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Angela Maracle Poem
Bleak February,
masquerading as the month of love,
though no redeeming qualities are born in you.
No purple berry
nor fuchsia flower blooming brightly,
just sighing earth between pale moons of snow.
The garden fairy
sleeps undisturbed in frozen blankets,
waiting for sweet robins to awaken her.
Heavy to carry,
this dreary pause in changing seasons,
colorless like a vintage family photo.
March, please be wary -
you will have so much tidying to do,
erasing death and decay to welcome spring
Copyright © Angela Maracle | Year Posted 2023
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Angela Maracle Poem
One would not know, to look at me,
my years spent at the ballet barre -
tights sticking to me in summer,
cold fingers in winter.
And the aching to be better,
to be seen,
to be given a correction from my teacher.
She was the goddess of all dance and knowledge,
the stern angel of technique and artistry.
She made me cry,
yet I loved her.
She made me hate myself
and hate ballet and its impossible standards.
If I had been perfect,
self-loathing would not have existed
in that sweat-wringing studio;
the click of her cane would not have conjured dread.
I yearned to be beautiful-
in her eyes and in my own,
but she always wanted something unattainable.
Now, decades later,
if by chance I hear that music,
I inhale with anticipation,
dancing in my mind -
weightless and lovely,
the movements forever ingrained in me.
Perhaps I do a port de bras
if no one is watching.
But I'm sure she is looking down and frowning,
hoping I will extend my arms a little more.
The strange thing is, I know she loved me.
She just wanted something from me that I didn't think I had.
Copyright © Angela Maracle | Year Posted 2023
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Angela Maracle Poem
The Divine Soul
possesses three gifts of light.
The first ripples outward,
touching the lives of others.
The second radiates upward,
connecting to Source.
The third is a beacon,
drawing in energy from the Universe.
The Soul both gives and receives -
illuminated and illuminating.
Like a shining water lily
glistening on a pond,
it's imperceptible breath
blows rings across the surface.
This is the Soul interacting with others,
leaving impressions,
making memories,
whispering it's truth.
A floodlight in the flower's center
reaches through darkness,
tethered to Spirit
who protects it from above.
Butterflies are drawn
to the glowing petals -
messages from Angels,
signs from beyond.
When we see
the brilliant trinity of all we inhale
and all we expel,
we become one with the Soul of our creation.
Copyright © Angela Maracle | Year Posted 2023
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Angela Maracle Poem
dead spruce tree branches
cradle robin's perfect nest
keeping safe the eggs
Copyright © Angela Maracle | Year Posted 2023
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Angela Maracle Poem
"Why so grim?", Old Tom Cat asked,
but Little Kitten turned away –
stared at the sky with wistful eyes,
withdrawn from this sweet, golden day.
"Why so gloomy?", Old Tom prodded,
flicking Kitten with his tail.
"No room for melancholy thoughts
when sun is heavy on the vale."
Little Kitten turned his head,
shaking off his pensive shroud.
"I want to be a bird", he sighed,
"and sleep upon a silver cloud."
Old Tom's whiskers twitched a bit –
he had these feelings sometimes too,
but cats were cats and birds were birds,
grass was green and sky was blue.
"See here, Small Kit, let's run about,
scampering in meadow weeds,
caper through the dandelions,
loosening their soft, grey seeds.
Depression will soon float away
with all the downy fluff.
We'll make a million tiny clouds
and that will be enough."
Copyright © Angela Maracle | Year Posted 2023
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Angela Maracle Poem
If twilight birds are on the wing
we too, must leave this restful place
before the shadows fall to earth.
We can no longer hear them sing
and moonlight pushes through the lace,
preparing for a sudden birth.
Imagine what the night could bring
as silent stars caress your face
and drain you of all hope and mirth.
No telling how the dark may sting;
the sunset falls from golden grace;
remember what the dawn is worth.
Hold tight my hand and let us run,
the unheard music has begun.
Trilonnet Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May
Image 4
June 14, 2023
Copyright © Angela Maracle | Year Posted 2023
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Angela Maracle Poem
Vintage photos sprawled before me on the table -
pictures of a time when I was able
to turn some heads when I went to town
and dance all night until dawn fell down...
of a time when all my dresses were much too tight
and the beat of the music felt so right;
my hair was a mermaid fountain - gold -
how I thought I would never grow old.
No other girl had long curls as pretty as mine-
yellow and bouncy, so soft and divine,
caught in my earrings, halo of sun,
twirling until the DJ was done.
Bittersweet images go back inside their box;
I run my fingers through my dull, grey locks.
I had been quite vain so long ago -
Time has ironically let me know.
Copyright © Angela Maracle | Year Posted 2023
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Angela Maracle Poem
They see an older woman seated awkwardly at the grave,
brushing debris from the sun-warmed stone,
clumsily shifting her weight in the heat -
alone.
They don't see her memories from thrifty-five lost years ago,
of two teens at the annual fair.
"In the misty corridors of the soul",
he's there.
She has carried him with her for decades, tucked away safely,
but today is the first time she's here.
He was only eighteen - too young to die -
too dear.
Time has turned her from the pretty girl in the carnival lights
to a person she no longer knows.
Grief doesn't fade with calendar pages -
it grows.
#3
Copyright © Angela Maracle | Year Posted 2023
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Angela Maracle Poem
I never talked about the rooms
of orphans languishing in beds -
still corridors, like wombs,
that darkened pictures in our heads,
escorting us through tombs.
No unseeing their hopeless eyes,
tied in their cribs, such tiny souls -
and eerily, no cries.
Ceausescu's children paid their tolls
amidst the buzzing flies.
I could not save each child in need,
just one small baby, sweet and small -
more than just a good deed.
I wished that I could take them all,
and I will always bleed.
Copyright © Angela Maracle | Year Posted 2023
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Angela Maracle Poem
Early in the morning -
no one else is awake
except a squirrel stealing strawberries from my plant outside.
Last year, you died.
I grew a magic garden
and cared for it with pride.
Go away, squirrel.
Early in the afternoon -
no one else around
except birds building nests in the trees by the gate.
It is sometimes too late
to piece things together,
so why did I wait?
Lucky birds.
Early in the evening -
no one else is crying
except a voice in my head that is always regretting,
never quite forgetting.
Did you know I loved you
as your sun was setting -
dying early?
Copyright © Angela Maracle | Year Posted 2023
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