Best Resilience Poems
Pain refines,
but grace restores.
This is the whisper
of strength.
There are days
when the world feels heavy,
when the echoes of yesterday
press against the walls of today.
You walk forward,
yet the past lingers like a shadow . . .
a silent presence
reminding you
where you’ve been.
But hear this:
You are not bound
by what was.
You are shaped
by your resilience,
by the moments
when you chose to rise,
even when
the weight of it all
begged you
to fall.
Pain has touched you,
but it has not
broken you.
Instead,
it carved wisdom
into your bones,
strength
into your spirit,
and grace
into your steps.
Healing comes.
Whatever storm
you walk through now,
it is not here
to consume you.
It is here
to remind you
of the fire within,
the unwavering light
that refuses to dim.
Rescue comes.
And in this chapter . . .
you choose to rise.
Let these words
settle within you.
Breathe in
strength,
exhale
doubt.
You are seen,
you are heard,
and
you are never alone.
Cardiac cadence
of mama tides
keep zodiac time
tears like tides
taste of brine on baptized lips
sway me sea
in cradle-swells
between the crests
coddle me
in a pink-wombed
conch shell
for I like driftwood
have died yet survived the storm.
Like a knockout blow
In the final round
The challenges comes
All at once
How you cope will depend on how you see them
It's not always black and white
Pastel shades
Are all abound
You can get through this
Even if you have to tick
Them off one by one
Not everything
Needs to be resolved today
Deal with what you can
Lighter they will become
They say "Rome wasn't build in a day"
Neither was your character
It might look flawed to you
But in you might be
That single trait your foe wish they had
Test your resilience
And surprise yourself
You might see what I see
One day, hopefully some day
©220920151226
I sit, my back against the black.
My thoughts a jumbled supplejack,
a wanna-be amnesiac.
Oh, autumn leaves a fluster,
the winds in tipsy bluster.
I’m weightless as I drift away
on whiskey wings, a moth astray.
My grief in ashtray where I pray.
The equinox is tilted,
my wispy body wilted
and in my stupor do I dream?
Are clouds I seek a false redeem
as sunrise bleeds through jagged seam?
Damn seraphim and serpents
and fantasy disturbance!
I keep my secrets like a sphinx,
my insight an elusive lynx
…a widow with a hard drink jinx.
Yet soul, a black-eyed-Susan,
still blooms in bruised seclusion.
Dawn’s dapple-gold flint-glints like stones.
As hard on eyes as nightmare crones
who rattled empty bottle bones. .
As half-light scries the mirror,
my pulse does bring me nearer
to burning on the altar of the sun,
my moonshine valentine…
NATURE FINDS ITS WAY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The crack in the sidewalk,
a stubborn line against the grey,
filled with green.
Not invited, not planned, just a seed,
carried on wind, finding purchase,
insisting on life.
A dandelion, maybe, or something tougher,
something that knows concrete yields,
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Think of that small rebellion
when the path ahead
feels like stone.
Remember the persistent green,
the quiet strength
that cracks the surface.
Nature finds its way.
You will too.
Poetic Ode to Mother
In the realm of love, she reigns supreme,
A guiding light, a nurturing dream.
With tender touch and caring embrace,
She weaves a tapestry of love and grace.
Her voice, a melody that soothes the soul,
A lullaby that makes the heart feel whole.
Through every triumph and each despair,
She's the anchor, always present, always there.
In her eyes, the wisdom of ages past,
A gentle strength that forever will last.
She plants the seeds of dreams in our hearts,
Encouraging us to embrace our own parts.
Her touch, a balm that heals all wounds,
She carries us through life's tumultuous tunes.
With gentle hands, she wipes away our tears,
And whispers words that quell our deepest fears.
Her love, a river that knows no end,
An eternal flame that will always ascend.
She sacrifices, she gives without cease,
Her love for us will never decrease.
In her embrace, we find solace and peace,
A sanctuary where all worries cease.
She nurtures, she molds, she shapes our souls,
Her love, a treasure that forever unfolds.
She teaches us lessons of kindness and care,
To love and to give, to always be aware.
Her heart, a haven of boundless affection,
A source of unwavering protection.
Her laughter, a melody that fills the air,
A symphony of joy beyond compare.
Her smile, a beacon that lights up the night,
Guiding us through darkness with its radiant light.
Her presence, a gift that words can't convey,
A love that grows stronger with each passing day.
In her arms, we find comfort and rest,
A sanctuary where we are truly blessed.
She is a warrior, brave and strong,
A pillar of resilience, all life long.
Her love is fierce, yet gentle and kind,
A sanctuary for our hearts and mind.
Her name is etched upon our very core,
A bond unbreakable, forevermore.
For she is the embodiment of love's embrace,
Our precious mother, full of grace.
So let us cherish her, honor her each day,
For her love is a gift that won't fade away.
In our hearts, her love will forever bloom,
Our mother, our rock, our eternal room.
© Roseline Sunday
14/05/2023
Now I lay with everywhere around,
softly rains your lines, your curves, your sound
upon my dreams, day awakens from death and yet
clouds drift around my head, loosened from regret.
It is at moments after I have dreamed
whispers seep into my veins of love redeemed.
Secrets clutched in trembling hands, held tight to my chest
will my heart to beat of truths our silences confessed.
My father moved through dooms of love
and I being the younger one, stargazing from above
decided to be all things and more, an antidote
for his coolness practiced, listless eyes and bloat.
Now what were motionless move,
in dreams of day or night, new skies remove
these clouds of gray and rust astray beyond the sea
as still waters boldly rise in dance to break free.
Sometimes I am alive because with
these mentioned experiences and myths,
I am tender like a fawn, tougher than a beast
resilient from each love lost, each sunrise in the east.
*Bold lines are titles of EE Cummings' poems
Written 2/9/17 for The Poet's Pluck Contest
Quest For Eternal Love
no oasis in sight just blazing sand dunes
a promised land foretold seems forsaken
resolve eroding within need to be enliven
my mind yearns to ease emotive wounds
eyes intensely drifted beyond deep space
where in silence this angelic face appears
our hearts touch shedding unbridled tears
in search of an everlasting warm embrace
Penned: 2/28/2022
8:08 p.m.
Lake Worth
Florida USA
It is Good Friday
Remember, remember
When, for Jesus, everything was nasty and sour
When things were very bad for Jesus
Yet, we don’t say: bad Friday
Afterwards, so everything could be good for us
Jesus was slapped
Jesus was kidnapped
Jesus was humiliated
Jesus was insulted
Jesus was beaten, kicked and hit
From head to feet
Jesus was shackled and handcuffed
Jesus could not even cough
Jesus was ostracized
Jesus was crucified
Like many Blacks and Africans
Like many brothers and sisters with dark skin
Yet, the heart of Jesus was pure and very clean
Jesus had no friends and no fans
Jesus was falsely accused
Jesus was mistreated
Jesus was immolated
Many criminals were amused
Many Satanists and perpetrators had fun
With God’s only Begotten and Special Son
Who had endured pain and suffering like a slave
Yes, yes, Jesus was absolutely brave
Yes, yes, Jesus was innocent
Jesus was resilient, too decent and too pleasant
It is Good Friday
Brothers and sisters, let’s pray
Every day is a Good and Beautiful day
Amen, Amen, let’s reflect on the Day
Brothers and sisters, let’s pray
Remember, remember
When things went very bad for Jesus
Who died for our sins, Who died for us
Yes, Jesus is still standing with us
Jesus is God’s Unique and Special Son
Watch the moon and enjoy the Sun.
Copyright © April 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
In life…
Whether you remain as plain toast,
Or into a soldier you are cut,
Whether you are covered in marmalade,
Or dipped into yolk from an egg cup,
In life there’s one main rule, should you fall…
Stay butter side up!
Good Sense Of Humour Blunts The Sharp Blades Of Reality Poetry
Contest //Sponsored by: Natasha L. Scragg
Contest Judged: 8/30/2025 4:27:00 AM
( 2nd Place )
Written: August 5, 2025
When life threw me a curveball,
I stumbled—then chuckled mid-fall.
Lumped knees, not pride, I wore like bent,
because sneering is something I've seen.
In chemo rooms and vestibules,
I frenzied dry jokes on aseptic walls.
Doctors simpered, nurses would beam—
a punch-line where the fear had been.
When agony thumped hard and sleep grew thin,
I let the silly light writhe in.
A meme, a whirl , a silly song—
made aching days feel less so long.
No, humour incurable or patch,
But it's the ally, not made to part.
It doesn't silence, hurt or truth,
but let me smirk with my aching tooth.
So here's my laugh, though life gushes beneath,
it's how I rise, not how I lament!
When I mention my morning meditation practice,
many respond with wishes and hopes
they could
would
should discipline themselves
to also join in to this practice
practice
praxis
until fragmented uncommunicative ego/ecosystems
finally get life resiliently realistically right
more than ego-narcissistically wrong.
But this,
I ego-think and eco-feel,
reverses what is a more centrally profound point
of ZeroZone cosmic-organic view.
Everyday life is already our active meditation
which we Win/Lose unpractice,
Business As Usual LoseLose dis-practice
praxis
until we hope to get us egoWin-ecoWin
interdependently healthy right
more than pathologically diseased wrong.
New rains kiss the earth,
Seeds sprout from the darkened depths,
Life dances anew.
I decided I had had enough.
I felt put upon, and I was mad, and I was not going back to the counseling program.
I was only a year in, and there was no way I was going to put myself in this predicament another year.
It was not fun, and I am all about fun, and I could do something much more interesting, so I quit.
An unknown woman called me to ask me why I had quit.
This infuriated me even more.
I did not even know this woman.
She asked if we could meet.
I was mad and mean.
And it had been such an instant relief to let go of it, so the answer was no.
I lived two hours from that college.
I would never have to see these people again, and that was the idea.
This woman was persistent, and I sort of liked her phone personality.
So I agreed if she wanted to come to my town and buy me lunch, I would listen to her.
It was her idea to buy me lunch, not mine.
She came, and we hit it off immediately as if we had known each other our whole lives.
She was going to be the new professor, and it was her job to find out what was wrong and fix it.
I was lucky. She became my mentor, and I went back.
Not even reluctantly now, more optimistically.
Looking back, I know this was a God-thing as she only stayed one year.
The year I needed her there, so I could get my degree.
The next year Purdue snapped her up.
Smart thinking, Purdue.
That was twenty-two years ago, and I am forever grateful.
Born in the breath of woodsmoke and fire,
I learned early to love the art of falling.
Leaves tumble like poorly kept secrets,
trees strip down without shame -
modesty’s for summer, after all.
October hums with rebellion:
bonfires blaze, sunsets bleed,
and the wind, cheeky as ever,
slips its cold fingers into every undone button.
History rattles here -
200 years since Waterloo fell quiet,
suffragette echoes stomping in boots,
a reminder that not all noise is noise.
It’s a trickster wrapped in amber light,
half beauty, half bite,
where endings feel like beginnings
and ghosts pretend they’re just passing through.
They whisper, “You’re braver than the fall.”
And with each year, I’ve learned to ask,
Will I rise, no matter how hard I fall?
Can I burn and still remain whole?
These are the quiet prayers I carry -
for strength to keep standing when the world turns cold,
for light in the darkest corners,
and for the courage to blaze,
unashamed of the fire I carry.
Stitched from October’s fabric a
half twilight, half ember -
I walk between the brittle and the burning,
the quiet and the wild,
a child of autumn,
still falling,
still smugly aflame.