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Poems On / About MIRROR  4/30/2016 6:15:16 AM
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Best Poems About / On MIRROR
 
 
 
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  165.     

The Glass In The Glass

Mocked by a carnival mirror,
a contortion cruel as doubt,
I wrecked the woozy image:
a snicker clinked out.

Mirrors on other walls
published the same burlesque face:
mirrors round, oval, and square
crackled in place.

I cached the winks of glass,
some sleight-of-self to reclaim,
but the kaleidoscope of shards
configured the same

punished reflections my eyes
reflectively defined—
glass that mirrored a face
that mirrored a mind.
 
William F Dougherty

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  166.     

The Mirror

I have a mirror.
I look in it everyday.
Sometimes, it’s not what I want to see.
Instead, it’s what I want to be.

My hope is to think clearer.
It’s that mirror I want to break.
That shattered glass comes with consequences.
It looms with seven years of mistakes.

Still, every morning I have a task.
To look in that mirror and not see my past.
To look beyond my woes,
And pray to God I can clean that mirror and save my soul.

When all is done and I am at peace.
I shall look in that mirror and just see me.
The eyes will close for me to take my rest.
In my sleep, I shall dream I have done my best.
 
Marie WardAlonge

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  167.     

Fantasmas, Bésenme!

As if pain could measure up to that grand morality of far off nations within each soul; nations, we gaze into eyes of reflectors, oh but we turn in disgust...of who we really are? As if pain can be measured, yes doc like a 1-10… now oh lord drop down a kiss from my dear whore Morphine, and come take me away so that I might forget this: “journey, passion, struggle, might, courage…THIS? THIS…breath, life? ! The puddle, oh some milky eye sees that in you I am me... such tales of that mirror of eyes.
As if pain can dance to the rhythm of love...and in your hurt, you have forgotten their hurt…yes sir/ma’am! ...Blind, sheep, no toads that sit and gaze into the fear of real love... in mud dim you worthy.

Mirror in you, this muddled soul I love so much…is not pain from which I am made aware, does not treasure awaken adventure, a struggle of tug-of-war. Shovel in hand dig deep, is love not found? Or does the Divine sit and type keys of words that slither out of a never silver tongue, sheep that gather in fog, seeking destiny’s script to caress such fallen heads? You who run from pain, who congregate in darkness’ comfort, to never know beauties bright.

Let us spiral in a brilliant waltz to themes that glide above the depths below…you gather, you who run from me…Gazelles, he comes for you in the brush, when night sings its deadly melody…as you sleep on, do lions eat before a fight, allowing prey to enter into death? As if pain…I am pain…As if pain…I am love… As if, to you, blue yet green eyes in the mirror... has such a love become like torture? Has the map been torn and rewritten by those who have failed in what they “deemed precious and thus correct”, or is love’s beauty already milky in their bearded gaze…forgotten struggle of the oppressed …because of pain? The mirror, my eyes…your eyes? Sing within a righteous call, dream too with love’s ink…your song, my song…this mirror I seek.

IMUA! In work we are worthy, In action we are solid….love, and yes that “love” rest only in pain, sorrow, grief; yea, it’s just beyond that horizon of life. Swim on, fables of a true and righteous quest is there, yet toads already dead of life’s fire, IMUA while even words and whispers of “lies” and “advice” preach otherwise. The battle rages within us, you and me, me and you…GREEN AND OH SO BLUE. Caution: Love’s ego stands firm on altars proclaiming the lies of your false status, which trick all into an idea of worthy pain. My flower, my Kaua‘i, you were born divine and although an island in their distance…you are precious, my touch is of your ua lani…blue in this greenish hell that lashes from mine eyes…

To hope and also forget…but to remind us all that anything of value must be fought for…Spin! , for in the struggle I see worthiness and beauty…or has Church taught you different? In life, that Burger King lies about your way…cuz it ‘aint. The struggle for love is the only true quest…SO please, you Wise folks of molded dirt, read another tale and meet me in Neverland, my home where lava danced above the sea…
-RA
 
Ryan Swanson

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  168.     

A Mirror’s Just Clutter

When I looked at my mirror, what I did see
Was a wrinkled aged reflection of little old me
There’s one thing I’m sure of, there’s one thing I know
There’s no doubt about it, that mirror must go

A mirror’s just clutter, not needed at all
When it refuses to show me as handsome and tall
The appearance of wrinkles is very unkind
Particularly since they’re surely not mine

How deceitful that mirror when it belies
When all of reality it completely denies
There’s one thing I’m sure of, there’s one think I know
There’s no doubt about it, that mirror must go
 
Stanley Cooper

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