These Hope Life poems are examples of Life poems about Hope. These are the best examples of Hope Life poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
The sky resembles the robin's eggshells
scattered across the ground,
a blue so seemingly infinite yet fragile,
cracks running between understanding and madness
complementing each other
as divine truths in their own right
to conquer my mind,
to unhinge the doors,
making it unnecessary to pick rusted locks
letting thoughts fly free,
releasing love out into the horizon.
If frozen within caged snapshots of mildewed expectations,
it will surely die,
but even so,
I was willing to strangle it by holding on too tightly.
Until I saw the sky and eggshells today
Peppered clouds reflected on the water,
paralleling speckles on the eggshells,
remind me of the freckles on your face.
We need to be wide-open-free,
we need to fly,
without focusing too hard on shells of yesterdays.
We need to unclench our fists,
unclench our tongues,
explore the vast blue peppered sky
on wings of letting go....
so that we can once again feel with purity,
so that we can hold each other ever closer.
Long before Horus' exposure on its trunk
and the nailing of Jesus upon its grain,
rings have been added within the Tree
while people proclaim to hold the key
of salvation, a continually borrowed mythology
swallowed; a powerful sleeping pill
pulling the masses into slumber,
away from the obvious truth
that such supposed salvation
is a ticket far too easy to obtain,
a discriminatory damnation of souls
so blindingly righteous,
even the most vengeful, maniacal deity
would draw the line there.
So many people hand-out the easy tickets,
cut and light the tree --
a hypodermic injection of selfish memories
mixed into mortar for temples designated as sacred,
but the elements are desecrated by swirling sewers,
by shears amputating roots from the sky.
Too many people preach, judicate, proclamate,
hold signs pointing towards a cheap, polystyrene heaven,
while only a few walk the narrow path,
live the sacrifice because it feels right.
Again and again,
the ticket isn't so easy,
we must put aside our slumber-crutches,
stop watching the few carry the rest
upon their backs until bones creak and groan
from the weight of people waiting for salvation
to be handed to them.
27 years, a branch in the road, 46664 etched into its bark.
The forked doors opened,
a living, breathing gospel
brought down fences,
and even then the wood was made into crutches
for people to say,
"M will fix it, M will do this, M will do that,
M will save us, just wait and see."
But M is finally free, yes, he is free!
Free, but not lost to us,
always surviving as spirit-seeds.
We must no longer lean upon crutches,
instead purge the pill from our blood
and awaken into gardeners who water the seeds
within the soil of our souls,
before the vision withers completely,
and we remain only as husks
waiting to be hydrated by watering cans
held in hands too weak to lift the weight....
held in our own hands all along,
held in our hands all along.
*Inspired by Madiba Mandela
December 7th/8th, 2013
Travelling to a foreign land,
engaging in a cause not rightfully yours to join,
illegally taking up arms
with a desperate desire to save baby orphans
(only to dig them into the ground anyway);
is a life-altering experience.
There is an old line which goes something like:
"A part of my soul died on that cold, November morn."
But, such an experience can have the opposite effect entirely.
Yes! An experience such as this
can re-kindle a passion within,
so that every single particle,
every minute of each passing hour,
feels like a sacred gift -
the most sacred gift imaginable.
Yet upon returning home from such an experience,
after being grilled by Internal Affairs,
threatened with charges of International Treason,
Subterfuge and Espionage(but in the end,
you were only trying to save baby orphans
that you had to dig into the ground anyway,
so Internal Affairs drops the charges, telling you to scram),
you are inevitably slapped across the face
with an inescapable new reality....
....everyone appears to be whining and complaining
about the most trivial things,
as if everyone simultaneously feels wronged.
And this is wot you feel compelled to do:
you want to take these whiners,
transport them one-by-one
back to the foreign land with you.
After they see living skeletons
drag themselves across the dirt,
moaning, groaning, pleading for a drop of clean water,
a miniscule morsel of food,
you hand the whiner a gun,
point toward an ominous dust-cloud on the horizon,
and this is wot you say:
"See the dust-cloud moving closer towards us.
It is filled with psychopathic horsemen.
These psychopathic butchers are wielding bayonets, machetes and Kalashnikovs.
If you and I do not successfully kill these mad horsemen,
they are going to chop apart all of the baby orphans
congregated in the courtyard over there.
Do you see the beautiful baby orphans in the courtyard?
Yes, those are the orphans.
And if we do not successfully defend this camp,
yet somehow survive with our lives,
we are going to spend the rest of the night
digging the baby orphans into the ground.
So, it best be high time you wipe the tears from your face,
stop worrying about how so-and-so called you a loser or wotever,
how your retirement funds appear to be shrinking
and so you won't be able to play as many games
of hitting the little white ball across a course
fed with enough water to run an entire city.
Forget about your little boo-boo.
Pull-up your chin, straighten that spine,
and start squeezing the trigger like there's no tomorrow."
September 25th, 2011
?Just a stutter-step, and I over-think it?
I ask you how are we breathing underwater?
The question is the shadow of a nightmare
appearing as an Octopus -
its tentacles wrap around us,
dragging us towards the edge of an abyss.
I tear open my rib-cage,
I am fever, high-temperature fever,
licking the Octopus with the tongues of my heat.
It lets go, retreats into a crevice.
You are swallowing water with the fear in your eyes.
I shouldn't have asked that specific question -
brought it into existence.
I kiss you, push breath into your lungs.
Upon seeing figure-eights wash away your doubt,
I am now suddenly breathless.
You give me back breath to breathe,
offering us strength to breach the surface.
The Ocean is Sky; Sky is the Ocean,
Night is Day; Day is Night.
?Is this flying, or walking upside-down. Sideways?
"Look down there, can you see the Evergreen tree?" I ask.
You say nothing. Just breathe. The fear is gone from your eyes.
I close my eyes, open my eyes,
close my eyes, open my eyes.
There is no difference, a shutter-frame of eternal passages.
We have done this before somehow,
flown through the doors of deja vu.
"The tree doesn't need to be sacrificed into paper.
But, if cut down, at least spread its seeds."
Why did I say that? It felt so natural.
Waves. Surging, vibrating waves.
Now, it is flesh for feeling,
breath on breath,
an elevation of sheer simplicity within sweat.
I can barely contain myself,
but when I do, again, my belly becomes an earthquake,
unleashing seismic waves
from the centre of my core....
Even though you already appear to be sleeping,
I feel you awake inside,
but so calm peaceful.
We breathe, exhale, inhale,
your body gently pushes against my chest and belly....
....before I fall asleep,
I spy the Cardinal hopping along the branch of an Evergreen tree
"Yes, then I am filled with hate," she replied.
"You need to let it go. I know....I used to be filled with cold hatred.
Let it go. People can violate your body,
but it doesn't mean your soul is also violated -
Your body is only on loan anyway.
The soul is truly yours."
We moved even further away from the music and lights,
until we eventually found ourselves outside.
The sleet had stopped falling,
and amongst a crowd of pigeons sitting on a wire,
a Raven was perched on a buzzing halogen lamp.
Clouds broke apart, exposing a crescent moon hanging from a winking star
like a Christmas ornament, or an earring of night herself.
Not fixed, but dangling,
always moving and changing.
"Breathe in deeply. Focus in on the star,
pretend that you are casting your eyes up to the moon like a fishing line.
Begin reeling in your mind."
"Seems like a silly game to me."
"Please try it."
The Raven was watching us from its perch.
I breathed in and out deeply,
opening up my lungs and heart to the sky.
I turned to her and asked,
"Do you feel hate coming from the Raven perched over there?"
"No, not that I can tell."
"Remember. You can still become someone's Queen.
People can violate your body, but your soul can stay intact.
Even if you doubt it right now."
She pulled out some napkins from her purse,
handed them to me, and asked, "Will you write it down for me?"
-And so I did-
January 1st, 2012
My thoughts are filled with the Hermaphrodite,
of the woman breaking through the surface of my skin.
I cup a vulva where there should be instead, a pen.is -
laugh aloud because I feel whole.
You ask why I am laughing,
but you do so with your own laughter.
Your voice startles me awake,
its echo whispers along my spine.
Disorientation leads to clarity.
I look around, it feels like home.
Pixies shine in my eyes.
Right now you are a Pixie
in my eyes,
a paradoxical puzzle that makes you all the more beautiful.
You have always been there,
so intertwined, I only had an illusion of being alone.
"I have been your Mother, you have been my Father,
Sister, Brother, Child, Lover."
I want to make love to you
on exponential levels.
I swallow the truth of always having wanted to.
You tell me that we already are,
possibly a bit differently than expected.
"In my sleep?"
"No, ancient boy, young boy."
I feel slighted for a fraction of a moment,
but the woman re-surfaces within.
You penetrate me,
using my own body to fill me/your body.
Waves. Pulsating, flowing currents.
How can I be feeling both?
We are between two Mirrors deep beneath the Sea.
Do I dare look? Of course.
I see our reflection through your eyes -
you are using my body to make love to me/your body,
my belly is an earthquake.
There are smaller images of us rebounding between the Mirrors,
hypnotizing me, leading me deeper into reflections,
until I am only a grain of sand.
You take me in. You are an Oyster,
molding me into a Pearl,
even though you were born a Pearl.
I wanted to write about how my doubts and fears
are simmering on the surface, how I am purging myself onto bleach,
to cleanse the grime staining what's left beneath.
And what's left, is love.
A romance for life,
a nearly hopeless romantic who cannot always transfer it properly onto paper.
Not the pure essence of it all.
No, not in flowery lines - not a cheap, plastic bouquet
compared to my true emotions,
my dreams, my hope.
And of dreams, my love.
The blank sheet of paper seemed too beautiful to tarnish
with my plundering hooves;
to be torn apart with horns sharpened by the Earth,
piles of peat-moss smoldering from the lightning of my Heart.
If I take the leap, show you my dreams,
and in doing so, push you away with the nightmares that are intertwined,
I will understand,
love you nonetheless,
even though there is a part of me
that doesn't want to settle for less,
in an all or nothing embrace.
I have been dreaming,
dreaming of light,
visions of darkness, of black holes,
of the wondrous womb that bore me
as a winged wolf.
Yes, black holes and white holes to accompany the stars.
I place a pen upon the sheet of blank paper,
wondering if I can be real enough for us....
The Evening Star, the Morning Star,
two halves of the same body,
the broken shards fuse, shine as One....
....wings unfurl, paws become talons,
I awaken in a dream, within a dream.
The words lodge themselves between my heart and hand,
so I roll up the blank sheet of paper into a tunnel,
a perfect circle to journey inside of.
Rolling out of my body,
I enter the tunnel,
following the Totems of this life and beyond.
There is a Wolf, Owl, Cardinal, and Starfish -
a part of me and something more,
an essence of Ladybugs, Ravens and Spiders.
In one end shines the Sun. It is I.
In the other end shines the Moon. It is you.
In the center, a crimson Cardinal alights upon an Evergreen branch,
before morphing into Seaweed brushing a red Starfish.
The Saltwater is my Blood,
Barnacles are my nipples
hardened by your Lunar tide.
I didn't read the signs,
and you were raised not to complain,
holding it all inside, behind an ever-present smile.
Too scared to ask for advice,
too proud to ask for help,
you tried fixing the problem on your own,
until the problem appeared too volatile.
I was here the entire time,
as I am still here even now,
and I can feel your shadow
moving over me,
whispering up my spine.
I can feel you wishing for the simple things,
wishing only to wake up in your bed again,
just wishing to re-start that day once more -
to feel the pain,
to feel the need
of trying things a bit differently.
If only I had been able to decode
the complex puzzle of your mask,
I could have offered more help.
Did I not try hard enough?
There is a shadow in my heart,
that believes you would have drowned
in your selfishness,
regardless of what any of us had done or said.
Either way, you were already marching toward
the dreaded plains of the regretfully dead.
(there are times when it is truly best to stop asking why.
On certain winter nights,
I open a window to softly falling snow -
not a single breath of chaos blows.
The night is so calm, I can hear snowflakes
touch each other on the windowsill.
I turn on a light behind me,
and as the light pours out into the night,
thousands of crystals glitter like a city of angels.
I don't have any tears left to shed for you,
they are all sitting frozen in the blanket of sparkling snow.
It is at moments such as this,
when I miss you the most)
Yet, the offer of a helping hand is still open,
a helping hand for a troubled spirit.
Reality is constantly altering,
changed in so many ways,
but I am still here,
here as I ever was.
So whenever you feel the need,
whisper up my spine,
dial up the ancient area code,
and together we can dine.
Possibly, just possibly,
we can figure out a way
to push you through the needle's eye,
and both of us can stop asking why.
February 8th, 2012
I am the ring around Saturn
spinning words as particles of ice and dust
with the power to transcend
I am the original chosen to be right here right now
transmitting verbal frequencies
through speaking my thoughts into existence
I am the heir of omnipotence,
born with a direct connection to profound abundance
The one whose words will age, yet still have substance;
since there are no boundaries attached to my pen
I am constant energy
Translating personal experience into imagery
Vulnerable to tyranny,
yet i continue attempting to share some truth
through this abstract language of poetry
I am the core
I am that I am more
I am the Divine Presence that is the Source of my rewards
I am the green you get when you mix too much yellow with the blue
That shade of gold you get when the sun resides into darkness
and when it ascends in the dawn burning dew
I am the transition between the third and fourth dimension of time;
the love you feel when you realize how it feels
I am the poem that is abstractly direct
because I write beyond limits
absorbing frequencies from 3 to 8 hertz
through meditation for several minutes
I am the one bridging the gap between
the analog ascension and the direct connection to spirit
The one who is love
because I am a descendent of it
I am the rhythm that the wind blows
I am the beginning and the ending of stories told
about the universe and how miracles unfold
I hold the power to accept judgement from those who will do just that
Not knowing that I am them in the absolute reality of me
I am knowledge beyond measure because that is my right
So I continue meeting the different parts of me
when I meditate and write
Who am I?
I AM, THAT, I AM
Things that seemed poetic were always sad,
though I yearned for sparkle
and my dad's guffaw, which never came.
Familiar things were always drear --
repeated motions in the same old game.
There were only distant glimpses
of budding spring, fleeting views
of daffodils. The strongest
poems dealt me death and dying.
Yet I always hoped, never went under
to gray despair, always dreaming
of a garden of love that we could share.
But those forbidden delights faded
quickly away; the only reality
I understand is the ever-looming
and final one. Nothing's changed.
The strongest poems deal death and dying.