heather-moon
Canadian
I aspire to own a goat and live in a yurt, wear wool socks whilst playing the piccholo on some mystic mountain top. I like to dream and ride bicycles. Life is beautiful, I love authenticity, truthful gratitude and I like to be a genuine and solid person. Thank you for reading my writing. / / Literature is a mirror reflection of humans trying to make sense of the world, our categorizing minds trying to place things. It is an art, the way some works resonate, how they compell us, pull us or lull us into a certain ambience. How we see what and who we are within these intracicies of expression. / / I enjoy twiddling with a guitar, am in love with the works of T.S. Elliot and I am about to set off backpacking for the first time :D. I like the nomad lifestyle, a gypsy caravan,some prayer flags,a little river to bathe in and some berries to feed me and I am in bliss ♡ / Please send me a message if you wish to communicate or share some of your works with me, I love to read, weehooo!
Its taken me so long
To wade through the discomfort of my own loneliness
To find the mountain streams which sing
As my soul stretches across the sky
To find the tears
Of belonging
As I return
To this soft animal within me
To chase away
The voices that held me back
To stand tall
In the face of a sunrise
Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 6:53 PM UTC
You Push
You push your way into my body—I let you.
Not from desire,
but resignation.
I help you
because it’s easier than saying no.
He paid for the taxi,
I remind myself,
as your hands tear through layers
not just of clothing,
but of me.
Dignity. Self-respect. Hope.
This time will be different,
I tell the girl in me
who still wants to believe.
But I know.
I always know.
There will be no message,
no tenderness,
just another
sinking silence.
You take my beauty
as if it’s owed.
You steal my strength
as if it’s yours to have.
And you leave.
You don’t see the waiting room lights,
the tremble in my hands,
the blood test, the cycle gone wrong,
the hormones raging.
You’ll never know
there was a child—brief, invisible—who would never know your name.
And so I choose again
to undo what you began.
I quiet my womb for the sake of a fleeting moment you barely noticed.
A body spent for a two-minute ******
a whispered maybe,
a lie.
The gods in me—the Durga—have been disrupted.
Left raw, untended.
My hair is tangled.
My eyes don’t shine.
And still—you couldn’t look.
Not even once.
You never told me
I was beautiful.
Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 6:39 PM UTC
At the centre of it all
Is a timelessness.
From the grief
Of a father who’s lost his son,
licking a salty tear
as it slowly drips down his cheeks,
To the fluttering of butterflies on a warm spring day
As you reach your fingertips upward
as if to stroke
this fleeting moment
The young woman
Eager to face the world,
Hair blowing in the wind,
Breathing in another dawns sunrise
along the coast
in a somewhere town.
Sometimes,
I awake in the middle of the night
Feeling
This steady beat
Within the centre of it all,
A connection
On a sleepless night,
Reminding me to live with
reverence and respect,
Reminding me of
How we are all
woven
From the same cloth
Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 6:32 PM UTC
I’ve been looking for a love
that feels like old records, tobacco,
farmland, wind, horses,
oil and grease, rusty trucks, chickens.
Pulling water from the well,
braids in my hair.
I am a strong woman,
thick-skinned,
but soft and watery.
I dream of skin on skin,
lips moving passionately
in an old hay barn.
I dream of a wild place
with children running freely
as I plant the seeds of spring.
I feel fertility linger in my body,
this woman longing for wild,
farmland, safety, comfort, home.
Meadow child, blue ridge mountain,
guitars and campfires, knitting socks,
wood stoves, tea, smiles miles wide,
earth on my hands,
soil in my toes.
Warming hands on the radiator of the truck,
snowbanks forming,
and then the long-awaited
summer breeze sweeping through the valley,
washing over my skin,
caressing me.
I want my man.
I’m so tired of these games.
I let go,
I let go,
I let go.
I need a courageous man.
I’m tired of making myself small
to fit into boxes.
I was born to spread out across landscapes.
I need to stretch for eons,
arms open wide.
I am hungry
for feeling,
for realness,
for aliveness
to breathe itself
from my body.
I am tired
of trudging through the promised lands
of barren emptiness.
I am tired
of fitting into containers
too small to hold me.
I am a too-much woman
with grand dreams
and fiery ambition.
Silence is also a language.
I have spent too long pretending,
trying, wanting
to be seen and understood.
If my magic is lost on you then you are not the right one for me.
I am worth more than this.
I am powerful and capable and I am patient.
But I will not waste this precious life
waiting in vain.
Slow and steady,
gentle and warm —where is he?
Those hands I dream of,
that heart that wraps me in a hug,
the winds blowing —where is he?
He’s not here yet.
Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 6:25 PM UTC
I become tired of this illustrious “look at me, look at me” culture,
Of consumerism waiting at every corner,
Vanity grabbing at every created insecurity,
Promising a future
That holds no true roots,
And of the ever-widening gap of hate and seperation.
I become tired, yet here I am,
Caught between two worlds,
my own shadows and desires,
My own engagement,
And lack thereof,
My own grief and praise,
My own heartbreak
And heart beat,
My own mistakes,
And lessons learned.
Here I am,
Caught
Between giving a f$ck
And not giving a f$ck.
Somehow within this mess of it all,
And my own hypocrisy,
I have come to find
That I don’t want to see “perfect” anymore,
Nor do I wish for the broken,
As my heart grieves for this aching world.
I have come to find,
That what I do wish for,
is for beauty to righteously live on.
The kind of beauty
Found in a mothers love and her hope for the future
As she stands before war machines,
To protect her children.
The kind of beauty in a starving grandfather’s eyes
As he gives away his
long awaited meal
To the wounded strangers which lie before him,
And not to be be of noble standing,
But because he understands what empathy truly means.
The kind of beauty that glimpses beyond shallow measures
So it can see its own humanity
Glimmering within the eyes of others.
The kind of beauty,
That takes us away from our incessant nagging minds
Which seek to divide,
And shows us
how freedom is found
Within belonging.
And I think about this often, sometimes it brings me to tears,
About the certain special kind of beauty,
which has lost absolutely everything,
Yet still dances in the storm.
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 6:36 PM UTC
Weave me in your rock-pools
Circadian rhythms
Primordial moon tides
Washing over me
Seep my soul in cedars smoke
Weathered hands
Gently untie the coiled ropes
Drifting from shore
untangled
I am steadfast
And ready
For the waves of your caress
Weave me into your rock pools
Your coastal waterways
A mirage forming
An inkblot in the basin
of my mind
Daybreaks fog lifting
Awaiting your soothing ocean lullaby
To fill my ears
Palms open
To the fountains of you
Mermaid child
Glimmering
Salt water
Lapping gently on shorelines
Seeping into every crevice
Oh mother,
Of great turning tides,
Weave an entire ocean’s song
Into this hollow heart of mine
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 6:35 PM UTC
My grandmother smiles at me
With a chip in her front tooth
And my heart fills with aliveness
The poetry of aging
The poetry of cracks in the sidewalk
Where children have painted sunflowers in chalk
I have come to love this kind of art
Just how I love seeing raw earth on my carrots
Pulling them from the ground
The curls and twists,
A miracle before me
This mess of AI and botox
Plastic perfection held neatly
within a display case.
We have become divorced
From that which grew us,
Hidden away in ivory towers,
Left aimlessly wandering
pursuits of falsehood
Within the sterile destruction,
I look to those who dare to live
And let live
To those who paint sunflowers in sidewalk chalk and
Allow the sunshine to glimmer a little longer
in the corners of their eyes.
Caught hold of something bright and fierce
That special cackle of knowing,
A heart filled with aliveness
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 6:34 PM UTC
Spitter spatter
In the rain
The gutter cries
In the empty city
Of dreams lost
Washed away
Down the gutter
I see her face
Or was it just a memory
So clear
That I thought I saw her
She was
Youthful
Her skin soft and glowing
I wish
I could reach out to
Remind her
Of everything important
The last time I saw her
She was hollow
torn at the seams
Mind spilled across the bleak sidewalk,
She was strewn and scattered
Torn and tattered
Scab city
Do you not remember
The soft dance
Of your honey heart?
Why are you here?
How did you end up here,
With a heart so wide?
You let yourself
Get thrown out
reduced
diminished
garbage.
How I wish
I could reach out
And touch her
Hug her
Hold her
and
I tried
But it was
Just a melting mirage
Of what once was
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 6:33 PM UTC
The Winter Sun
Uncoils
Over the world
Reaching little light tentacles
Into hidden crevices,
Smoothed over the cracking bark of pine and cedar,
Kissing awake arbutus and hawthorn,
Leaving a trail that rises just as steam from hot coffee does,
A residual warmth like the palm of grandfather,
“Good morning” he softly says as he gently pats my back,
And I feel the tenderness of this love in my heart.
“Good morning” I say in a whisper
As the sun takes my breath away,
As I breathe this breath with the sun,
A breath
for the whole waking world
fills my lungs.
The Sun,
with the same curiosity as a child,
Peers into the damp forest floor,
peeking under salal bushes and fallen fir boughs,
and Springs awake
Winter’s blanket.
Perhaps I am wild to say
I wish I could remember this
moment forever,
And moments like these
Which tear me apart and bring
me back together
All at once,
Moments where I am awestruck
By the glorious beauty of this dance.
So I am wild
and bathed
In the gleaming light,
As golden dewdrops sparkle
like stars around me,
As vapour shadows rise,
and green moss beckons to be
touched by the
tendrils of sunlight.
So I surrender
Into the arms of perfect harmony,
the love of a singing forest,
as if it's the only thing
I know how to do.
And it’s as if,
for a fleeting moment,
The sun truly touches
this Earth home,
while we in turn
Stretch towards the sun,
And for just one sweet breath
we share our hearts,
Together as one.
Jun 16, 2023
Jun 16, 2023 at 5:28 PM UTC
I watch the mallard ducks, tundra swan, and other waterfowl swim in circles, close to the spring-fed river where the ice, which has steadily swallowed the entirety of the lake, hasn't yet touched. The birds, presumably, are dipping and diving for food before the last moments of daylight slip away. Evening is rolling in and the sun glints across the mountains in the distance, stirring a sense of presence from deep within me. I catch my breath and watch the trail it leaves in the frigid air. It's been awhile since I've written anything. Staring upon blank pages wondering why what was once so easy has become an insurmountable task. I have come to see how writing is an act of love and to be honest I've been out of love with parts of the world. Avoiding my own feelings of discomfort and dismay. Time spent driving through towns which edge highway after highway. Who are the people who live here, what are their stories? Thoughts ramble and race from within me. My curiosity itches. My heart feels a longing sense of compassion for these broken towns. For the stories which have ended up unfinished, discarded like novels lacking the soul moving momentum to make it beyond the gas station book aisle. In the orange light I see billows of smoke rising, hollow faces trudging to the outskirts of town. I see a man crumpled over a grocery cart of bottles to the side of the highway. He is on a sort of mission, where that is to, I wonder. Perhaps another unfinished novel. I think about him and his life story, about the generations of him. I wonder how his hands look or how his feet feel walking day after day bent forward like that. I ache trying to put myself in his shoes.
I have been avoiding my feelings, I have been wanting to paint pictures that cover it all up and put roses boldy over the hurt. I want to accept that this is just part of life. Ever so often though my feelings seep in too deep and I can no longer withhold the barriers to my own truth. I imagine the children of these broken towns and I wonder where their dreams go. Zipping past a world of T.V's and fast food diets, cigarettes and flashing motels. Sometimes I can not turn off the faucet of my emotions and so with a sinking heart I watch the smoke of industry billow.
My mind creates stories of the place this used to be. Maybe it was once like the lake I sit at now, where aspen and willow softly dance together, where the thrush and fowl chirp with hope of a coming springtime. Ponderosa pine stands tall and mighty, and at her base the tracks of fox, deer, and rabbit may be found.
I marvel at the utter magnificence of creation, the perfection of the pink alpine sunset softly wrapping around me, the silence of winter where deep below the surface life secretly brews.
I do not know what to make of these stark differences in creation but I am grateful for the poetry woven into it all, even the poetry in the pain.
Passing through yet another bleak roadside attraction in the long winding night of echoes. I can't help but allow my mind to race and ramble itself upward and away, just like the billowing factory smoke, steadily rising into the crisp and starry night sky.
Jun 16, 2023
Jun 16, 2023 at 5:25 PM UTC