the way they offer a twinkly hope
for better days, the way they cut
through the fog on winter nights,
illuminated landing strips
sparkling my walks round
the neighbourhood

an assembly of wayward, tiny stars

ages ago, you handed me a small
bundle and on the wrapping paper
you had written: those dark corners don't stand a chance`

i switch them on at night
and every time i remember how
good it felt to know

that every once in a while
someone will see all your darkness
and help you light it up.

Bio:AnnickYeremlives and works in Berlin. In her dreams, she can swim like a manatee.Annicktweets @missyeremand has, to her utmost delight, been published by Pendemic, Detritus, @publicpoetry, RiverMouthReview, #PoetRhy, Anti-Heroin-Chic, Rejection Letters Dreich and 192.

https://linktr.ee/annickyeremhttps://missyerem.wordpress.com

The sound of heaven’s holiday tinkles.
Cedar wafts on cloud cushions.
Snow plays at twelves.
Apple-cheeked fiddlers saw while
curly-haired dolls wearing holiday finery
dance with elves and bunnies.
Reindeer prance and fuss, harnessed to
burnished wood sleighs. Chased by angels,
they leap along crystal-bordered ponds —
geometric shapes and figure eights to eternity.

The great hearth in the lodge is ablaze
with seasoned oak.
A cast iron cauldron steams mulled
cider, dipped and sipped while
chilled bodies nestle and wreathe warmth.
Whetted appetites delight in plum pudding
while beaus tie gold-striped ribbons on
the wrists of coquettish virgins.
Cherished celebrations to honor a baby’s birth.
Affirmation that life carries on with hope.

Jade Li is a writer, reader, observer, thinker, feeler, poet who lives in the Big Mitten of Michigan in the United States. Does poetry as self-therapy and to connect with others. She blogs at: https://tao-talk.com/

I’m a featured haiku writer on Pure Haiku. There will be five haiku posted. Here are the links to the first and second ones.

Change is visible; it’s in the air
my breath like steam from the soup spoon.
Along its length, the glasshouse draws in flower
and fern, some tender-hearted émigrés
but mostly patterns cut in ice. The life-size models
in suspension, in their shelter belts
hibernating with hedgehogs.

Sequence of season is determined in the heavens
and fast by the heavens, that great hunter
has come to rest, overhead, at the midnight hour.
We begin another round of countdown
days ticked off, December ticking by.
Almost at the end, a neonate appears
totem against each annual death or maybe
to shift some universal blame.

Aeons ago they say an Eastern megastar was born
a goat-signed mystic healer and we toss tinsel into Yule
as birthday celebrants. How faux! An adventitious advent
confined to numbered boxes. This re-birther
is as water from the Spring
a searing sword of solstice
a magnitude of Autumn…