Best Hope Poems
Below are the all-time best Hope poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of hope poems written by PoetrySoup members
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Hope
Poem
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
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Hope
Poem
My Dreams
Close your eyes and forget the rain
Dream about the sun and heat
a sunny summer day
Dream of waves who sigh
so quiet on the beach
Swimming naked with the one you love
The dream of happiness
is more than the dream
A dream about strawberries with cream on
Do not forget the roses and violets
that smells so good
Running barefoot in the freshly cut grass
Close your eyes and dream your dreams
Daydreaming as sweet and good
they are secret, I will not share them with anyone
Imagine if life was a dream .....
A wonderful dream
and the world was full of love
and intimacy between all the people on earth
My dreams are made of
hope, faith and love
31.July 2012
Anne-Lise Andresen
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Hope
Poem
Tears to Weep
When I lay me down to sleep,
And cry the tears that sinners weep;
To speak the words of a contrite prayer,
And know that someone listens there.
He cares for sheep that have gone astray,
Who willfully wander their own way;
They vex the pride that hides within,
And drink the bitter cup of sin.
The web of lies and dark deception,
Lie in defeat of Light’s conception;
To capture all and destroy life,
With passion’s fire and human strife
We need to plant the gospel vine,
Where evil rules and saints repine.
While martyrs lead with ransomed prayer,
With hope for life that tarries there.
Blood that was shed on Calvary,
Set slaves of transgression wholly free.
So we rise from the grave to seek reward,
Giving praise to our risen Lord.
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Hope
Poem
The Conundrums of a Peaceful Warrior
....figured if a woman cut my hair,
if anyone but me, cut my hair,
superstitious doubts could wedge
into my mind as splinters.
In a child-like stupor,
I was stunned, transfixed
by scissors flashing in the light,
as 27 years of my 3 + 7 = 1,
fell to the floor around me in a circle,
something akin to a wreath of protection.
And did this ceremony purge the warrior?
Naye,
the sacred bow and arrows are in my bones,
my wounded knee is merging with an eternal afterglow.
I cannot destroy the warrior -
thought my armour to be disintegrated by insecurities,
but the armour is etched into my skin.
No longer do I want to be a soldier. There's a difference.
My raised fist is not theirs to have.
I will no longer raise my fist for them.
I. Will. Not. Raise. My. Fist. For. Them -
for their intellectual righteousness,
for their right to fight,
their right to be wrong.
I will not partake in their mental Apocalypse,
the battle of evil over good,
good over evil....
....the source is beyond such frailties,
such impure illusions.
The over-thinking is sucking away simple feelings.
Simple, beautiful, pure, emotional mathematics:
1 + 1 = 1
1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1...........still equals 1.
1 sperm + 1 egg = 1 birth, even if twins are born.
1 twin + 1 twin + brothers and sisters + 1 mother + 1 father = 1 family.
1 tree + 1 tree + millions of more trees = 1 forest.
Don't over-think it -- feel it. Equality.
Once good and evil are melted back down,
joined into two sides of the same golden coin,
there is only One.
All in All. The Sacred Forest.
The beasts feed me, I feed them in return,
lay my weary head upon their fur,
fall asleep to the pounding of an earthy heartbeat,
awaken to the fluttering of wings and song.
And they want me to raise my fist against this!?
And they want me to raise my fist against this!?
I am transmuting into the conundrum of a peaceful warrior,
slaying defilers of the Sacred Forest
with the roots in my blood,
on a board that doesn't have boundaries -
a Kingfisher, a slayer of kings.
When all that's left is to love,
when all that's left is to love,
then Love, I will protect.
July 2nd, 2012
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Hope
Poem
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
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Hope
Poem
Best Friend Defined
What's a best friend,
But the smell before rain?
The hand that we give,
When a friend is in pain
It's the things that we do,
The words that we say
That pulls a friend through,
When their heart's torn away
It's the steps that we take,
The songs that we sing
It's the choices we make,
And the hope that we bring
I'm here through the tears,
I'm here through the laughter,
I'll always be here
Until death, and after
It's the things we give up;
The things we give in
When our heart's full of love,
And selfless begins
It's the hearts that we touch,
The things that we won't
We never give up,
We could, but we don't
It's the people we save,
With the hands that we give
When we're lost, we still say,
You're my reason to live
I'm here through the tears,
I'm here through the laughter
I'll always be here,
Until death, and after
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Hope
Poem
The Promise of Spring - A Fibonacci
I
Will
Kiss you
While you sleep
Lady dressed in white
And melt your cold heart made of ice
Then
You
Will rise
Liquefied
High into the sky
And fall as raindrops from God’s eyes
To
The
Waiting
Buds below
Where now you will grow
With me - in the bloom of a rose
~~~
Author: Elaine George
* Note: This poem is a Personification as well as a triple Fibonacci
Brian Strand's 'Image Contest': First Place
John Heck's '12-in-one' Contest: First Place
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Hope
Poem
Salvation comes with a far greater sacrifice than blind faith and car-wash fundraisers
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
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Hope
Poem
Windowpanes
An ancient river, centuries-old shops and restaurants steeped in a 2000-year history and
culture set the scene. The ambiance seemed divinely contrived to facilitate the purposes of
our meeting and the very fodder from which the greatest poets are sustained.
Not newcomers to the area, Kay P. and I were assigned to the Army Security Agency Field
Station in Augsburg, Germany in 1974. We were colleagues in the intelligence community
with no romantic overtures to our relationship, save an appreciation of poetry and profound
philosophical discussions. Kay wanted to spend the evening with a poet, so we planned the
evening to be appropriate for the purpose.
At the time and place, we quickly found ourselves hopelessly immersed in the philosophical
foundations of my writings throughout the evening. It was the first time since Vietnam that
I'd felt worthy as a person. I still recall sipping the red wine and feeling the warmth of the
large hearth inside the Balkan eatery. I still see the swans gliding by on the Lech flowing by
our café.
When windowpanes begin to weep with autumn's chilly dew,
I'm taken back through seasons passed to one delight held true,
A rendezvous that time allowed, a gentle evening spent
Amid a time of long discord when days were dreary bent.
I feel the stretch upon my lips, the smile returns once more.
Again, I smell the Balkan fare prepared on Lech's old shore,
The mood is cast in high regard, the wine is tart and dry,
As Augsburg ripples in the wake when swans go gliding by.
The ancient windows frame our view and day begins to wane
As rivulets meander down and streak the dampened panes.
The ambiance of ages passed beseeched us not to leave
And held us in its warm embrace throughout the ebbing eve.
My heart was scarred, without regard and hardened by the war
But her esteem unveiled its worth, while nothing had before.
She saw the child that once was me, I'd long since cast aside,
And bade he climb astride his mount, engage his life and ride.
Now, she is but a memory, whose kindness soothed my heart,
For we embarked upon our lives on paths ordained to part.
Her subtle way escaped my eye till time had made it clear
That her esteem had set me free, that night I hold so dear.
The poetry that filled my soul remains these many years,
Impassioned in my warmest thoughts when autumn first appears,
When windowpanes begin to weep, a-glisten with the dew,
And I return to seasons passed, to one delight held true.
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Hope
Poem
Exhuming The Essence
excavate my fervent soul
with your familiar hands
(determination gets you everywhere)
stripped down to just my skin
in this sultry summer night
moon shining provocative…..bright
entwined limbs in midnights swelter
architecture of this flaming hanker
you must stoke this slow red simmer
I assure you that I blaze
with just the right erotic touch
I become a vixen
trace those fingers down my spine
those lips a naked search
beyond the present sunset
to this hearts clandestine perch
(buried profound but beating)
inside a cave of safety
if you will only reach it
patience is a virtue
I am only just a slave
held captive by your binding
to your Adonis body
I am helpless as a hostage….
my master….I await….trembling
(vulnerable)
for that final surrender
you can render me helpless my love….
and leave me barely breathing…
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