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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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New Hope Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Hope poems are below this new poems list.

Glimmer of Hope by Cennami, Judy
Faith Hope And Love by leake, kevin
Hope In Emptiness by Rika, Jr
The Library of Trust and Hope by vaso, arthur
A hope by maximax, nicole
prayer and hope for a warm reflex blessing haiku by King, Marty
Missing Hope by Mast, Reynaldo
A Storm, A Tempest And A Hope by Lindley, Robert
Prayer For Hope by Mamabolo, Lekau
Hope beyond 911 by Stroh, Uwe

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The Best Hope Poems

Details | Hope Poem | |


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


Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner

More great poems below...

Details | Hope Poem | |

Wind From The Sea

Inspired by Andrew Wyeth Watercolor Painting -- Wind From the Sea, 1947

Standing in the old house
A strange mixture of feelings erupt within me
My roommates Depression, Loneliness, and Hopelessness
Greet me with strangling arms and leering grins
I don’t fight them anymore – somehow they are a part me
So together, in this house, in this room
We endure the somber solitude of the day

A sudden chill fills the room
Death enters – its foul breath chokes me
My three companions prostrate themselves
Pressure builds in my bowels
Bile rises in my throat
A heavy weariness fills my bones
He’s calling – hissing my name
I can’t breath

Death surrounds my soul – crushing me 
I hear groaning  . . .
Strange guttural sound -- it’s coming from me
Deep painful darkness fills me
I beg Death to take me . . .

Through the open window
A gush of wind enters
A sheer curtain hanging comes to life
It’s spirit lifts inwards and up beckoning me to dance 

What is this wonder?
A limp ragged curtain – faded, stained, frail -- has life
Reaching toward me . . .  frayed fingers of thread motioning
Old friends rush to me – Joy, Hope, Love
Death’s grip slips – I gasp a breath
Looking up I see the open window
Boarded by old bare wood, hard with age

I realize it’s daylight now – soft shadows 
A curving road leading to the water
I can taste the saltiness in the wind
Trees in the distance
A calling from the sea
Seagulls, waves, laughter

Joy breaths into my nostrils 
Leave this place – Depression cannot hold you
Simple pleasures I will give you
   Cool breeze on a summer afternoon
   Laughter of friends
   A walk in the garden
   A book
   The Sea . . . 

Depression laughs in my ears
Through that window lies heartache, treachery, poverty, misery
It will chew your insides up – blood will pour from your lips
Pain and suffering awaits if you leave this house
Death waits to take you home 
An end to this constant noise – the peace of total emptiness 

Another breeze and Hope fills my eyes with light
I see colors – vibrant alive filling me with warmth
Leave this place, take a journey to the sea
Let light fill you and be your guide . . . see -- opportunities abound
For laughter, love, forgiveness . . . for life – abundant life
See the rainbow upon the Sea

Hopelessness rushes toward me
Kisses my lips and whispers
Light burns and blinds
Enslaves you
They will see clearly your secrets
Spotlight focus – ridicule scorn . . . ugly disgust . . .  self-hatred

Love rushes in and embraces me
Light, fresh, empowering
My heart leaps with pleasure
Arm and arm she leads me to the window
Much pain and sorrow – yes . . .  also Love
A powerful love that transforms, refreshes . . . frees
Breathe deeply of the Sea air – fill your lungs
Go – you are loved deeply and completely

Looking out Looking in

David Meade

Live Generously

Copyright © David Meade

Details | Hope Poem | |


    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.


Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner

Details | Hope Poem | |

Sand Castle De Mal

~Sand Castle De Mal~

Beauty sails along the shores of life
Out there broken dreams form above sand dunes
Silent, God listens to the triumph of his creation

3 line verse

Copyright © SKAT A

Details | Hope Poem | |


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


Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner

Details | Hope Poem | |

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 

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, 
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,
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 
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"


Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner

Details | Hope Poem | |

Before and Beyond The Bed

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
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
You are the most beautiful
Woman in the world!

Dedicated to my Friend Armand.

Copyright © Richard Lamoureux

Details | 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 :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Anne Lise Andresen

Details | 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.

Copyright © elizabeth wesley

Details | Hope Poem | |



I'm still alive and I don't know why?
My heart survived falling from the butterfly sky

Caught by the hands of destiny
With visions only I can see!

My love I heard your call
Wings of a butterfly broke my fall

Love motion is in the air, a love no one can compare
Indulging a look-a-stare- that we both share

Reminiscing our love made out of stolen hope
Awe~:*! To  them butterfly kisses that felt so real

Flowing like Amazing Grace, 
A shining light upon my face.

I traveled fast and far, longing to be in your arms
I desire, the warm sensation of your charms

Your safe love will help me carry on,
With the strength and bond~the love you set upon

Nothing is better than a sensual butterfly kiss
Beyond the sensation of heaven's pure bliss

Fluttering in the clouds aiming for the moon
A dream of reality, out of my cocoon I bloom!

Valued by the art of true beauty and its rarity
True love flapping in the midst of clarity

I entwine that I am yours and you are mine
Bonded together till the end of time

With the vision, my heart is no longer blind
Two broken hearts at last combined

I glide below to touch your lip.
Our lashes touch from tip to tip.

Caressing each other as our wings expand
Two hearts- kisses collide and land

Holding your hand reaching to the rainbow sky.
Kisses:*kisses:* like the butterfly!

Dedicated to *My Babe*

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A

Details | 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

Copyright © Dana Smith

Details | Hope Poem | |


Waiting, hoping
Heart slowly dying
Memories re-fuelling forgotten dreams

Wistfully awaiting
Dreams to stir
Prayers to be answered

Penned 18 December 2014


Details | Hope Poem | |

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~

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A

Details | Hope Poem | |


          When dark clouds converge
                As cold winter plots
                To dampen the soul
                 In the face of fear
                   And adversity...

                 When crisis looms
                     And dejection
                  Flirts with despair
                     Not all is lost...

                       A swallow
                     Comes along

                       The joys
                       Of spring


        Contest: Diminished Hexaverse
             Sponsor: Dr Ram Mehta
                     Placed: 7th
        Chosen POTD ~ 15th Jan 2015

Copyright © Paul Callus

Details | Hope Poem | |


Iraq is civilization's cradle -
a casket is being built
with the cradle's worn planks.

August 7th, 2014


Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner

Details | Hope Poem | |

The Peephole that is the Moon

An infinite door of midnight blue;
glowing peephole that is the moon.
Dare I look before turned to dust?
Yes, dear friend, I surely must.

In the midst, a city of finest gold,
large as the earth; immense and bold.
Quoins of pearl, this must be known,
the lusture seemed a life, it's own.
Rising from it, a mountainous temple;
whisps of prayers escape the steeple.

Without the city, fields of crystal flowers,
and trees more akin to wind chime towers.
Platinum trunks doning metalic leaves.
Angelic music when brushed with their wings.

Out from all this, layers of various planes
seemingly worlds of their own, yet all of the same.
Once starving children and homeless ones too,
with comforts of home; endless tables of food.
One plane of great sports, children running free;
prosthetics and wheelchairs, now trophies and glee.
Another, Indian braves running with buffalo,
women laughing carefree with children in tow.
Serene planes of beaches and tropical breezes.
On none was found pain, lameness or diseases.
Thousands of planes, but my favorite to view;
families and the ancients with no need of adieu.
So euphoric, this sight, but there is more to tell,
as three glorious chimes of the great temple bell.

All froze still as beams of golden light
transported them to the temple in quiet.
The most beautiful prayers and songs arose.
From within the city; pure love aglow.
Three bells again and all were beamed out;
some to the same planes, some different routes.

I wanted so badly, to open the door
and be in this place forever more,
but the door was locked and I had no key,
then an angel turned and flew towards me.
Approaching the peephole, that is the moon,
It said, "Don't worry, you'll be here soon."
I have need of a key, I began to implore,
and it slipped a note neath the midnight door.

I unfolded the note; three lines within,
and three nails fell out; payment of sin.
The first line proclaimed, the door was faith.
The second; the beams are God's loving grace.
Overcome by peace as I read the third line.
Jesus is the way, the truth and the light,
and I remembered a scripture that so sweetly states;
"For by grace, through faith, are ye saved."

Copyright © Arlene Smith

Details | Hope Poem | |

The Promise of Spring - A Fibonacci

Kiss you
While you sleep
Lady dressed in white
And melt your cold heart  made of ice

Will rise
High into the sky
And fall as raindrops from God’s eyes

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

Copyright © Elaine George

Details | Hope Poem | |


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.

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


Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner

Details | Hope Poem | |


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.

Copyright © Jim Fish

Details | Hope Poem | |

Exposure: Part II


"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.


"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

Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner

Details | Hope Poem | |

- We Light Our Candles -


                        )(          )(           )(        )(
                        @          @          @        @

                         X          X           X        X
                         X          X           X        X
                         X          X           X        X
                         X          X           X        X
                         X          X           X        X
                         X          X           X        X
                         X          X           X        X

The First Candle
The first purple candle, on the first Sunday of Advent
It is the candle of HOPE

The Second Candle
The second purple candle, on the second Sunday of Advent
It is the candle of LOVE

The Third Candle
The third purpel candle lit on the third Sunday of Advent
It is the candle of JOY

The Fourth Candle
The fourth purple candle is lit on the fourth Sunday of Advent
It is the candle of PEACE
   * * * * * *                                                                                                                                                            
A Fifth light                                                                                                       
A white candle - It symbolizes Purity and Hope                                                
The Christ candle is lit on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day

A-L Andresen :) 
Copyright © All Rights Reserved                     

Copyright © Anne Lise Andresen

Details | Hope Poem | |

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

Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner

Details | Hope Poem | |

Love Sleeps, Never Dies

An old man
A Grumpy bitter old man
Bitter face
Red nose
Wrinkled beady eyes
Scruffy clothes his best attire

Life has not been kind
So his bitter words bite those around
He lived alone, inside his madness
Leave me be and go to hell
His favorite expressions

The phone rang one night late
This is the Court sir, your brother’s son and family 
Have been in a terrible accident
Only your niece of four survived
When can you pick her up?

The old man was in a daze
What the hell was he being punished for now
Keeping care of a dam kid
What the bloody hell did he know about that?
"Well sir, we will be expecting you tomorrow, 9am prompt please"

Walking back to his flat, with a 4 year old girl in tow
Well the neighbors gawked to say the least
The poor little girl, tears and teddy, trying to keep up with grumpy
Once inside his flat, he looked at her with disdain
Said "Guess you be expecting some food or some such"

She nodded, as sad as she was, she was indeed hungry
He showed her the cupboard and fridge, milk and cereal in there
Help yourself, and wash the dam dishes afterwards
Don’t got no extra bed, so you sleep here on the couch
She nodded silently, thinking the world truly must have ended

Days, turned into weeks, turned into months
This little girl complained not once
All she could think of was her pain
Mummy and daddy were in heaven where ever that was
Why they left her was truly confusing

Friday was her birthday
She was sad and missing her family
Getting ready, she went to the cupboard for dinner
The old man said what the hell you doing that for?
She shivered in fear, he was always so so so mad

She apologies, sorry uncle Pete
He replied you sit your self down right there
And you be quiet you here?
Then the lights all of sudden went out
Bright tiny candles burned in the night

The old man, said, is your birthday after all
Hope you don’t mind these little cupcakes I got us here
She looked at him with new eyes
He turned, not quite smiling, no miracles just yet
They ate in silence after which, he said good night and happy birthday

The next morning even they really never talked
Other than who does what chores
Or how expensive she was to care for
She asked out of the blue
"Uncle, why do angels have wings?"

In his usual grumpy way, he replied
"So they get the hell away from us as fast as they can is why
This world is no place for happiness or angels get used to that"
She was taken back by his bitterness, still………
She replied, “but I dream on them looking over me uncle"

Well he looked at her, and somewhat softly and with unusual kindness
He answered her "that’s because you are one of them, a sweet little angel"
She ran into his arms and gave him a big hug
This was a very good thing.
For then she could not see the single tear the dropped to the floor

He actually hugged her back and with all of his heart
That day, a day for most people that was a normal day
Was for him and his little charge, a miracle
A small loving child, held that secret key
To opening an old mans heart

Copyright © arthur vaso

Details | 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

Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner

Details | 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
for that final surrender

you can render me helpless my love….
and leave me barely breathing…

Copyright © Christie Moses