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Free Verse Hope Poems | Free Verse Poems About Hope

These Free Verse Hope poems are examples of Free Verse poems about Hope. These are the best examples of Free Verse Hope poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Free verse | |

Edinburgh


Sweeping through your scotch broom,
weeping over your cobblestones,
lilting around the columns of Calton Hill,
is an Age of Reason so brilliantly brooding,
some nights I am kept awake
listening to Pendragon's breath caress Arthur's Seat,
and whispers drip from sills on Ramsay Street.

Though roots may drink from a sleepless night,
when morning light creeps through the curtains,
my love for you is renewed.




*This is a re-post 
replacing an opinionated piece


+/-


Details | Free verse | |

Closer

    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.







05.24.12


Details | Free verse | |

M


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







+/-


Details | Free verse | |

flowers for Chinaski -- part ii

part ii


There was a time
when I wanted to be one of them,

to somehow fit in
with the fancy rituals
of their high society.
But the da-Dumb, da-Dumb, da-Dumb
made me want to puke,
made me want to bounce my head 
off the table, hopefully causing the bone china
and forks
to add clatter to their snobbish 
symphony.

Words like "gossamer" 
flitted around the room,
word so thin but veiled 

and distant,

even the candle light appeared
to shy away from those dry wings.

The snobs talked about how
I was too simple with words.
They did so with such a simple, 
small-mindedness,
the irony provided oxygen for flame
to devour.

And the critics proclaimed that
I wasn't able to love,
when really, I just wanted to get away
from them, 
smoke a cigarette in peace
while hitchhiking back to my chubby cherub,
feel her belly fall and rise against my skin.

I was finally able to love,
and she died.

The previous pain had been for show:
"Look at the drunk ham
feeling sorry for himself."

But when she died,
I distilled tears
into a different type of proof.
I was no longer willing to be
their carnival attraction
placated under the table,
listening to them upstage each other.

When I was able to stand again,
a cold, sharp thing was birthed in my mind,
and 
I wanted to shoot them all between the eyes,
splatter their degrees and deeds 
with their blood and brains.

I found peace though -
stopped wanting to be one of them.

I found peace
away from their chatter
about what to carve on their headstones
or what type of fancy imported granite
their mausoleums should be constructed of.

I found peace in readying myself to be 
consumed by 
roots,
to be perspired into the open, fathomless sky --
the same deep blue as the bird 
who finally pecked his way
through the rusted cage of my heart,

freeing us both.



April 12th, 2014



“i am with the roots
of flowers
entwined, entombed
sending up my passionate blossoms
as a flight of rockets
and argument...."

-- Charles Bukowski,
"The Roominghouse Madrigals: Early Selected Poems, 1946-1966"



+/-


Details | Free verse | |

Before and Beyond The Bed

When 
When did a bed become your prison
I see your strength absorbed
Absorbed by the mattress 
I turn you
Trying to prevent sores
Who would have thought soft sheets
White sheets
Could cut like glass
I hold on to you
The younger you
Remembering your smile
your vitality
I had thought you to be
The most beautiful woman in the world
It is said that boys fall in love with their mothers
What I miss most 
Yes most of all is laughter
Playful exchanges
Those times no one else existed
The moments when we were the best of us
Before life became real
Responsibilities
Chasing of dreams
Growing up
I thank you for my humor
My irreverence 
My questioning
My creativity
These were not accidents
They sprouted from the ground you nurtured
The listening
The time you spent
The cheering I heard as I lived my journey
I knew I could always come home
Now you are home 
My home
Let me read to you my stories
We still have smiles to share
You who I love 
Who cared for me
I will not abandon you to a strangers care
Endings matter
I will usher you to your beginning
This bed can't hold one as strong as you
One day soon
You will skip into paradise
You will pick daisies
You will place them in your long flowing hair
When the time is right I will join you
When I have accomplished all that I need to do
I will miss you
I will cry for myself
Not for you
Because I know
You live beyond this room
I will once again
Know
You are the most beautiful
Woman in the world!


Dedicated to my Friend Armand.


Details | Free verse | |

Silver Haze

*                     ~Dark Silver Haze~                               *

   (side#1)                                         (side #2)

come taste life                  ----------  Heart-warming wine
old and stale,                   ----------   Jot down a line
unflavored, unpolished,      ---------   Mood changes hue
A sour, dim shade              ---------   To sweet silver blue

the lowest feeling              ---------- How high the cost
eternal gray sky               ----------  How much is lost
hollow memories               ---------- Back payment due
A sour, dim shade             ---------  To sweet silver blue 

weak limbs, overpower         ------- Head shake and sigh
moments of lights              --------  None left to deny
everything ends                 --------  Insight in view
A sour, dim shade             --------  To sweet silver blue 


torn from reality             --------   Somehow I gain
low spirits of sorrow        --------  Beauty from pain
bitter and dull,                 --------- As thoughts turn to you
A sour, dim shade           --------   To sweet silver blue


**A deep Look Into The eyes of the Poet Destroyer**

~A Tim Ryerson Collaboration~


Details | Free verse | |

I Water My Garden

I water my garden
Every day
I tend to Wander and Lust
And between Wild and Sweet is no place to be
Like home

The rush of the wind over the river dry cuts
Through the garden mine
And compels the dust to whisper
Whisper, I know you,
Little Noise White

It whittles my garden
Down to the snow-white bones
And lies, like every flake of snow  in my garden
Unique and terrible each
Unique little white lies

Over my garden
One after another unlike the others
Ill-fitting coats in the high, high heat
Ill-fitting the other
One after another

Fallen to the ground too late for roots
The hard-won shoots shoot
They shoot the sky
They cast little shadows behind
My garden, I

The wind blows
And the seeds are carried away
They grow in fields strange
Where others tend to the wolves and I
Like the black sheep stray

A dream,
Drawn by the clouds,
The hard-won shoots shoot
They shoot the sky
And cast little shadows behind

Little stormcrow leave
Your place is no place to be
Like home
My garden, I
Water every day

The water is rising
And the seeds are floating away
They drown in rivers strange
Where others swim in the water and I
In the deep end laid

The end of the line
Shoots the sky and falls
Too late for roots
My garden, I
Grow every day

The sky is falling
And the shoots are tumbling away
They die in meadows strange
Where the grass grows inside and I
Like the black widow play

Too late for roots I shoot the sky
And I cry
Water, I
Garden, I
Every day


- A. H. Sewell ©2015


You can pick up a copy of my eBook "City Sticks - A Collection of 50 Poems" from Smashwords at the link listed below. Come stop by my blog or friend/follow me on Facebook, too! (Links listed below.)

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/539072


www.facebook.com/HelanaSewell1
www.ahsewell.weebly.com


Details | Free verse | |

Money-God

Trust not in the words: "In God We Trust", printed on currency,
for God and Money should be kept separate,
unless one desires to tempt fate with the Money-God,
tempt fate by not over-turning the money-lenders' tables,
although many might argue how this isn't good for business.

Why not know the value of life,
instead of focusing too hard on the prices of Idols.

People are bleating at the prospect of "God" being removed
from money, arguing that if God is removed from money,
the grazing grounds will become Godless.

Godless? 
With or without the words, 
a Money-God is a God nonetheless.
There is at least one true God, 
whether man-made or not;
an authority of control,
a God of profit margins.
Violence is a profit margin.
Hatred is a profit margin.
Bullets, Amendments, and Death, are all profit margins.

The war being waged upon children, is a profit margin.

If I had been given the chance, 
I would have tried my best to take him out,
morphed the vapours of my remaining hatred into bullets,
or torn him apart with my hands.
To stop innocents from losing their innocence.
There are lines drawn in minds,
that if crossed over, stretch beyond the bristle-board of rehabilitation.
Even Clockwork Orange bleeds into crimson spatters.

When a child survives a massacre,
runs across his school field to find safety from a stranger,
proclaiming to the stranger, "I can't go back to my school, it isn't safe there.
My teacher was killed, I don't have a teacher anymore.
All of my friends are dead."....

....then innocence has been lost, and the Money-God is empowered even more.
Lost innocence spreads like a disease through the minds of global villagers.
Fear breeds fear, breeds control and disintegration of the Stream-Mind.

If I had been given the chance,
I would have fought fire with fire,
fed the beast within, 
taken him apart with a breath of hatred.
Breathed it out, pushed it out, purged it out.

Satan is a scapegoat used by people who are unwilling 
to take accountability for their actions and sacred responsibilities.
The Beast is humanity -
not marked by a fairy-tale Devil,
but instead marked by the Money-God created in the image of man;
recreating the image of man through fear.

Some people might be intrigued by how many definitions of God there are.
Even if money is a necessity,
within our core there should reside a different Kingdom -
without and within, within and without.

If I had been given the chance -- past tense....

....if I am given the chance,
I will try my best to take him out,
smudge him out
with the remaining hatred in my heart.
Breathe it out, push it out, purge it out,

until all that's left is to love,
until all that's left is to love.







December 14th, 2012 - S.H.E.S:  28 - 2 = 26




January 7th, 2013




.


Details | Free verse | |

The Whispers of a Troubled Spirit

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.

silly boy

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



Details | Free verse | |

The Love Letter

My dear, 

   I shall meet thee in the summer of thy heart,

   where we once walked head to each 

   elegant upon the world....


And had not a care but for little winds of love

   winking there in the dreams of trees,

   laying upon me to so delicately,

   tickle with your autumn hair,

   always so soap-scented you


Touch me where I had not known

   the ease of such wonder in your eyes,

   splendor only for a great king ----

   but I a hopeless romantic muse,

   with little empty pockets blessed

   with thy precious petal,

   am richer than any lord!


I shall wait for thee in our golden glade,

   the heart which flows the waterfall....
   
   by the dawn of your sweet embrace,

   in the summer of thy heart,

   I shall wait....

   (Love, K)


Details | Free verse | |

Exposure: Part II

(cont'd)

"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 -
not always.
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.

-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


Details | Free verse | |

Sunlight and Rain: The Prism of an Anarchist


These are the confessions of an Anarchist,

when I

stepped away from the light,
entered the shadows
of forbidden caverns,
the caves, tunnels 
and catacombs of Anarchy.

Here        a constant, cold caress
of moisture,
a persistent inner rain
trickling,
pooling alongside lonely thoughts.

Nothing grew that deep underground,
not even fungus, nor lichen.
I survived on sheer will and dampness,
lungs mutated into gills,
eyes became accustomed
to this ever-present night.

A Mission lost in translation and transmission,
a rogue satellite orbiting
through thin oxygen's mind-bending space,
cut-off from other agents of Anarchy.
I slithered along corridors of broken souls,
fed on regurgitated thoughts
and drowned dreams of cities burning down,
melting like hot candle wax.
How I wanted the cities above to burn!
To burn down into the ground
in waves of rolling thunder and lightning.

Not able to differentiate between night and day,
weeks gave birth to months
in a C-section of fleeting years.

Somehow        I stumbled upon a side entrance,
felt warmth pushing in,
pushing down,
and my will shattered apart,
fusing back together into Plan B.

Sunlight!

As I broke the surface,
light seared my tightly shut eyes,
breaching eyelids with ease.
The pain felt wonderful,
changing into a delirious exultation
and heated comfort,
thawing out frozen, stiff bones.

Rays of sunlight rippled across my skin,
evaporating the slimy, cavernous musk,
burning me on the outside,
cleansing me from the inside.
Eventually        I was able to keep my sore eyes open
while they felt ready to sizzle and explode from sensory overload,
globules floating through my vision.

The first thing I clearly saw  
was not close up        magnified,
but the distant horizon enveloped in a halo
of lemon haze, arching between two mountain peaks.
I wept,
skin buzzing from the sun's heat.

Yes, 
how sunlight changes the perspective of nightmares,
revealing reality's potential fibers,
balancing the darkness within,
bending the remaining droplets of lost hope
into a prismatic ribbon of brilliance and prayer,
always,

        always evading the deep-rooted catacombs below,
a place I will choose to forego,
only entering within memories,
until even these are burned away by sunlight,
until even these are cleansed by sunlight.




2013 Double-Rainbow Remix
December 19th, 2013





+/-


Details | Free verse | |

Soft Wind

Soft wind, warm and weightless 
That brushes my cheeks in cool of day
And on warm moonlit nights of summer 
Let me lay upon your expansive wings
Let me breathe deeply of your spirit
Carry me o’er God’s beautiful earth
Carry me across the turquoise seas
Where silence lies supreme as dolphins play 
Listen as their bodies slice the oceans deep 
As the sun seems to linger enjoying the view
Let me down for a whiles to walk bare feet upon warm sands
Let me frolic with gentle white crested waves, then
Carry me far beyond blue heaven’s dome
Carry me to my Fathers’ home

~*~


Details | Free verse | |

The Lobotomizer


The Lobotomizer honed his dark art
with an apathetic heart and patience.

First, he earned a fancy Masters degree,
a quite secretive, hush-hush diploma
in psychological advertising.
Then, covertly sponsored by Henry Ford,
the Lobotomizer flew overseas
where he became good friends with the Nazis.
Mengele offered a substantial wing --
when it came to experimentation,
the Angel of Death was the reigning king.

After the Allied Forces came on strong,
the Lobotomizer slipped further East
to become a student of the Red Beast.
The iron-curtained, cold-war Frankenstein,
taught the Lobotomizer many tricks,
including high-frequency hypnotics,
how to travel through electrical lines,
and even surf the beams of satellites.

Yet his travels were not nearly complete,
since the Lobotomizer knows no bounds
with his insatiable appetite.
He crossed the borders of every nation,
gaining more insightful experience.
He passed through many laboratories,
leaving behind countless horror stories;
leaving behind legions of empty minds.

Finally, in the fall of Sixty-Nine,
the Lobotomizer returned back home
to his motherland of the brave and free,
to commence his lobotomizing spree.
By the hundreds, thousands, millions and more,
the Lobotomizer plied his ill trade,
beaming himself via optic fiber,
satellite dish, cable, and antenna,
right between the eyes of his audience,
until the nation's vast majority
was left drooling, dull-eyed, slack-jawed and blank.

Nowadays, nearly the entire globe
can feel his dark probe in the frontal lobe.
The blue light flickers off walls, day and night,
as most people have given up the fight,
allowing their minds to be bought.
The Lobotomizer is not finished,
for he continues to push his prison
towards the remaining wisps of free thought.



2014 Subliminal Remix, July 30th, 2014

(10 syllables per line --
The original version was written on February 22nd, 2012)



+/-


Details | Free verse | |

Soul mates solace

When my final shadows cling on desperately
Where I fight formidable battles
to merely hold the light
I send you loving vibrations
and soul sustenance
Deep from the cathedral
of one heart to another
where today no choirs sing
nor symphonies play
Yet it is here where we meet
in spiritual solace
here to surrender 
and exchange inestimable treasures
recollecting memories 
like unopened letters
Galaxies are stretched
over chronicles of shared history
Nebula birthing stars
will be exposed
in forth-coming conversations
bringing short-lived fulfillment to you
Hungry to feast
now will be the time
to approve your blood art vision
and with my own haunting surrender
as dappled shades ink stain your chest
I will reside with you and share, mesmerised 
pens - by branding
as this will be your written reams to me
your artist's pallet or brushed canvas
no need for words
and yet creating
mysterious magical moments
Bitter-sweet the music
that dances taut guitar strings
but now blood approved
please go kick your heel up
return to your laughter
and ride on the breeze
for not all are lost
change not
for I am with you always
to love, listen and comfort as one
with you in me and I in you
as masterpiece


Details | Free verse | |

Things That Seemed Poetic

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.


Details | Free verse | |

Sunlight and Rain: The Prism of an Anarchist

These are the confessions of an Anarchist,

when I

stepped away from the light,
entered the shadows
of forbidden caverns,
the caves, tunnels 
and catacombs of anarchy.

Here        a constant, cold caress
of moisture,
a persistent inner rain
trickling,
pooling alongside lonely thoughts.

Nothing would grow that deep underground,
not even fungus, nor lichen.
I survived on sheer will and dampness,
lungs mutated into gills,
eyes became accustomed
to this ever-present night.

A Mission lost in translation and transmission,
a rogue satellite orbiting
through thin air's mind-bending space,
cut-off from other agents of Anarchy.
I slithered along corridors of broken souls,
fed on regurgitated thoughts
and drowned dreams of cities burning down,
melting like hot candle wax.
How I wanted the cities above to burn!
To burn down into the ground
in waves of rolling thunder and lightning.

Not able to differentiate between night and day,
weeks gave birth to months
in a C-section of fleeting years.

Somehow        I stumbled upon a side entrance,
felt warmth pushing in,
pushing down,
and my will shattered apart,
fusing back together into Plan B.

Sunlight!

As I broke the surface,
light seared my tightly shut eyes,
breaching eyelids with ease.
The pain felt wonderful,
changing into a delirious exultation
and heated comfort,
thawing out frozen, stiff bones.

Rays of sunlight rippled across my skin,
evaporating the slimy, cavernous musk,
burning me on the outside,
cleansing me from the inside.
Eventually        I was able to keep my sore eyes open
while they felt ready to sizzle and explode from sensory overload,
globules floating through my vision.

The first thing I clearly saw  
was not close up        magnified,
but the distant horizon enveloped in a halo
of lemon haze, arching between two mountain peaks.
I wept,
skin buzzing from the sun's heat.

Yes, 
how sunlight changes the perspective of nightmares,
revealing reality's potential fibers,
balancing the darkness within,
bending the remaining droplets of lost hope
into a prismatic ribbon of brilliance and prayer,
always,

        always evading the deep-rooted catacombs below,
a place I will choose to forego,
only entering within memories,
until even these are burned away by sunlight,
until even these are cleansed by sunlight.





2013 Double-Rainbow Remix
December 18th/19th, 2013
(originally written April 12, 2011)




+/-


Details | Free verse | |

In This Moment, Tonight

 

In tune with this familiar vibe, let’s wonder how it might be
Across the room our eyes will meet, a set of four
In a place setting reserved for two, captivated
Our everyday routines and thoughts will speak
Through the eyes, uninhibited, grooving in the same skin

Once upon a raging fire we’ll celebrate
The memory of that zing thing, we'll watch as it
Circles slowly into softer flames, flickering
Well-suited as old comfortable shoes
And continue enveloped in life's mystical sound

More sensible, aware of the need to be inward
Or outward at different times, we'll find pleasure
In being tired wild things, slowing down in our swings
If it breaks and cracks we’ll pledge not to notice

So, just for the sake of thinking that it might not last
Before it’s even begun, let’s just wish upon hope
Until we meet, and vow to be good to each other
In this moment, tonight


Details | Free verse | |

Paranoid love

Tell me that this fear is just paranoia in my mind, 
we're not straining, we're not struggling, 
we're not sinking, we're just fine. 
I'm not perfect my dearest, but damn have I tried, 
and I'll try harder but I know I'll have the same results every time. 
Do you want me all the ways that I am? 
With all the struggles and the tears and the clinging to your hand. 
I fear your getting further and Im left on the shore to stand, 
watching you in the distance with a bullet in my hand. 
Tell me all this worry, its just clutter in my mind, 
tell me not to worry that we're doing just fine. 
Cause Im scared to run you off and I feel Im falling deep. 
And Im so frightened of these thoughts that its getting hard to sleep.
All I know is that the heart wants what it desires, 
because of you the match inside has turned into a fire. 
And I feel the broken glass thats sticking from my skin, 
Wondering if you'll remove the pain or push it back in. 
My hearts frantic wondering if you feel the same, 
pleading and begging for more than just a saying, 
but to feel and to see that im not alone, 
with being in this love thats overwhelming. 
Once I told you that we didnt have a spark, 
but you were lighting up and I was sitting in the dark. 
And this fire, this blaze its wrapped in desire. 
Im terrified to lose you, I think I might die or, 
maybe disappear from all the pieces falling out, 
im going crazy but when i open my mouth, nothing comes out, 
and I cant explain to you why I just need to hold you close, 
why every time you leave Im scared to let you go, 
why these tears are building up behind my eyes, 
all I know is that the heart wants what it desires 
and it desires to be your wife. 
So tell me in my panic, that your words are true, 
tell my my dearest what I mean to you, 
tell me that this paranoia is all within my mind 
we're not struggling, we're not sinking tell me we're just fine


Details | Free verse | |

Grief is Grief is not

Grief is not something we “get through”…
you “get through” a bad day
Grief is not something we “get over”,
“you ”get over” a cold”
Grief is not something we “move on from”
you “move on from” a bad relationship”
 
But Grief is… a companion we “move forward with”,
learning from and growing, with each agonizing step.
 
Grief is… a heart-wrenching process, not bound by time,
But sets us on a “lifelong journey” of finding truth and meaning…
 
Grief is not a crutch we hold onto for pity
It is not a lack in character
It is not a weakness that needs to be strengthened
Or a problem that needs fixing
It is not an enemy to be slain
Or like a wild animal, to be caged
 
Grief is… “A METAMORPHOSIS OF HUMAN LIFE”
YES! that needs “time”… “A LIFETIME”
 
Grief is… an acknowledgement of true love shared
and true love lost
 
Grief is… a love we hold so deep within our souls
That our tears fall to caress the pain…
“God given tears”, full of purpose and meaning
For each one carries with it a piece of our heart
 
grief hugs us and holds us close
to a great love we can no longer touch…
grief is… our friend for without it
our lives would have been a lie.

Grief is…purely and simply a journey of love
It is a friend, to those of us who mourn
A friend who sees what we need and allows us to be us
Grief is a release of unimaginable pain…
a release of a great indescribable loss…
 
 
Grief is… the bridge that crosses repentant oceans,
spans desolate canyons, and fear filled mountain tops.
that we may cross over this tragedy to a renewed heart 
by means of the love we shared and continue to share
through the love of our Almighty God
 
 
Grief is…
A pain we can use, to broaden our hearts
and the hearts of all those around us
it is… a road we must travel to gain wisdom.
A level of wisdom you will never achieve by playing strong.
For only when we sink to the bottomless pit of grief
Will we be awakened by the light of truth.
 
Grief…
Do not judge it… for it contains Gods secrets
Secrets you can only hear by listening
through the blare of the pain.
It is a sacred contract to be in awe of and inspired by
To learn from and grow from
To gain compassion and understanding from
It is a journey that holds a sacred contract
That will be signed by each and every one of us
Who has the strength… and the courage…
to love with all your heart and all your soul.
It is not a journey I would wish on anyone
But now that I am here I will walk it with honor
And purpose, with my head held high and my feet in stride
For at the end of this road there you’ll be,
waiting to take me home.


Details | Free verse | |

Awaken From Deep Slumber

'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number -
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you - 
Ye are many - they are few.'

From the poem: "The Mask of Anarchy" written by Percy Bysshe Shelley
____________________________________________________________________



O child, 
how frail you seem in certain angles of light and shadow,
with your cavities,
fractured attention deficiency,
and thickening skin of apathy.

You are a victim to the plague,
playing amongst flowers filled with poison,
staring at screens to fill in the boredom
of having your young mind brimming
with over-stimulation -
information seeps in without warning,
beamed into your skull 
by 360 degrees 
of high-def, infra-red, wireless mobility.
24/7 programming of insidious adverts
breaches your skull in a mind-rape,
proving how the Death of a Salesman
was only a sideshow distraction
for the Kleptocracy to successfully purchase
the dark side of the moon -
control the tides,
control the mind,
buying our hearts and souls
in order to auction off our future
to the highest bids of people already dead.

O child,
yet I believe in you,
there is still hope left upon your shoulders.
You are strong,
your mind cuts like a blade.
And if you care,
if you dare,
what a significant burden for you to bare.
The time has come,
the time is ripe,
this is it,
there are no more second chances.
I pray for your success,
for you are our very last hope.
Please learn from my mistakes and failures,
absorb the goodness I have left to offer.
I tried, I truly did,
but the Hydra spat me out as a broken man.

Lost Children,
we left seeds inside the belly of the beast
for you to survive on within.
God speed, take heed,
do not attack the Kleptocracy from the outside,
its Dragon's heads will cut you down -
will cut you down without mercy.
You must advance peacefully
with a rogue's armour of false calm,
let the machine devour you whole.
Bide your time,
survive on the leftover seeds,
dismantle the Hydra from the inside,
rewrite the program from within.

Lost Children,
shed the tired cloak of apathy,
don the mask of alternate endings,
de-rail this present destiny.
Everything rides on you now,
everything rides on you.

The Kleptocracy broke my back,
but my mind is still intact,
and I know you can do better than I did,
believe that you can do better than we did.
I pray for your success,
pray for your safety and protection,
everything rides on you,
everything rides on you now.






December 8th, 2011


Details | Free verse | |

Hermaphrodite - Part II


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.

IT/You/I/We, say:

"I have been your Mother, you have been my Father,
Sister, Brother, Child, Lover."


II.

I want to make love to you
on exponential levels.
Here                finally,
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. 


Details | Free verse | |

Hermaphrodite - Part III


?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....

Hermaphrodite
_____________________


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




.


Details | Free verse | |

Hermaphrodite - Part I


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....


I.

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,
Witch's Hats, 
Barnacles are my nipples
hardened by your Lunar tide.




Details | Free verse | |

A Soul awakened

This battle brews inside me
The pain I feel in my heart ripping it apart
And my soul who wants to be redeemed

The movement of my pen beats in my chest
In my veins my words flow like the rage of rivers in storm 

I’m caught in these lyrics that Awaken my soul
That cry out for eternity 

Yet my heart is trodden
 at times I swear it is not beating

Our hearts rose up like kindred knights ready to defend our land
but the soul was fulfilling its destiny
it would not be beaten, no matter…
it had awakened to truth

but our hearts knew only torment
and could not understand
all that was happening,
that God had a plan

so my pain exposes itself
 in my thoughts manifesting to script
as it beats in my chest with a rhythmic pulse
that brings me to my knees

We had no time to prepare
Only to fight
Flailing around Hope
With all of our might

 as if it were the weapon that would save us from our enemy
for that’s all we had was our sword of Hope

This battle we were not prepared for.
Like a sneak attack, it caught us in slumber
when the army of death ascended upon our world

my heart said I love you
you are my universe and life has no meaning without you
I will fight till my shallow breath abates
Till your soul takes the last blow...

And I did!
We Did!

We did not surrender
We had no chance 
Our hearts fought a losing battle

My awakened soul shouts out with acceptance…
“you will one day know the reason, but not now”
For this is your time to experience 
what was lovingly bestowed upon you from our God,
who knows what we need

So now I write from my pain… It helps me to cope…

It is the sword I carry…

My only Hope


Details | Free verse | |

Breaking the Surface

A millstone around my neck
and weight about my feet
drag me down so deeply
that I’m being pulled toward something. . .  
something from a darkened dream - nihility -
the place to lose chagrin 
and then to taste absolutely nothing.
Tropical delights do not swim here
 to brighten  the dingy water of my plight.
No rainbow fish dart to and fro
where murky disillusionment oozes
   all around     and through me.
I go lower. . . . 

But above me, I can barely see
a tinge of rose and of blue,
a sparkling distant light
as the void below crouches, 
tugging at my soul.
Hope, through ocean’s skin,
peeps down at me.
Rays of reassurance come gleaming through
the layers of my gloom’s descent,
and be it from God. . . or from simple human will,
Prospect calls to me.

I feel wonder as gravity relinquishes its hold,
and the restraints around my ankles now fall off!
The millstone is released. 
Unencumbered, I ascend.
Up, up, up I go -
bursting to exhale and to take into my lungs
a refreshment of sweet oxygen.
A final surge of spirit. . . 
I’m breaking the surface,
And the coral glow of breaking day
rushes forth splendidly
to greet me.


Details | Free verse | |

Careful Cursive

I write each letter by hand in careful cursive. 
I want every sentence to be pretty,
to look feminine and delicate -
to soften the ugliness you face everyday.
After each line, I let the ink dry.
You don't deserve smudges.
You don't deserve any of this.

My words are foolish, 
full of meaningless descriptions
of meaningless events. 
But I can't sit here at this polished desk -
in this cozy room in this quiet house 
on this peaceful street
and write what I'm really thinking.
I can't be selfish.

So I keep writing my careful cursive
on my pretty stationary.
I keep sending my meaningless letters
into the ugly world - to wherever you are.
And no matter how many times
I open the mailbox, I'm never prepared 
for that hideous stamp,
that heartless phrase:
"Return to Sender."


Written: 1/27/2013
For Michael's "Boomerang" contest


Details | Free verse | |

Exposure: Part I

Today I conceived myself as a poet for the first time,
and not because of employable meter, rhyme, and flow -
I will leave such devices for the wordsmiths and Masters.

And not because I can write poetry....what I do,
should be labelled as something else entirely -
not as poetry.
I am an organic recorder, filing away bits and pieces of zeitgeist,
without rhyme or reason,
almost as if ghosts are guiding my hand across the paper,
and I really don't have much say in the matter.

I am a stranger in a crowded world,
a stranger amongst people I have known for years,
not quite fitting in anywhere, but being in all places at once.
I write the words down, they in turn speak to me.
A clear, mutual agreement -
the smell and feel of new paper,
the liquid, brashness of ink as it penetrates the virgin whiteness
of so many possible observations, opinions and stories.
The words know me intimately.
We aren't strangers.
The reality of vowels and consonants is where I truly fit.

I was moving through a crowd of familiar faces -
a familiar feeling of strangeness and alienation,
when I came across a Persian face I had never seen before.
A real stranger.
Not one I have known for years.
She mentioned not being into sex,
how she only wanted to talk about things she couldn't mention to friends -
her mind felt as if it was floating by the moon 
and she wasn't sure how to reel it back into her skull again.
I told her not to worry, sex isn't the only thing on my brain.
She said that sex was the only thing on her brain;
but in a different way.
She explained how she had been kidnapped in Iran,
imprisoned as a sex-slave, 
repeatedly raped by rich business men who wore wedding bands.
I asked if she was filled with hate.
She wasn't quite sure.

"What does hate feel like?"

"Well, it shouldn't be mistaken for rage, anger or frustration.
Those emotions are red hot to the touch.
Hate is a cold thing.
Like a Raven perched on the railing of a bridge,
sleet bouncing off its feathers,
not caring to fly away even though cars are barrelling past,
flinging up dirty, February slush.
There is nowhere left to fly to.
The trees are all cut down,
dumpsters have tight lids,
for some reason the fish are all belly-up in the river below,
dead from some mysterious reason.
Its stomach aching from hunger,
the Raven smells the reason for all of this death
emanate from the strange looking beasts walking and driving past.
It is all their fault -
they are the poison behind it all.
This is hate."

(cont'd)


Details | Free verse | |

Spirit of Dreams


I haunt subconscious
 	wells. Alone in the vast,
unconscious realm of man's dreams, 
I heal. Mistily, floating in moonbeams

I spell love and truth.
These are my essence and dimension,
no intervention.  My dust reveals all.

Down the twisting spiral
of minds I go, touching each chamber
of mood. Nightly, embedding crystals of hope,

I span eternally good.

My hair holds the fragrance
of all the worlds’ flowers,
my breath is the  mist of miracles.
My voice pleads to soldiers in battle.
My grief fills earth's oceans with tears.

I am the comfort of mothers.
I am the keeper of fears.

Infinity cannot contain me,
for, I am the Messenger of Peace.

Suzanne Delaney


Details | Free verse | |

Preacher's Son


I am the Preacher's son
who stole the bread
and broke it with a wrinkled face,
the essence weaving behind her retinas.
____

When I stole from the church,
Mrs. Worther 'the bird', had spied me
sneaking out the vestibule door,
from her usual early service perch
in the very back pew.

She carried this secret for many years,
including when she caught me eavesdropping
on midweek board meetings
from behind crates of cheap wine.
Instead of showing scorn,
she had given me a warm wink,
offering a lesson
by leaving me there to think.

Mrs. Worther
who had been my Sunday school teacher,
had made me study the lessons
without ever becoming a preacher --
especially later,
when it came to my thievery
and excursions into the park,

where I broke the bread
with a wrinkled face,
the essence shimmering behind her retinas.

I am the Preacher's son,
who instead found the presence
amongst ducks and swans,
when I broke the bread
with that crazy old lady -
gleaned what I needed to do,
and since then,
have never again
sat in another pious pew.

So now,
I am the 'bad' Preacher's son.
Some people whisper righteously
how I have come undone,
made a pact with the dark,

while I break the bread
with that age-old essence in the park.



Inception Re-mix
March 24th, 2014
(originally written: March 24th, 2010)


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