At dawn, a silver mist gathers at the door,
a stillness between worlds, soft as breath~
you stand there, holding the lantern key.
Its metal cool against your palm,
you turn it once, and the air shifts~
light spills like memory learning to walk.
Just beyond the threshold, frost lifts,
each blade of grass becomes a filament of promise~
and the day unlocks itself, slowly, for you.
The static hums across the floor,
A heavy sound behind the door.
The city sleeps in quiet grey,
Before the breaking of the day.
An engine turns, a pulse takes hold,
A warmth that cuts through winter’s cold.
The shadows stretch, then yield to light,
And wash away the weight of night.
Something shifts beneath the stone,
A quiet force, yet fully grown.
Standing tall against the air,
A brand new dawn begins right there.
I write of heartbreak, fears and tears
But then somedays, His love He shares
I hear His kindness in the voice of rain
He’s the wonder that comforts all my pain
Beneath the echoes of my deepest prayers
Shadows and feelings, blessings and cares
Beneath all the yearnings, are praises galore
For the One who created me, the One I adore
I write of dreams, still breath of spring and fall
The voice of winter is found in each distant call
But, mostly, I believe He touched my very soul
With love that reassures, love that makes me whole
I write to you, my fellow believer, my brother
I write of this joy and peace found in no other
He is the answer to every need, every desire
His love is wise and strong, it’s like a burning fire
Beyond the tears that seem to overwhelm me
There is a blessing of His grace, making me see
He tells us of His kindness with each rising sun
But nothing is more wonderful than His only Son!
My haven is a place that might shock most people, my haven is the local cemetery.
In my haven I sit thinking of all of my ancestors in this hallowed ground, it just feels so peaceful under this low branched tree,
I can sit for hours, thoughtful and still, no noise just silence, sometimes broken with the sound of a breeze rustling my tree.
This is my place that nobody knows, my secret, my serenity my HAVEN>
If I knew how to make the clouds dance,
I would teach them to waltz across vast skies.
They would never dissolve into nothingness—
And they would always inspire searching eyes.
If I knew how to make the clouds dance,
I would be a musician of bright notes and vivid colors.
I would take them by the hand like friends,
So they would never grieve as lonely drifters or lovers.
I would teach them how to be like the swans,
Moving gently with grace as they glide.
A composer floating endlessly in the lake of dreamers.
IN JOURNEYING TO RECOVERY
In your journey,
Remember how far you’ve come;
It is important:-
The distance you have covered,
Makes your destination less.
Always remember,
Journeying in faith in God’s grace,
There are no roadblocks:
Healing Grace conquers them all;
Reaching destiny ensured.
Sowing seeds of faith,
Always reap successful fruits
Of nourishing grace:
So live in gardening faith;
God’s rod and staff plowing you.
Recovering all,
Remember this seedy thought:
“We reap what we sow.”
Praise God in all thanksgiving
For faithful cultivation.
And when recovered,
Be in God’s labors of love;
Helping others sow:
Plowing and faithful reaping,
God’s fruits of recovery:-
We surge the same heart-tube
Brother and Sister Corpuscles
Of poetry -- Scarlet!~ Emboldened! Coursing!
Clotless, no mere composing cholesterols of Time.
Immortal such fluid spirit never doubt
The muse pulsed us in and sacred throb
Will let us about – God judges poets not.
Blame it on the Muse!
Such lie Heaven will overlook.
Next to the ledger, I am certain
Also fondly abides~ a fine verse book!
A different season opens the door,
Nature is stripped of its glamour and radiance.
Sadness sings the songs of the day,
Melancholy paints the portrait.
The foliage of farewell falls to the ground,
Telling a story of a fall from glory.
A rhythm of gloom pervades the atmosphere;
They are swept into the abyss beneath.
Farewell heralds a journey to the beyond.
Feeble leaves dance to the rhythm of the night,
They travel toward the unseen light.
The sacred texts reveal fragments of an ancient mystery.
O fall, let this lore of love be the last entanglement.
Let my soul be free from the haunting and encroaching memories.
O redemption, guide me to the path that leads to your door,
For in the deadness of my body, your light will lead me to the eternal portal of glory.
September 22, 2026.
Time is precious, so squander not your hours
Time is breath, once gone, can’t get back
So, rise in vigor and do your duty at hand.
Invest in actions when you have time in hand.
Waste not in idleness your precious hours.
Speed towards your goal, never look back.
Trials may come, obstacles may rise, yet never go back.
Opportunities may not always come in hand.
Time swiftly moves from seconds to minutes and to hours
Time fractioned into hours, back from eons, will slip out of hand.
The river keeps no record of the vanished light,
only a widening path of amber where evening carries that light.
One leaf releases from its branch and enters the river’s current of light.
Even the reeds bow briefly, then straighten, guided by approaching light.
The blue heron lifts from the shoreline, winged with departing light,
while I follow the riverbank, gathering what remains of light.
But somewhere in the braid of the day’s dissolving light
I notice the powerful presence of light.
Between memory and gratitude, there is light.
My mother's voice survives in an old room of light.
A friend's laughter crosses decades inside a chamber of light.
A poem waits at the edge of silence, listening for light.
Suddenly, I understand: the world does not contain light.
The world is revealed by light.
The heart is remembered by light.
The soul is awakened by light.
And every good poem leaves us carrying a little more light.
O fall, let this lore of love be the last...
as your tight, chaotic grip holds me hostage.
Don't count against me my downfalls,
but the endeavors that have stitched the fabric of my days.
Still, this mask of anguish shapes its heavy cry,
wrapped tightly against the core of myself—
absent of mercy, mocking that pure moment in time
that allows us mortals to be human.
Yet, neither dusk nor dawn can delude me.
They try to imprison me, and hate may fill me with sorrow,
but the flame carried within shall never be dismissed—
a hunger not easily satisfied, refusing to die.
Discarded, a silent alchemy works in the dark.
I am the fire the shadows could not smother;
I turn the leaf, rewriting every page,
rising far above the ashes of my pain.
Last standing—strong,
amidst the dust and foliage of farewell!
Who's love is compared
to that of a life manual?
One who wakes up
at any sound you make.
One who stays up all night
Rocking you to sleep.
One who cries behind closed doors ,
But put on a façade in my presence,
One who Is worth more than anything.
One who gave me this thing called life.
Who am I not to honour my mother?
Weather rich or poor,
She will always be my mother.
She is the one who takes
the place of others
but her place can never
be filled by anyone.
Her heart as pure as snow,
In her warmth I find hope,
In her warmth I find peace.
In her word I find wisdom.
In her word I find knowledge.
She whom your smile is her
Utmost joy and happiness.
Every prayer she says is a blessing,
Everything she touches is gold.
A queen in her own kingdom.
An angel with glorious wings.
A beauty beyond imagination.
The bravest of all.
She who walks through storms and lightning with high heads.
Fight battle with love,
Nurture with patient,
And love with tenderness.
Take a moment to celebrate her,
Cause she deserves to be celebrated.
More and more,
Over and over.
She deserves to be happy
More inspiration from Practical Magic. Love remains the greatest power.
Our magical threads
By Michelle Morris
20/09/2026
This family tree
Not a perfect history
Blessings and curses
Always our reality
An ancient line
Our magical threads
Seeds sown deep
Grown to perfection
The mystery
The stories old
Love torn apart
Curses unfolded
Sisterly love
Family ties
Mothers and fathers
Loved ones who died
This history
We can't repeat
Time to break the curse
To bleed for freedom
Our blood we spill
Combining our hands
Destroying the darkness
Changes time and sands
That hourglass
We just reversed
Love overcame
Our family curse
And you and me
Our love and light
Forever expanded
To win the fight
© Michelle Morris, 2026
If it is conceived by the mind,
sanctioned by the heart,
it’s not fiction, a measure
of the real in every storied work.
Above me is a shelf-full having outlived
their authors, many their civilizations
along with their gods. There are not fictions!
Instead, transitory dimensions of being --
journeys limited only by one’s dragging
imagination --
I will consign a heaven where poets are
royalty; seated on thrones surrounded by
fawning fans. We autograph their copies as
they wipe our profuse brows, having laboriously
bleed one’s soul into the pages. Wherever
they are future carried and read, we are also there,
spirit cursing through Time’s Lyric Arteries….
The ancient Mariner!
That raging infernal!
Am I not the saga of my parent’s love,
each a manufacture of our God?
There is no fiction after the fact.
And woe to you, critics and editors,
savage murders of my fond text!
They are untroubled days;
I bask in their rays.
They are days of unclouded light;
I can see through each night.
I often sit on the porch,
viewing the past with a searchlight.
I spend more time with the sacred,
no longer opening the door at dawn to journey.
I am at peace with the unchanged;
I walk through the meadow with vivid understanding.
Family are the stars of the night sky;
they are the radiant and colourful petals of the summer field.
You come, and my memoir sits on the shelf.
I am no longer a puzzle to myself.
You come, and the days I awaken to are gifts to treasure;
I don’t idly waste my leisure.
September 19, 2026.
Inspirational Categories
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aunts, birthday, black history, christmas, death, easter, family, fathers day, friendship, graduation, kids, life, love, students, thanksgiving, women
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Definition | What is Inspirational in Poetry?
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Related Poetry Forms
encouraging, enlivening, exciting, exhilarating, heartening, inspiration, moving, refreshing, stimulating, stirring, uplifting