Heather: Poetry

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"Small Reflections" is a compendium of poetry, prose, and musings which, in no small way, mirrors watersheds of happiness, love, grief, and discovery - major categories no doubt marking every life, but which for me became the catalyst for poetic self-expression. I am honored to have the opportunity to feature some wonderfully generous, talented, and creatively prolific artists as well.

Be sure to check out links to each under Art and Artists, Links, and Tributes. I would like especially to thank Dana Peach of Jaguarwoman Webdesign for her creative genius and collaboration in the redesign of "Small Reflections".

I would be flattered if you would take a moment to sign the guestbook, or send me a note, but most of all I hope you enjoy the journey!

Heather L. Long - 1998 -} If you want to know what "I Believe", click here.

je regrette

The Search

I crawl inside
the deeper spaces
looking for what I know is there.

Why have I hidden it from myself -
my need has never been greater
or my self so self-aware.

Where is the voice I claim can speak
in the cadence of the common man
and why do I despair?

wings

this dawn... I watched you
jewel-adorned
and glistening of dew,
spiral to uncharted realms,
reaching with the brightness of your wings
for promises
and dreams
foretold by ancients
of a metamorphosis
that sang
of just these
things.

all day I waited...
and as the sun
set on your
perfect day of freedom,
the quiet beating of my heart
welcomed you home again
to settle, for a time,
in safe and
shadowed-dappled
corners
of the garden
of my mind.

reversing newton

Who stands sentinel with me
gazes at my birth -
at slopes traversed,
flailing at the pull of gravity.

Allies of wars
in the not-so-long-ago,
muse and I
advance - birthed in the forge,
reversing Newton.
Anchored in uncharted skies, and gazing
at the possibilities, we tax the moorings

to be cast adrift -
on seas and seas of stars

Sisters

We talk . and discover . forgiveness
buried in the hollow log . left on the
forest floor . of youth

maturity . has become the litmus-test
for secrets . longing . for freedom
from the tomorrow . of our breasts

I understand . that I have always
loved you

One

In those few finite moments
we were form,
and substance,
and the warmth of human skin.
We were voice,
and heartbeat -
the poets' fire within.

In those moments
we were hope,
and promise,
kindred spirits, searching -
the antithesis of sin.

In those moments - you were me.

(for rh)

westering

it nudges me
as treelines shadow-meld
into the fading light;
and it caresses
as a sated golden sun
succumbs - beyond
our prying eyes, another day

it sighs, softly - past the hand
I place against my heart
cradling your voice -
sussurous lullaby... song that may.

red maples
- fall -
with grace

eight-legged parade
cool glass
shelters me

Ethereal Sojourn

Love grew in the ether and the firestorm, unfettered
by pleasures of the flesh.

Seeded by compassion's eye
to time and other-worldliness,
each footstep bore a burden
to sing of destiny's allure -
links of courage forged in hope
of tomorrow's pure
and theta* promise.

Ethereal sojourn... eternal quest!

*Theta (th-ay-ta)- spirit, soul

"A Thousand Words"

a vacuum created by
our silence
echoes through the tunnel
of our lives;
and harmony,
now wormwood for despair,
is cradled irrevocably in
unending compromise, shaded by
common efforts at good will

therein, the tableau, mired
in the sepia of better days...
lies frozen.

broken wing -
water whorls of
cranberry glass

red dust
remembers
spring

Regret
regret
spelled blue
is white hot
to the touch
and tears
don't make a
difference
when
words as weapons
sink as deep
as spears
and only hide the scars with skin

Byron

Though Byron loved me,
at sixteen the future
shimmered tantalizingly...
a fantasy of accomplishments
as yet unsung, perhaps, but
clearly inevitable nonetheless.

And when he searched across the miles,
twenty years
into that future, time
not yet expended, still proffered hope...
the dream,
intact, lived on.
I'd given some, but surely not my best.

Madame Curie's gone... my hero...
and I didn't take her place.
The nest, abandoned now,
is as ephemeral
as that unrealized
adolescent dream...
But Byron loved me,
sent flowers,
and was the first to touch my breast.

gate swings -
hinges of rusted brass
exhale

I am deeply honoured to accept this rarely
presented award from Nancy and Wendell Deer With Horns.

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hlong@cadvision.com