missing you,

Just missing

All you are

 

Empty sky

Depicts

Only one star

 

Falling into

Space,

It finds me here.

Missing you.

All love lost,

I fear.

Victory

A wee while ago there was a challenge to come up with a new form of poetry. Apparently, this counts. Alphabetise. Each letter of the alphabet used in sequence. This is my second attempt.

Arms bound,

Chained, distraught,

Emptying and

Forever guileless.

Helpless,

Injudiciously judged.

Kept low,

Morning into

Night obsolete.

Parched, now quenched,

Resurrected soul,

Torture undergone for

Victory won.

Exultant,

Yielding to zeal.

Disparity

So, here’s a joke for you.  I was sharing this in a comment with a fellow blogger. Thought you might like it too. Laughter. Good for the soul, you know. And, apparently, it can help you sleep……

A mother is concerned at the disparity between the personalities of her twin sons. One is an eternal optimist, the other a complete pessimist. She wants to find out why so trots them off to a child psychologist who speaks to both boys. At the end of the session, he tells the mum to bring them both back on their next birthday. He’s asked them both what they would like.
She returns with the boys on their birthday and the psychologist takes the pessimistic child into a room, a room full of every type of toy he had mentioned. The child’s response? ‘Not really what I asked for. That’s the wrong kind of bike. I wanted a BMX. I don’t like the colour of that computer. It all sucks.’
Oh dear.
The second – optimistic – child is taken to a room where an enormous pile of shite lies steaming. The boy dives into and starts throwing it here, there and everywhere.
The psychologist is horrified and asks desperately, ‘What are you doing?!’
To which the child replies, ‘This amount of shite! There’s gotta be a pony in here somewhere.’

Ta da! Like? I love it. It kinda describes differences in my own offspring.  x

Evidence of Nerve Damage in About Half of Fibromyalgia Patients

Glad to reblog, Shaun. Hopefully, there will be something in this to help many. Keep us informed.