Best Heavy(A) Poems
Vs 1
When life becomes clouded
with worries and fears
We find ourselves grieving
in sorrow and tears
Vs 2
The burdens we carry,
too heavy a load
and shadows surround us
down dark winding roads
Chorus ~
There's a gift God gives to us
with merciful love
It's a lambent glow, a light.
Hope's threads are of gold
meant to mend broken hearts
sent from God above
It's a lambent glow, a light
always burning bright
Vs 3
Have faith in God's power
To bring peace of mind
Be courageous and brave
For hope is divined
Vs 4
Do not be discouraged
Hope conquers despair
With blessings upon us
God answers our prayer
Chorus ~
There's a gift God gives to us
with merciful love
It's a lambent glow, a light.
Hope's threads are of gold
meant to mend broken hearts
sent from God above
It's a lambent glow, a light
always burning bright
Vs 5
When trouble arises
We're wary of harm
Remember that hope brings
us comfort and calm
Chorus ~
There's a gift God gives to us
with merciful love
It's a lambent glow, a light.
Hope's threads are of gold
meant to mend broken hearts
sent from God above
It's a lambent glow, a light
always burning bright
A lambent glow, our guiding light
always burning bright
*Lyrics intended to coincide with the melody of 'Chariots of Fire.'
~ A Song of Hope Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton
Posted on July 25th, 2020 ~
In the heart of twilight, shadows murmur ancient incantations,
a silent symphony echoes through the corridors of my soul,
how can I begin anew, with the weight of past days
clinging to my heart, roots entangled
in memories, ever-present, yet invisible.
Through the corridors of wind-swept times, I wander,
a pilgrim lost in the vastness of my own histories,
each moment a pearl on a golden thread,
its brilliance heavy, a chain of yesterdays
binding my wings, a song of lingering shadows.
Dawn is a promise, an untouched canvas,
but my fingers tremble, stained with the ink of the past,
how can I paint tomorrow’s rays, when the sunset still persists,
its colors bleeding into the dawn sky,
a silent protest against the birth of something new.
In the garden of my mind, old flowers wither,
their bittersweet perfume, the memory of another time,
each petal a turned page, a lived story,
how can new buds burst forth, when the soil is saturated
with echoes of past days, roots deeply imprinted
in the sacred earth.
The river of time flows, an eternal current,
yet in its depths, the shadows of yesterday swim,
how to navigate these waters, to find a new beginning,
when the undertow of the past pulls at my heart,
its whispers a siren song, drawing me back to shores
paved with fragments of who I once was.
But perhaps, in this dance of shadows and light,
there lies a hidden grace, a gentle acceptance,
that echoes of yesterday need not be chains,
but threads woven into the tapestry of my becoming,
each memory a brushstroke, not a burden,
a part of the whole, the story revealed.
For the moon rises as the sun sets, an eternal cycle,
and in this cosmic rhythm, I too can find my place,
how to begin anew, I wonder,
embracing the symphony of past days,
letting them sing, but not define the melody,
for in the depths of the heart, possibility blooms,
a phoenix reborn from the ashes of what once was.
I used to press two plastic hands together,
And stage a perfect love upon the floor.
I watched my grandparents and thought that forever
Was something simple, safe, and guaranteed by law.
I was so little then, so sweet and naive,
Building a kingdom out of make-believe.
I wanted to be Cinderella in the ballroom light,
Spinning with a prince until the clock struck midnight.
I wanted to be Ariel, with children of my own,
Building a happy family beneath the ocean foam.
But storybooks are flat, and fairy tales lie;
The colors fade away as the years go by.
Growing up means watching the illusion break.
Learning love is heavy, a constant, fragile ache.
It isn't always admirable; it isn't always kind.
The gentlemen I dreamed of are impossible to find.
Now the thought of marriage feels like a foreign land,
And holding a child feels too heavy for my hand.
I promise I am not just waiting for the perfect guy.
I promise I am not just building walls up high.
I am just Belle now, left alone with my thoughts,
Finding comfort in the pages and the lessons I was taught.
But even Belle found magic in the castle's quiet spaces;
Even she found love in the most unlikely places.
Yet my fairy tale ending looks different inside my head.
No prince, no gown, no promised vows to be said.
Just a quiet room of books, a life I built by hand,
A solitary kingdom where I am proud to stand.
Maybe the happy ending isn't a shared forever—
But learning to love myself, alone and altogether.
DOWN THE WRONG ROAD
Spent all my youth
Walking down the wrong road
Until I finally found
It was too heavy a load
Then I found Jesus
Or else He found me
Was shown a new road
Walked down it set free
Walking down the wrong road
Was such a bad choice
Instead of listening to my conscience
I listened to the other voice.
It seemed to talk louder
And promised such fun
But I learnt there’s a price
By either choice to be won.
Walking down the wrong road
Is now a thing of the past
Trust and obedience
With His power will last.
He turns the old man
Into a new being.
Where once I was blind
With awareness am now all-seeing.
Copyright © Maureen LeFanue 2008-2012
I remember now. Something was heavy, a winged
dragon that refused to fly from my chest
My eyes were secret mirrors, or a doomsday judge.
I remember morning as a flighty horse,
or like a new school year,
that first careful sentence written on a page.
Time became a sequel. Roads were rootless trees
racing by - Fog an x-ray – the night, annoying as a fly.
I had a misconception and her assumptions followed
every stray dog. I quivered hollow with a frantic yellow zest.
I ate from a dish of nutmeg.
I woke to the sound of dying frogs, impossible spiders
trapping rainbows in their webs, the nebulous orbit
of knick knacks in the room, my reach
too small for a mother’s heart.
Her seeds had such an element of surprise, her
plum lipstick, the zing of frayed nerves
she mocked death with a cup of sunshine
she kept an artist’s palette - adding
color to existence
Too late, the impossible demand on angels
Each bitter thought the baroque decomposing
of an empty optimism
My keyless lock - emotion
Premiere Contest number 12
Contest Judged: 9/24/2016 12:01:00 AM
Sponsored by: SKAT A
Placed 9out of 10
Entered in the Best Poem worthy of a Trophy
I have entered this poem because it came from
out of the ether. Some poems just do.
Deeply felt almost not understood but felt on a visceral level.
N/A’d
Confidence fades away
Clothes to the wind
My cracking glass, the nightscape
Contorted into vixen reds and apparition dark
Seventeen
Kitsch eyes, as kitsch as a child
Crying in a kitchen scene over spilt milk
Shrinking under giant flaming wings of a morbid sun god
A flower in the rocks craving eleemosynary of sunlit droplets
Dew sticking heavy, a glue to papier-mâché the fine parasol
Poverty of any subtle scintella, a florid propinquity or velleity
Slinking into the puissant moon dust but with all the style
Of a dead inurement Sickert slick
My sui generis malapropisms
Cruel bowdlerization of a grouping wall and night
The hard outer shell of flesh
The ladybug, the thumb
The ladybird and stupid shibboleth.
_
Daffy, I said I'd write something called Bugsy :D
May your reign be successful, your popularity soar,
May your country thrive, with peace and more.
Through history's lens, we see a king
Who's faced with troubles, heart and wing.
Revolution, war, and politics too,
The crown's weight heavy, a burden anew.
With every reign, there comes a test,
A challenge faced, a trial to best.
And though the past may be long gone,
The present's woes still march upon.
The coronation looms, a weighty day,
A momentous event, with much to say.
For though the crown may rest on his head,
The king must tread on paths unknown ahead.
The world outside is fraught with strife,
A changing tide that threatens life.
The monarchy's place, now questioned anew,
A balance found, yet untried and true.
The king must rise, to meet the test,
To find his way, to do his best.
To hold true to his duties, to his throne,
And to lead his people to the fortune.
For though the road ahead is fraught,
The crown must lead, with purpose and thought.
To show the way, with steady hand,
And to guide his people, through troubled lands.
We join and pray when the coronation nears,
That the king will rise, to face his fears.
To lead his people, with strength and grace,
And to hold true to the monarchy's ancient place.
With crown upon your head, a heavy weight to bear,
Best of luck to serve the nation being clever with care
May you selflessly lead, with noble heart and mind,
And work to heal the damage of the past, left behind.
Long live the king, may your reign be long,
May your rule bring prosperity, love, and song.
My mind is quiet as I walk upon this path
And I am at ease within the mist that flows around me embracing me in its cool grasp.
Gladly I smile as my soul roams freely beyond the thoughts of yesteryears.
For at fifty two I have released into the silence my self proclaimed cheers.
I roam past the Victorian homes that line this walkway.
These homes now lay empty, their windows darkened of the light they once did portray.
As the memories caught in their glass reflections gently fade away,
I let go to the drifting tide the elusive love where he did betray.
Grateful I am to see the windows now darkened.
Yes, grateful I feel to know and understand that I’ve released some past disheartened.
I’ve laid down the torch of so many a heavy a burden.
With understanding, never was I meant to carry another’s heavy laden.
Forever I am free to move gently forward.
While the mist easily parts, it nudges me, pushing me ever onward.
I fly above silent meadows of many a deep reflection.
Filled now with a joyous heart, I am renewed under my own self possession.
Gale Lynne
Water flows from the dam of life,
Not easy, but not all strife.
There is a point at which we die,
Lest we forget, not all goes awry.
Often, we denounce and scold,
As we pass from young to old.
Friends and family are to adore,
Before you or they are no more.
Love is like a pane of glass.
Held by two, it can endure.
If by one, too heavy a mass,
Alone not too sure.
Always in motion, never stable,
Never static, ever brittle.
Held a moment, barely able,
To withstand the noncommital.
Words you utter, tone of voice,
A grimace, smile, or rolling eye.
Words and deeds are your choice,
Be they honey or some lye.
Every thought or smile,
Frown or furrow can beguile,
And must pass first this test:
Is it really for the best?
If the pane glass should drop,
It will chip, crack or shatter.
Damage you cannot stop,
Lasting memory does matter.
Each cycle does grow short,
The glass ever more frail.
Until that one last retort,
You’ve had the final rail.
You get no second chance,
To name what really mattered.
Gone forever, that romance,
The pane of glass, has shattered.
I retired gracefully, happily, knowing I could never be fully completely replaced even to this day.
I was slick, photographic, revered by so many, loved by a few, heavy, a bit conceited but in a good way.
Diligent children hid me in boots, closets, drawers, or moldy piles of black and white laundry where I rarely had to stay.
I came out in the early 1900’s, evolved so well I didn’t recognize myself by 1959, my heyday.
I was routinely hidden under bedclothes, mattresses or pillows; contraband, peeked at by flashlight.
I belonged to the whole family, but whoever found me first hid me well; I was never shared outright.
My captor would slide me out silently, hoping their siblings would not discover me and start a fight.
I was the prize of the month, the trophy of the hour, the coveted, revered, brightest of the bright.
Brothers and sisters fought each other to pull me out of their rural mailboxes to hide me under the couch.
Coveted, cherished, loved, revered; fought over, fawned over, poured over; I was never ever like a slouch.
I was thrilled that I was circled, starred, torn up, folded, figures were written all over me, and it caused a little ouch.
A big part of Sears, and Christmas too, I brought dreams, hopes, and anticipated joys, causing more than one wage earner to grouch.
For the longest time, I could not speak your name.
I could not write it; I could not bear to think it.
I was angry.
I was too young, too vulnerable, too powerless.
There was no justice for me, a mere girl.
I hated you.
Every fiber of my being writhed.
You became the scapegoat for my every misery.
I blamed me.
Was it my fault? I did not scream.
I did not fight, I did not kick, I did not wail.
I froze.
When I needed my strength and spirit the most,
It failed me; it sputtered into cold icy droplets.
I dreamed.
Years later, suddenly, for no reason at all,
You came to me in a dream.
You were real.
For the first time, it was not a reenactment
Of the unspeakable things you did to me.
An actual person.
You had not changed much physically;
You will always look the way you did on that day.
But you apologized.
You said you were tired of having to live with it,
You said you did feel the remorse all those years.
Too many years.
No more would you be the perpetrator.
You were tired of living with that weight.
Too heavy a burden.
I thought I would be enraged.
After all, one of my greatest pains back then,
One of the worst emotions that tore through my soul
like a howling, black wind:
the excruciating, heart-stopping fear
that you had no remorse. After all,
there had been no repercussion for you.
No justice for me.
Instead, I felt... understanding.
We have suffered, the two of us, for too many years.
Five years.
I refused to look you in the face, or speak your name.
But at last, after struggling so arduously, I knew:
I forgive you.
My thoughts came up again
Like the rush of a heavy a rain
My finger tips swollen with symbols
Drained in paints of inspired constructs.
I have seen a poison bought cheaply
And kills in a twinkle done twinkly
I have seen of a massacre done
A man under this sun.
I know of a poison bodily bottled
Inherently laden and mottled
Ten times massacre
In abandon and without care.
I have seen a company of bush meats
That roams in pride and strange feats
I know of the dread of a disease
That has crowned many their lives to cease.
I have heard of a prostitutes’ notification
Stripped of their personification
An animalized synonymy
‘’BUSH MEATS ACADEMY’’
I have seen the beasts in men
Like the draught in lions’ den
Many out of many
Dry wells without comfort any.
I have seen the husbands’ experience
Where anger holds their manly evidence
Too hot to control their fisting prowess
A cowardly way to husbandly express.
I have seen the sheer foolishness in beauty
That robs off a woman’s intellectual quality
And the integrity in ‘’Iwalewa”
What then is beauty polished every hour?
I have seen beautiful Agbeke chew her husband
And dashing Abike throw the food with one hand
The noise of Orekelewa Aduke has woken me,
My standby alarm every early morning.
Sometimes it is all too much
Overwhelming
Too heavy a load
Sometimes uncertainties
Weigh the soul down
While venturing life’s road
Only sometimes …..
Threatened by the truth,
a new reality of fact
and math,
you feel left out
of the equation, just
as you once left out others.
You and your ilk, who
long ago abandoned
those ethnic treasures
and baggage,
that made them proud,
now only see accidents of genetics,
not you.
Where once you could view
meager success in light of
what groups were
below you, now
some are your superior.
Your insults and jeers
for which,
you once could expect back up
and support
now backfire
and you try to spin
the uncomfortable silence
as the result of a silly "PC" world
that does not encourage
your old hates.
Increasingly alone in a world
where skill and talent
often speak louder
than race and gender,
louder still than your insults,
you assess your lessening resources
and find the price of truth
is too heavy a coin
to carry.
It is not the coin of your
grandfather's realm or even
your father's.
So you pick up the gun,
determined to bring back the
privilege,
you think you deserve for
your mere
existence.
We enter the scene of a room—
Not through a window—
There is none;
Not a single gap through the wall
But for a door—an opening—
Just one;
At an end in this closed box,
There’s a jutty hanging-out
With a leavened candle-stick:
Lighted Candles adorn the scene—
They burn with fervor
And a glowing wick..
…Nothing much is seen in the corners—
Which are dark—
In a gloom they sit…
Apart from a feeble, ailing man,
There’s seen none—
No other presence…
Apart still, from feebler groans
We hear naught
To baffle the sense…
One moment, This Picture swims
Across and through the head—
Then all that’s heard is silence:
When in the next,
Is sensed a dead—
The air grows heavy—a little dense…
All of a sudden, the flames that burn,
Start to curl and wiggle about;
Now, in an attempt to free themselves,
They writhe in pain—try reaching out:
All in no time, the remnant dies—
All argument, conjecture and surmise…