Poem -
Just a Little Gleam
The glass on the window, to a thousand pieces has shattered
and cannot be repaired and become what it once was,
nor can it bring back what really matters,
But some of the pieces can be picked up and placed together
and even if the window is still a barrier with light blurred and dim,
behind the cold and grey mist there is a little gleam
that can calm his soul and comfort him,
No, he is not beyond repair,
He’ll pick up one piece, just one little piece at a time,
and start the journey again,
In the depths of silence, the heart learns secrets
and hears its voice.
--Bernadete vdw, '25
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Comments
The detail of picking up the pieces one at a time, so you know care is taken because the glass is sharp, it contrasts with the 'putting back together '.
And I see chapel glass. I just do. Thought I'd say.
It’s great you say what’s in your mind, Rory, I like that!
Thank you. You made me think.
I felt that one in my soul
Thank
you
Bernadete
Keep up the great thought's
and
prayers
and
poems
Hi Popop! If you felt this in your soul, It was worth every drop
of the ink. I will try to keep up, dear Poet, I'll try.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts.
Take care of yourself & your lovely family,
Bernadete
Bernadete, thank you for another gem of a poem graciously bestowed yet again.
Your one of the chosen few on here who know exactly what they're doing and where they are going with a poem.
Nothing is wasted and clearly never ever rushed but scribed with thought and care.
A true love for the craft.
No filler words or hollow ones, everything fits neatly, flows beautifully with no meandering or beating around the poetry bush I call it.
All coherently well written with balance and harmony in abundance and a joy to read you.
I mentioned graciously for that is evidently found in so many of your poems.
Thank you again for writing with class and distinction.
Shaun x
Shaun, playing with the words of Winnie the Pooh…
How like I am to have someone
who warms my heart every time I
write a poem.
Your generosity (of words) is overwhelming. Time is precious,
and you give yours,
Words are precious, and you offer yours, and for that, I am grateful.
Warm wishes,
Bernadete
And you, Mr Etsell, always give me your quiet visit, and I say
quietly... Thank you Greg, I am sending warm wishes your way. B
The Butterfly dies just to be born again endlessly. A Lovely Poem.