My Mu​sings

The poems below are some of my musings.

The Seven Tears by Rowan Morrison

February 14, 2018

I have always loved selkie stories and the seals that swim in our shores, so this poem is dedicated to them and an old friend who inspired it. 

A lonely woman shed seven tears into the cold dark sea………

The first tear was formed of innocence, for a childhood love that was never requited..

The second tear for a tender heart had once been broken in two.

The third tear sung of sorrow for a shallow love that did not last.

The fourth tear was full of regrets for a marriage that should never have been.

The fifth tear was for a love built on lies and empty promises.

The sixth tear was the last that she would shed for mortal man.

The seventh tear that fell into the sea, was a wish for a selkie man, someone to have and to hold until she grew old.

It was the last tear the woman ever shed into the cold dark sea........

The Death Bed Promise by Rowan Morrison

March 15, 2018

A once true love told me that I would be his final thought as his last breath left his body. I took comfort in this death bed promise, like a warm blanket on a cold dark night. But after time, this promise stole a bit of my soul and the warm blanket became an invisible shroud that bound me to love that would not die despite the death of my once true love.

Secrets by Rowan Morrison

March 15, 2018

Beware of who you tell your secrets too............

There are dark secrets that live deep in my shadow. I once told them to the moon, for in the dead of night no one else is there to listen but the very next day she told them to the sun, who told the earth and know everyone knows about the dark secrets that once lived deep in my shadow. 

The Wooden Step by Rowan Morrison

March 15, 2018

A woman stood on a wooden step to kiss her lover goodbye, for she was small, and he was tall in-case you wondered why. That step became a land of love where their eyes and lips could meet. A wondrous wooden place, where hearts were free to beat. Then one day the woman saw the shadow of death in his deep blue eyes. Through salted tears she cried out "seven years" but this fell upon deaf ears. So, seven short years was all they had, on their ladder to the stars. The step is now old and worn but their love it lingers on, for each night she still stands upon it, long after her lover has gone.

A Ghost of Love by Rowan Morrison

March 15, 2018

A ghost of a dead love lay dormant within my heart. Strangled by circumstances before it had time to grow. But a seed of hope was planted in the barren soil and now the ghost of love has been reborn. Once more a man of flesh and bone. Filling the void inside, with dreams and moonbeams to light up my empty soul. But what will become of this once forgotten love, that has now taken root in the depths of my soul? I asked the stars for time has passed, the young now old, with hearts grown cold. Devoid of light, can this love grow? The silence of their reply echoed throughout the long restless night. Too much time has passed was their reply. Too much hurt, too much pain, you are fated to never ever find love again. So, the ghost of the dead love must die once more, finally laid to rest. But upon its grave I shall cry for the coward in me to afraid to try, for the fool in me who let it die.

The Matchbox by Rowan Morrison

March 15, 2018

The old woman sat in the threadbare chair, memories of her life woven into what was left of its harsh fabric. Little life left in her blue-green eyes, more of her soul in the next life than in this. In her gnarly fingers she held a tattered matchbox that belonged to another decade, a time when her eyes sparkled with hope for a love that might soothe her loneliness. Inside the little box, a hidden treasure, an invisible memory more precious than gold. A memory that had sustained the old woman since her hair had turned silver and lost its shine. She slowly opened the box to breathe in its content, inside a red rose given by her one true love, the invisible memory of its sweet smell filled her lungs, just one more breath and she was gone. All that was hidden inside died with her. Her body devoid of life, the matchbox empty........

The Tradition-Breaker by Rowan Morrison

March 15, 2018

No, no, no she was told, what you want goes against tradition. Only men can carry the coffin and lower it into the ground. But it was her firstborn child, and this was the last thing she could do for the baby boy who would never get to grow-up, so no man would tell her that she couldn’t be the one to put his cold body into the warm earth. For she had birthed the boy with the bonnie blue eyes, her wee fair-haired laddie. She alone bore the pain of his passing, so she alone would bear the weight of the little white coffin. As she lowered it into the ground on a day in May, a wind blew through her being, no ordinary wind but the soul of her child being laid to rest. It was a wind from the north that along with her firstborn she would never forget. For it blew a hole in her heart that could never be mended, not by needle, thread, or time itself.

The Invisible Ties by Rowan Morrison

March 15, 2018

The invisible ties that bind us to all those that touch our lives are stronger than we know. For those threads of lasting love are interwoven into the fabric of our very souls. I know this to be true, for the stars in the dark night sky whispered in my ear and told me it is so.........

 The Pillow of Fine Feathers by Rowan Morrison

March 15, 2018

Two heads lay on a pillow of fine feathers.

She on the left and he on the right.

Cloudy grey eyes gazing into each other.

Tender kisses on old thin lips.

Soft whispers of sweet-nothings filling the air.

Bony hands on slow beating hearts.

A union of flesh, before they fly off to the stars.

This nightly ritual like their love never forgotten,                                                for once they lost each other in a time long ago.

But fate took a hand and wove them back together,                                      two souls adrift without one another.

Then every bird in the sky gave them a feather,                                                each feather a gift to fill a soft pillow.

The pillow became their hearth and their home.

Each night they lie on their single white pillow.

Aged and wrinkled but beholding to none.

Free to love and share what’s left of a lifetime.

Their journey to eternity, only just begun. 

 A Skinwalkers Soul by Rowan Morrison

March 15, 2018

Winter is a time for going within. A time for digging deep in the human shadow like a wild animal digs for shelter in the earth. The deeper you claw, the denser the darkness becomes. For scarred shadows reside in the souls of all skinwalkers. A sticky place of black fears whose voice is willed silent, but its whispers echo inside until their wailing of pain deafens our existence with their demands to be heard.

Dare you let loose the twisted thoughts that hide deep inside? Once they escape their self-imposed prison of denial, there is no locking away of these bone rattling skeletons. No closet of flesh and blood big enough to contain them. No lock nor key strong enough to hold them.

Yet inside the shadow there is unseen light.

A flickering flame of divinity that burns away falsehoods and sets alight the tormented lies that lay siege to your being. Take a leap of faith into the unknown cavern of your consciousness. Fall from the pretentious state of grace. From a shallow life that feeds the eternal blackness that consumes you when the moon rules the night sky.

For inside the shadow there is a blinding light.

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