Best Hopeful Poems
Let my soul be laid bare
in the open air,
and let lovely flowers grow there.
Bleeding music into
A heart who cries
Tears so gentle, so tender
They reflect the hope
So often called to mind
By one who knows
Lost love – left behind
Breathing light across
The soul who smiles
Peace and wonder, inspiration
Filled with grace, peace
Aliveness, a dance
Waltz of healing, stirring
Awake the flames
Of compassion, a brilliant
Whisper of emotion
Hushing the hysterical
Doubts and confusion
The disillusionment
Brought on by darkness’
Gloom, despair, distraction
The air of doubt
Curling around the murky
Stillness of a thought
Who bends with the weight
Of uncertainty, distrust
Baptizing these feelings
Who flow suspicion
Through the spirit
Sing of disbelief and dread
A blackness in hues of graying
Melancholy blended
In fear, nightmares diminishing
The beauty in a silence
The wonder in grace
The inspiration and enlightenment
Known by our sweetest praise
Praise Him through the worry
Let Him know your heart
Is always yearning for His touch
The warmth of a blessing
Filled with kindness and love
Strong enough to shine through
The shadows, lifting the dark
Inspiring the spirit to that fresh
Gentle feeling of pure, sweet hope
Let Him know you love Him
That He is the answer to each prayer
The whisper of a second chance
The song of inspiration and care
The guiding light who is always there
HOPEFUL TRIO
the first hint of spring
cannot be put into words
no special color
it is the song of the wind
softly breezing warmth and hope
hint
of spring
gentle breeze
come from somewhere
stings but warms your cheek
the northern god is tired
labored very hard this year
there is no pity in his voice
sister sun has weakened him with age
he coughs and sputters round the neighborhood
the first hint of spring
subtle change of attitude
breeze instead of wind
I feel the futility
after decades
of my fingers flitting
like dragonflies
over the keys
my once hopeful heart
shriveled and shrunken
as a plum into a prune
Shakespeare and Miller
Marlowe and Pinter
will never again
pick up the plume
to pen another
poem or play
yet they live on today
while my words
wither in the womb
Stillborn they are silently
whisked away unread
without a funeral
to the tomb
If I could be anything, I would be an enzyme.
Grown in dandelions as they are plentiful, and free,
And unappreciated now by some.
Maybe also I could be in clover.
A healing enzyme.
My catalytic action would be simply this.
I would retrain cancer cells to swallow,
Digest and eliminate themselves.
On a regular basis, daily, almost before
They got started.
So cancer would be eliminated by one drop
Of dandelion tea. That would be all that would
Be needed, and it might also be all one could
Stomach.
If I was an enzyme.
Every day mind facing challenge to reach unattainable moon, queen of starlit sky, gleaming to inspire.
Looking out my window this 38 degree morning
I saw that:
The bushes are weighted down
with the moisture;
the droplets on the verge of
morphing into ice;
hunkering against the cold.
The weeds are dead and stiff
with the end of a dry season;
now wet, turned into intensely
deep shades of brown
and ochre.
The tall un-mown grasses
are matted down
by leaves fallen at season's end,
gathering the moisture,
ready to rest from summer's toil
in a quiet and peaceful
dormancy.
Why am I a love-sick, dead-broke loser
in love with a rich and affluent girl?
A poor, unwise fool, why did I choose her?
(I can't afford such a lovely, rich Pearl!)
I wish I were a prince, handsome and rich,
youthful and full of promise and prospects
(for her): but I'm none of the above, which
makes us at best love's unlikely suspects.
Ironic that the love of my bleak life
is beyond my abject, penniless reach
and past my hope of her being my wife:
barriers that harsh Fate won't let me breach.
But God they say can move heaven and earth
for those of unlike yoke to meet His goals;
now and anon He moves those hearts of worth
which He wills and unites as entwined souls.
When a dream never comes true.
You start to wonder, is it you.
Have I done something that I should not.
If I did, well I forgot.
The best dream that I ever had.
Ended up just being a fad.
The style went out and lost appeal.
And now I'm not sure what I feel.
Maybe it's time to think again.
But I start thinking twice and then.
Four times four and out the door.
As I decide maybe once more.
What can become of what's unknown.
Is not allowed until it's shown.
That's when we all will see things clear.
That we can't see that far from here.
I lay in this bed, puttering close to death
Wonder when I shall draw my last breath
A long and great life it certainly has been
I have no hair, move in wheelchair, yet I grin
Grinning at memories and days full of glee
Soaring past on my mount- whizzing by as a banshee
That horse, always my truest love, concerned thereof
before all else she was my miraculous dove.
Many a year together our pleasure- just us alone
Till my daughter born- then the seeds were sown
She loves my mare as I once did, legacy passes
Grown in hours of life, breathed in by spring grasses.
My beast, my child upon my hopeful heart now it shall be
They shall run with my memory- may they both be free.
poem date 6/1/2012
Form Sonnet
Theme Hopeful Heart
For the 3 forms, 3 themes contest
by Francine Roberts
Once upon a time, in the land of candy and sweets, lived a little girls with rosy cheeks and tiny feet.
She loved to play and laugh all day,
and dance around in the most whimsical way.
One day as she wandered through the forest so green,
She stumbled upon a gingerbread house, like she'd never seen.
It was made entirely of sugar and spice,
and it smelled like heaven, oh so nice!
As she approached the door with glee,
A kind old witch appeared before her with a key.
The witch said "Come in, my dear don't be shy, I've been expecting you, my oh my!"
The little girl stepped inside with delight,
And saw that the house was full of sweets, such a sight!
There were lollipops and gumdrops everywhere, and cakes and cookies that looked so rare.
The witch then said "My dear, I have something to give."
And presented her with a magic wand that made her heart live.
"You can use it to create anything you desire, and make your dreams come like the fire."
So the little girl went on her way,
With a heart full of magic every single day.
She knew she had been blessed by the kind old witch, that gave her hope.
Alone. Hopeful! She did not jump.
Six word story for Raul Moreno's contest.
Slipping away is the time; seconds pass slowly like a racing tortoise
The clock never seemed to be less alive, dead
Is it true about, just a mechanism of illusion
To see a man frantically panicking
While watching his watch counting the miniscule minutes
Does time despise him, hate the worry felt
Which causes self-affliction through consistent curiosity
He should be in there beside her…he should be comforting her
Being her rock, knight at night, her support in this trying time
Going through this alone she should not be
And the excuse hanging in the air:
“Adrenaline has not overcame this fear, this nervousness”
A weak, unsteady stomach queasy in every way
In the presence of a miracle with limited time
It is said a miracle is similar to a wish
It may come through, it may not yet it’s the determination
Determination of believing, determination of hope
Determination of hopeful believing everything will be okay
Believing the miracle will be made into truth
So now what befalls the man, weak stomach and all
Whom sits passively, thoughtfully, patiently playing with thumb war with his-self
To kindly think about the steps to take
Avoid the look of dismay, of shame
Handle the bad news if it possibly arises, accept the fault
If the miracle should die tonight or born without a spine, spina bifida
What a strong doubt, can he stomach the assumption
Where is the restroom, he can’t bear to hear the story end
Son of Eros, where are you?
I feel I've been overlooked
Arrows speeding all around
Never one for me
Written for the Cupid contest
I am sitting on the stairs.
The people upstairs make me feel nervous,
They always stink of beer and spit,
When they speak down at me.
I am a duck surrounded by vicious seagulls,
They peck at the feathers,
On my back/my wings.
I am sitting on the stairs.
The people downstairs make me feel scared.
They are always shouting,
Not always at me, at each other.
I am stood in NO mans’ land
With the insults and cutlery flying,
Past my head like bullets.
I am sitting on the stairs.
This is my place.
I know I am unwanted.
I am happier alone.
Here I can think, read,
I even play cards with myself.
My only friend is me,
I am safe here, on the stairs.