By: Heather Nanni

Sacrifice- a noble act

Giving of oneself for another

Then how is it that sacrifice is such an ugly word

when uttered from the tongue of a mother?

                                                                                                                                           Sacrifice-what a strange word to use

when speaking of those who did not choose


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Do I expect you to apologize

for everything I had to compromise?

To shoulder the heavy burden of guilt

because I gave up all I might have built?

Gave up all-for you.

                                                                                                                                               Rest you minds dear ones

For you I sacrificed nothing

                                                                                                                               There is nothing that I have given up

your existence hasn’t repaid tenfold

With you I drank from life’s golden cup

and, my children, I learned what must be told:

                                                                                                                                             There is no sacrifice where love exists

                                                                                                                                                    Life will move along and you will grow

and there will be time for trips and clothes and luxuries supposed

to fill the void of your absence

and I will long for the days when I had only you.

                                                                                                                                                From when I held you in my arms

until you lay me down to rest

there is never, was never sacrifice

only blissful, sorrowful joy.

The Season of Death and Dreams


It astonishes me how one season can be both profoundly beautiful and profoundly sad.  When I was ten years old my family moved from a small industrial city to prison housing in a rural farming community.  At the time, my father was the assistant warden of a maximum security prison, and high level staff and their families were expected to live on the grounds.  Although we made the move in late August, for me, my seven years there are frozen in autumn.  Our home, one of four, was set upon a hill.  In back of our house-forest. In front of our house-fields. And if you looked past those fields, you could see a medium security prison looming on the horizon.  It was an isolating and lonely existence, and, no matter how beautiful the landscape was, for a child used to a neighborhood and city kids, it was, well, sad.  In my memory the sky was always gray, the trees always bare and the ground always covered in a blanket of the decomposing remains of what was once vibrant foliage.  What strikes me most, however, is the perennial sound of honking geese.  Prior to our move, I think it is possible that I had never before heard geese much less seen them flying overhead in V formation.  But there, in that place, geese were omnipresent, honking, flying overhead, reminding me that I was a stranger trapped in a place that they were escaping from, if not forever, at least for the impending winter.

As I have grown older, I have learned to truly appreciate and, in many ways, love the fall.  Fall is now a time of beautiful traditions-apple and pumpkin picking, hiking and collecting leaves while watching beams of sunlight shoot through tree branches, already majestic and adorned in gold.  I look to my children to teach me lessons in optimism.  They jump for joy into piles of dead leaves while happily awaiting the first snow to arrive and cover naked branches in crystal that shimmers in the light of the winter moon.

I guess it’s a matter of age and perspective.  It is so easy to allow deep sorrow born from past experience to rob us of the happiness that comes from enjoying the beauty of the life we now lead.  For me, I prefer to march on through dead leaves and enjoy hearing them crunch underfoot as I move on ahead.



By: Heather Nanni

All is fine; I know.

Silence tells me so.

She is the gatekeeper of the fragile mind-

an appointed servant whose cruel betrayals

made peace impossible to find.

Once a traitor guard

who gave darkness entry to sacred ground,

she grew weary of unrest

and wished tranquility to be found.

So she is still.

No bribe does she take.

Perhaps she repents

for her past mistakes-

plagued with remorse

that her transgressions

were turmoil’s source.

Now a friend

No longer foe

All is well.

Silence tells me so.

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

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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