Delighted to have 3 poems Mirror, Mirror; The Patterns and This Now My Thoughts in Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal -Issue 13, published on December 1, 2024. My thanks to Editor Mysti MilweeHere is the link below to view Issue 13: https://sequoyahcherokeeri

Delighted to have 3 poems Mirror, Mirror; The Patterns and This Now My Thoughts in Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal -Issue 13, published on December 1, 2024. My thanks to Editor Mysti MilweeHere is the link below to view Issue 13:

sequoyahcherokeeriverjournal.wordpress.com SEQUOYAH CHEROKEE RIVER JOURNAL Photography by Mysti S. Milwee c2024 ISSUE 13 AUTUMN/WINTER ISSUE – 2024 From the Editor: Mysti S. Milwee Congratulations to all my fellow brothers and sisters that have contributed to Is…

MIRROR, MIRROR

mirror, mirror,

in the hall

age comes to us all,

and looks wither

through the play

of years slipped away,

away

in the lapsed lingo of street

and road,

where tangents meet

and move with innocence

up summits of experience

told,

whose fruits we eat

then weep

when they implode.

these reflections

in this autumn of adventurous directions,

mean more

standing in the door

of ebb and flow

watching people come and go

wearing introspections

of what they know

after listening to a stranger’s small confessions

on midnight radio.

THE PATTERNS

somewhere

in everywhere

everybody

happens

in the patterns,

like flocks

of rocks

gathered to the lobby

of Saturn’s

rings,

graded

and sorted

into ugly and beautiful

useful

things;

all something

out of nothing

but not absolute nothing:

it seems matter

that Mad Hatter

and plectrums of light

make tunes of self similarity settle and fight

repeating this same existence

without remembered resistance.

THIS NOW MY THOUGHTS

this now my thoughts

open at the image of your name

won’t be revealing

the secrets they explain-

do you do the same

on these out walks

remembering the rain

drop fractals on us feeling.

back we go again,

without preachers

or bad teachers,

harvest high with hope

just us and frayed strands

of poetry and bands

on this bridge of notes

our mind spans.

in give we’ve got

the bloom of this plot

in garden to river

shaping start and stop

the melting clock

of body quake then quiver

through the Dreamtime day night

and soul spirit lit by landscape light.

we climb the Orange Rock

to revert back far

but have no Gaelic croft

to live in who we are.

it has changed hands

until the purpose of these lands

shoots dissenting music out of birds 

and sucks all truth from ancient words

so existence is

another language.