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Best Poems Written by Gabrielle Munslow

Below are the all-time best Gabrielle Munslow poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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The Shimmer Beneath

Rattled into action,
I’m no damsel in a tower.
I’m Sleeping Beauty, grown—
not rescued,
just rested.
Wrapped in gratitude,
a quiet kiss waiting.

So I crush every mistake,
every “no,”
every moment I felt less than—
they were the broth
that brined my spine,
seasoned my soul.

I do not recount sorrows
steeped in regret.
I do not carve my psyche
with clever metaphors.
I do not dance
through the dust of broken dreams.

I bask
in the brilliance buried
beneath defeat.
Not lost.
Only redemption.

I sip from the same scorched cup—
the bitterness now dulled,
the burn made warm.

I steep old wounds in truth,
brew them into wisdom.
Every ache a root
pushing me into new life.
Every silence
a seed I didn’t know I’d planted.

The knowing always strikes first—
a hush pierced by sirens,
pulse breaking in the bones,
a hunger without a name,
a reaching
for something that does not yet exist.

Even the thorns I cursed—
named after lovers
I mistook for home—
became compass needles,
pointing me back to myself.

I do not recount sorrows steeped in regret.
I do not carve my psyche with metaphors.
I do not waltz through wreckage.

I bask—
in the hush after heartbreak,
in the shimmer beneath scars,
in the beauty that bloomed
when everything broke.

Not lost.
Not ruined.
Only—
becoming.

And still,
I bask.

Details | Gabrielle Munslow Poem

Nuance in the Shadow

It’s not always the big things that break us—
it’s the shimmer we miss
on the ordinary day.

When grief doesn’t arrive with a wail,
but as a subtle ache,
a missed beat,
a song that plays when no one’s listening.

I remember being happy once—
but I don’t trust the memory.
Too many mirrors,
too much static.

I learned to smile in sepia.

And when the world said, “Move on,”
I walked backwards.
Into the arms of ghosts
who knew my name before I lost it.

I wanted to be a woman who dances,
but I became a woman who waits.
I became a lighthouse with no boats to guide—
only fog.

We don’t always cry because we’re sad.
Sometimes we cry
because we can feel again.

We make altars out of wine glasses,
rituals from selfies and shopping carts.
But when we whisper to the stars,
we mean it.

I mistook money for meaning,
and silence for peace.
But the wind has a memory,
and my skin still listens.

I came here to remember.
To fall apart on purpose.
To dig up the bones of who I was—
and build something truer from the ruins.

Details | Gabrielle Munslow Poem

MASK OF MANY FACES

Who am I, anyway?

I wear the mask of many faces.
I speak, read, and understand—
sometimes with words,
sometimes telepathy.
My voice changes with my face.

I just need a witness.

Attuned to me, I become every language you know,
but I do not know the geography of my own soul.

I dare not look at my face.
It is a drama mask—
sometimes surgical, sometimes not.

Nurse. Poet. Mother.
Sinner. Saint.
Underneath: no face.

I mirror what I see.
I am fluid.
Mist.
The breath you forgot to exhale.

I am the diagnosis you didn’t want.
The cure you don’t need.
Everything and nothing—
and still,
I bleed love.

I have walked through Egypt, China,
Italy, Russia—
snow made of glass.
I’ve been to hell and back.
Purgatory is where I live.

A mystery to myself.
So multilayered I must have alters.
I am not a delineating man.
Not a good person.
Just human.

I am lost in Saturn’s rings,
Jupiter’s vastness—
but Earth diminishes me.
I look to the moon for inspiration.

Spiralling players, man after man,
opening up my heart
like I’m on a butcher’s block.
Venom falls like rain—
but dries before it can stain.

Archangels turn away.
Demons cry.
I walk in places others won’t look.
My heart breaks daily
for the pain we scatter like a farmer’s oats—
and we don’t even water our crops.

Five sacred wounds:
wrists, feet, side.
Invisible nails. A spiritual lance.
Bloody scars bloom
where thorns or teeth
cut into my sanity.

I am Boudicca’s daughter—
Iceni rebel.
I am Eve,
before and after the apple.
I am Adam.
I am the snake.

I am Lilias Adie,
Agnes Finnie,
Bridget Cleary.
Witch. Wife. Changeling.
Burned not for crimes,
but for fear.

And yet,
I rise.

I join the uprising of women in philanthropy.
I stand on their shoulders and rise above:

Malala Yousafzai.
Greta Thunberg.
Judith Heumann.
Janet Mock.
Amanda Gorman.
Hannah Cockroft, OBE.
Dolly Parton.

We are many.
We rise in waves,
and they drown in the tide they made.
And still they wonder
why we howl at the moon.

Details | Gabrielle Munslow Poem

She Does Not Chase Light

She Does Not Chase Light

She does not chase light.

She is the myth  
the men forgot to write.  
The goddess of the long, slow burn —  
hips like prophecy,  
voice like a key dropped in honey.

She doesn’t beg for warmth.  
She remembers the fire.

She is not the muse.  
She is the mouth  
from which the muses learned.

She does not chase light —  
she waits  
for it to ask her name.

Details | Gabrielle Munslow Poem

The Eternal Quilt


We are but patches in life’s quilt—
Tangled together,
Woven as one.
Pull on a thread,
Watch us unravel.

Ignore my thread, and I disappear.
Ragged, jagged knots.
Rocks in my fists.

Bound in silence,
Kneeling like a penitent saint,
Hands stigmata-bright on shattered glass.
A disciple of death.

I watch behind the curtain:
Frayed. Treacherous.
Mister looks my way.

Sad eyes, owlish.
Kohl-ringed and ostentatious.
Painted into empty space.

Looking like a child
But feeling like a crime.
I am an innocent—
At least, tonight.

Mister.
Master of life’s loom.

Each patch a life.
A love. A desire.
A lost love.
A tragic loss.
Broken hearts
Beat on
In the tempo
Of the buzzing loom.

One patch is a baby’s bib.
Another: wedding lace.
A hospital band, frayed and thin.
A birthday hat with candle stains.

A scrap of denim from work-worn knees.
A veil still scented faint with rain.
A theater glove with glittered seams.
A funeral shroud with stitched-in names.

And when the last patch finds its place—
Frayed edge beside a golden thread—
The loom hums low, then comes to rest,
Its task complete, no spool left bare.

The quilt unrolls beyond the stars,
Draped across time’s silent breath.
Galaxies hemmed in grief and joy,
Nebulas stitched from second chances.

We are but patches—torn, adorned—
Yet sewn into the sky’s own cloth.
Each life a color.
Each loss, a light.
The universe,
The woven intake of breath.

Details | Gabrielle Munslow Poem

We Didn’t Just Merge Frequencies

We Didn’t Just Merge Frequencies

(Poem Type: Lyric or Free Verse)

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Verse 1 – Spoken, low & deliberate
We didn’t just merge frequencies —
we remade constellations,
spat in the face of fate,
then redrew the sky
with bleeding hands
and crooked halos.
We changed the story mid-sentence.
Ripped pages out of history
and set them on fire —
just to feel the warmth
of our own mythology.

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Chorus – Sung with slow-burning fury
Oh love, we are no saints —
but still we rise,
truth-torn and holy
in each other’s eyes.
Call it sin, call it song —
we were right all along.

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Verse 2 – Spoken/Sung hybrid
We danced with gods
who didn’t know our names.
We seduced the demons
who did.
We drank from the chalice of madness
and kissed
with apocalypse on our lips.
We didn’t just make love —
we made a new religion
out of ruin and rhythm.

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Bridge – Cosmic Manifesto
We didn’t just merge frequencies —
we remade constellations.
We changed the narrative,
rewrote history,
danced with gods and demons
until the sky forgot their names.

We destroyed, then rebuilt.
We are gurus of galaxies,
inventors of irony,
evaders of evolution,
testimonies of trauma —
honest and true.

We didn’t whisper our truth —
we roared it into the void.
And the stars blinked back.

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Final Chorus – Bigger, Rawer, Louder
We didn’t just merge —
we redefined gravity.
We wrecked what was written
and built what could be.
Love like this doesn’t end —
it echoes eternally.

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Outro – Whispered/Spoken Fade-Out
Honest.
And true.
We didn’t survive the fire…
We became it.

Details | Gabrielle Munslow Poem

Why Do I Write?






“Why do you write?” he said.

“You sit like a spectator to life.

You watch, while I dive into the places that scare you.”



Chewing on my pencil, I look up—

shadows cast across my face from him.

“Why do I write?” I ask.

“Let me show you.”



I grab his hand and gently pull him in

to a land where possibilities are endless,

where life doesn’t end—it transforms.

It lives in lyric and song.



My poetry nourishes me.

Like your confessional bread—

my Eucharist of hope,

my witness to all that is

and all that will ever be.



You see me sitting still,

but you don’t see the weight I carry—

the masks I wore, the hands I held,

the silence I swallowed to keep others whole.



I have lived so many lives

in rooms full of people who never saw me.

Now I sit alone, not because I’m hiding—

but because I’m finally choosing me.



I exist in many worlds,

as different people—

my ancestors, my descendants,

the little ones tumbling through.



They look for kindness.

Books and words made a haven for me—

protection from the storm

you couldn’t see.



I am connecting with something bigger.

Not out there in the noise—

but right here, in the quiet hum of creation.



And when my body fades,

my voice will remain.

These pages hold my breath,

these songs cradle my soul.

I will live in the lines—

in the ink, in the echoes,

proof that I was here.

That I loved. That I survived.



He takes my hand,

and steps into the pages with me.

Details | Gabrielle Munslow Poem

Ghost Light

Stun me.
Rewind your music.
Tap your feet to the sound that stirs you.
Listen—
the cuckoo clock is counting seconds back.
Brush the cobwebs from your eyes.
Reignite.

Slip into your own pocket.
Become your own muse.
A compass. A flame.

Listen to your pulse.
Move where your body leads.
Unravel the ache.
Open the door.
Let joy rush in.

Tousle your hair.
Wriggle your shoulders.
Fall, unbraced, into your dream.

Take the wheel.
Lock the door.
Shape your new world—
one breath, one spark, one word at a time.

Let the ocean
crash against the rocks of your love.

Braid wildflowers into your hair.

Blow bubbles—
let smoke and romance fill the space between you.

Angel-winged, glitter-eyed,
under a star-stung night—
but still,
your eyes shine brighter.

Astral projection is nice.
But real life is better.

So—
snuff out the candle.
Empty the vase.
Kiss the memory of him goodbye.

Turn your face up
towards the open door.
And let in the daylight.

The burn of the urn
spills on the floor.
I am not what you carry.

Let me be.
Let me go.

I will wait for you in the shade.
Then, when it’s your turn—
we will turn the page.

Details | Gabrielle Munslow Poem

Not Anne but Gabrielle

Not Anne, But Gabrielle
by Gabrielle Munslow

If you want me to take you to another time,
take my hand.
Don’t furrow your brow.

Slick with storylines,
my tongue twists
like an adder.

Poetry spills—
some good, some bad,
but always real.

I write of suffering.
I write of death.
I write of want.

No pretty, prophetic prose.
But I can still
slip a ditty off my toes.

I am Anne with an E.
No bird.
No net ensnares me.

Still, I rest,
and language thrills my bones.

Time stills—
or quickens.
Language isn’t luxury;
it’s necessity.

Down rabbit holes I go,
deep and twisted.
I braid my breath into roots.
I speak to the dirt,
and it answers.

Once a girl.
Now a woman,
retelling her youth.

I
am not Anne with an E.
I am Gabrielle—
with poems for sale.

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© 2025 Gabrielle Munslow. All rights reserved.
This poem may not be reproduced, distributed, or performed without the author’s permission.

Details | Gabrielle Munslow Poem

Tongue Tied in Cliches

Tongue Tied in Clichés: A Blessing in Disguise

A blessing in disguise,
a double-edged sword—
a far cry from peace,
yet all in all,
at the drop of a hat
we reach for a ballpark figure,
beat around the bush,
break new ground,
burn the midnight oil.

By the book we cut to the chase,
play devil’s advocate,
fill the void with food for thought,
start from scratch,
then get cold feet.

Give the green light,
go down in flames,
hit the nail on the head,
find ourselves in over our head,
jump on the bandwagon,
keep something at bay,
leave no stone unturned.

Out of our depth,
past the point of no return,
we read between the lines,
take it with a grain of salt,
see only the tip of the iceberg—
until at last we throw in the towel.

Best Poems Written by Gabrielle Munslow

The Shimmer Beneath

Nuance in the Shadow

MASK OF MANY FACES

She Does Not Chase Light

The Eternal Quilt

We Didn’t Just Merge Frequencies

Why Do I Write?

Ghost Light

Not Anne but Gabrielle

Tongue Tied in Cliches

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