Time’s Master


Time’s Master

By: Heather Nanni

He breached the barrier

of time’s gentle pulse

and colonized a land

neither barren nor fertile


As each hour chimed

he rang louder

a cacophonous unrest

until all but he was suppressed


A benevolent master

silence so deafening

bespeaks his displeasure

while the clock strikes at itself

hammering a lamenter’s dirge


As for me

I do not wish for quiet

Only harmony


Creative Reawakening in Autumn


It is a strange irony that, as the leaves prepare to fall from their branches and crumble to dust, the world seems to come alive.  Gone, finally, is the lethargy of long hot days. 


We are moved by autumn’s enchantments.


The cool air takes on a particular scent unique to the fall.  It is both hearty and sweet, a mix of pine, apples, leaves trampled underfoot and the lingering fragrance of summer flowers. 


Our spirits stir with the shift of the season.  We are moved by a feeling of  excitment and a sense of foreboding.  Now is the time when our creativity reemerges from the its long summer slumber when frivolity and amusement seemed to overtake and suppress our artistic urges. 


Now is the time to feel comfortably conflicted.  We cling onto life in the face of impending death.  As we are overwhelmed by the magestic beauty of orange and crimson leaves, we are cognizant of what is yet to come.  As winter closes in upon us, we look to the heavens and we are gifted with a shot of the sun’s glorious rays filtering through golden leaves and capturing fall’s ineffable beauty. 


And, as we journey onward, we beseech our muses for inspiration so that we may find peace in creating during those long, dark days of winter. 



Tale of the Child’s Night


Reposting an old one for the fullmoonsocial2014

Originally posted on Quirk N Jive:

CYMERA_20140503_211804.jpg Chilld's Night

Tale of the Child’s Night

By: Heather Nanni

“May we look at the stars Mommy?”                                                  

“Yes Love”                                                                                           

Eyes Up


We were three                                                                                       

All the delights                                                                                       

two could see


The moon showed us                                                                        

the silver platter and said,                                                                      

“Come, come to me.                                                                           

Oh how happy you will be.”


But one poor soul                                                                                

The moon swallowed him whole


Some skip on stars                                                                          

over night’s great river


But for others                                                                                        

that cannot be                                                                                         

They get caught by the Hunter                                                            

and carried out to the sea


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Sky Gazing with My Grandmother

Sky Gazing with My Grandmother

By: Heather Nanni

On warm summer days

we gazed up so high

and saw strange creatures

that danced in the sky


Such beauty up there

in that space above

I saw without fear

because of your love


But then came the night

It took you away

and left a sad child

who wished you would stay


And as the moon sits

on her silver throne-

you far beyond her

and me all alone


I think of those days

for which I now grieve

when sun reigned supreme

still you had to leave


And now the moon shines

benevolent light

Can you still see me

here in the night?

Full Moon Poetry Party — #FullMoonSocial2014


Hey Poet Friends! Thought this might be something you’d be interested in. Hope you join me.

Originally posted on Translations from the English:


Let’s harmonize with the Ancients, and each other.

On October 8th, the full moon rises. In the hours it’s alight, let’s do like the Ancients do, and send out a poem to those we’re thinking about but cannot be with, or to each other, or simply to the moon itself.

In a wrinkle on the tradition of Full Moon parties, let’s post our poems on WordPress and tag them “fullmoonsocial2014″ and/or on Twitter and hashtag them #FullMoonSocial2014.

Let’s celebrate together this next full moon! Also, if you’re interested in having your poem included in a free epub anthology linking to your blog or website, leave a comment below with a simple “put me in the anthology.” If enough people are interested I will put it together and it will be available on this site and free.

What do you think? If you’re in, feel free to let your poet friends know…

View original 188 more words




By: Heather Nanni

Where are you child?

Where is that mind

that wanders into the wild

to places we cannot find?


Reflected in your eyes

are worlds of wonder and light.

Like the sun, they rise

from life’s perpetual night.


And here you sit

your secrets untold.

But, my love, wait a bit.

Your magic will unfold.


As the clock ticks and hours pass

know that your time is not theirs.

And as others march forward into their past

you will emerge-beautiful, radiant and complete.


End of Seasons


End of Seasons

By: Heather Nanni

She asked so sweetly

if summer would come back.

And I thought of you.

About how you would soon pass

and not return for another season.


The finality of it

so profound.

You have almost fully departed

disappearing as you breathe.


As the crickets quietly sing

as the leaves turn

as the season changes

and they and you fall.


And as the past no longer exists

nor will you.

But in the present

you will always dwell in my heart.

And there I will carry the piece of you

that I knew

that was ours

through the seasons

until I too pass.

A Sketch of the Mountain


A Sketch of the Mountain

By: Heather Nanni


In this place of solitude

where the birds sing in gratitude

for peace

we wander to the mountain

and she embraces us with her powerful grace.


In her majestic presence

there is no misinterpretation.

We reveal ourselves without hesitation

and still our virtue she sees.


She knows how precariously we stand

on ledges of mountains grand

and she sees our frailty beneath our strength

like the slender birches rooted in rock

that sway with the gentlest of breezes. 


It is here in this place

that she knows our goodness

and lets us be.

Her gift-setting us free.

Finding Freedom in Writing Fiction

This morning, like most mornings, I awoke short of breath, with a tight chest, a sick feeling in my stomach and the unsettling sensation that something wasn’t quite right.  If you also suffer from anxiety, you know exactly what I’m talking about-that inexplicable feeling that something is wrong, yet you just can’t figure out what-aside from the terrible, sickening nervous feeling that has risen from the pit of your gut and up towards your chest-it is. To combat my anxiety, and in lieu of Zoloft, I have taken to walking, and, surprisingly, it has worked.  The terrain around my home is very hilly, and, as I begin to pump up my first hill of the morning, I actually feel the anxiety begin to dissipate.  My breathing becomes deep and steady, my thoughts settle and I find a bit of peace.  Up until quite recently, this forty-five minute morning ritual has relaxed me enough so that I can get through my days without any major anxiety.  But, a few weeks ago, things changed.  Ginger, my four-legged walking companion, was attacked by a German Shepard who busted through his electric fence.  A week later she was bit again on the neck by another savage mongrel, who was left to wander loose on his front lawn because, according to his owner, their electric fence wasn’t working properly. On each of these occasions, both Ginger and I were fortunate enough that the owners, once they heard my screams, scurried out of their homes and to our rescue. Unfortunately, my walks no longer have the calming effect they once did; rather, they have become angst inducing. 

What I want is rather simple.  I want to be able to take a walk without dodging, and rerouting and worrying about being attacked by neighborhood dogs.   I want the freedom to just pick a direction and go.  This walk situation has me feeling rather fenced in, literally and figuratively speaking.  So often we are deterred and forced to shift directions because of outside forces and influences.  So often we are told we can’t.  So often we are told we can only go so far.  I look at my own life and am appalled by how often I am blocked, not only by outside influences, situations and people, but also by myself.  I have plans and dreams and ideas, but I allow fear and the nagging voices of others as well as myself to stop me from following through with what I truly want to do.  I want to travel, but I don’t because I am afraid to fly.  I want to contribute to conversations, but sometimes I don’t because I am afraid that others will disagree.  I want to move away to a place with more land and fewer people, but I am afraid to break the hearts of those family members who would be left behind.   Actually, I want the freedom to make lots of decisions and head in lots of metaphorical directions without feeling fenced in or forced to revise my original plans. 

I started to think, “How can a writer have so many inhibitions?”  As a primarily non-fiction writer, so much of what I have to say is drawn from personal experience, yet, because I don’t want to hurt or offend or steal the history of others by weaving their experiences into my greater narrative, my stories never get told. I am not at a loss for words or ideas;  I just don’t feel free to say what it is I want to say.  And I think that for this reason, I have begun to find fiction writing so liberating. I am in no way implying that fiction writing is merely “fictionalizing” real people and events by changing names, dates and settings to present true stories as a creative works.  No.  Fiction writers use their accute awareness of the human condition to craft artistic works. The beauty of ficton writing is that  writers can face their fears of flying and dogs by having their characters confront that which frightens them (the writers).  Fiction writers can, through their characters, confront pompous asses, narcissists and psychotics who loosely resemble the pompous asses, narcissists and psychotics we must contend with in the real world.  Fiction writing allows the writer to face worse case scenarios and realize the possibility that for every situation there are options and alternate solutions.  Even better, fiction writers can create characters that speak the words, do the things and travel to the places we are too afraid to go.  In fiction we can find freedom.