When we close our eyes,
There's no way that we can see
The runneraway or rebel in you and me.
What is it in you and me that
Has the capacity to oppose that
Which is so obviously good for us?
That which dispose the means of grace?
That which opposes our greatest supporters?
That which dismisses and resists comon sense?
That which persists toward the gates of hell?
What is it in us, I ask, that compells us to rebel,
Rendering us to binding chains in jail cells?
What is it in us that compells us to go to places
We do not want to go inspite of what we know;
To do and say that which we really do not want
to do and say; to stray into dens we have to stay?
We clearly understand 'Amazing Grace',
But that is not what we are craving.
Why have we become a conduit for selfishness?
Why are you and I averse to that which we were once emerged and find no pleasure in any way
Or measure?
There is 'another something' in us that wants
To take a stand and rise up against our tormentor,
But the coward in us allows him to be our mentor.
Can the rebel in us be reversed
And find a way out of this dreadful, desert place?
What? Why? When? Who? Where? How?
I stand back and watch the river
It's flowing so fast
It's been like this day and night
With no end in sight
I already lost my home
And know I have so many doubts
I lost my dog
And right now my mind is in a fog
I lost my only transportation
Now I see my car going down the river to a new location
I lost my beautiful wife
My future is not so bright
I lost so much all at once
And I know to get back on my feet it will take months
I don't care anymore my life was very good
I thought my house would have withstood it all
I have nothing left
I'm so stress
The only thing left is my gun
And I'm not going to run
My life is completely done
Before the first dawn split the sky,
before light learned to speak,
there was darkness
endless, ancient, alive. ??
From that abyss came chaos,
from chaos came pain,
and from pain came us.
We are not children of the light.
We are forged by shadow,
carved by silence,
tempered by storms no eye has seen.
The world believes darkness destroys.
It does not.
It creates.
It burns away illusion,
tears apart weakness,
and leaves only truth standing.
Your scars are not wounds
they are scripture,
verses written in fire and survival,
proof that you were broken open
only to be rebuilt unshakable. ??
Do not curse the shadows
that raised you.
They taught you what the light never could:
that strength is not given..
it is forged in the places
no one dares to look.
Even the stars were born
from the deepest black,
their brilliance a rebellion
against the void. ??
And so are you.
Rise, not quietly,
but like a prophecy fulfilled.
Rise, not as a survivor,
but as a storm that silences the rain. ??
We are all born of shadows...
and shadows do not fear the dark.
— Heart Hacker ??
AHOY!
It’s not a foregone conclusion,
but a stinging reality: Even porcupines
master love, without making pain
a subsidiary organism:-
Though the pain of love's waves
may froth ashore, waves will recede
and froth will eventually dissipate
with healing evaporation: Leaving a sea
of memories floating on the ocean of life:-
Thoughtfully watered, always keep in mind,
you’re the captain of your soul, and
the blown wind in its sail:- And remember,
though docked and anchored, you can still
set sails for tomorrow—getting ready today:-
Ahoy, Matey! Be in winds of sailing grace:-
Mist moved over the river flats,
beading cobwebs along the fence.
By dusk, raindrops gathered
and danced in the dust,
each small impact
summoning a hundred more.
By dawn, their bright insistence
drummed on every roof,
swelling down into the river
until it forgot its banks.
Freed from its borders,
the flood rushed to the lowest point—
the open cut.
It crossed the service road,
slipped past rusted gates,
and filled the excavation.
It lifted the warning signs,
worried black silt from the seams,
carried the company’s name away.
As the rain slowed,
a wetland took shape,
mirroring the sky—
a chorus of warbling and croaking fills the air.
THE CATERPILLARING WAY
Caterpillaring,
I’m cocooning oppression:
Freedom soon to soar:-
Jesus was born in a shepherd's lowly manger
So that I can be born as a highly manager
Behind the scene God was preparing
The redemption was part of the plan
Jesus's birth was the initiation of the redemption plan
Enroute His death on the Calvary cross
The birth of Jesus Christ is the foundation for the perfection
Of the redemption of mankind
The first Adam brought poverty, sickness and damnation
The second Adam restored riches, health and redemption
We are redeemed from the curse of the law after His death
The Prince of peace returns the glory of man
Jesus's birth came to restore joy to mankind
Christmas is joy to the world for the fulfillment Of His covenant.
(Written 25/12/2025)
Written 24th August, 2026 for Epiphany Poetry Contest sponsored by Constance La France
The ironbark stands rigid in the heat,
shedding strips of gray to dry red earth.
For hours, the cicada hum is absolute,
a wall of sound that blurs the horizon,
then, the hot wind drops.
Smoke from a distant ridge dissipates,
and the canopy splinters the harsh sun
into a thousand sudden, golden prisms.
In that quiet fracture of the afternoon,
the answer settles over the sandstone.
It is not a shout, but the shedding of weight.
It is the ghost gum stepping out of its old skin,
revealing the pale, unblemished wood beneath,
breathing in the newly altered light.
coffee
it hits the spot
tired and worn-out body
needs tender loving care somedays
mocha
Take a minute to breathe
Actually, just exhale
The rest will take care of itself.
All around, the world is showing you
How to simply let go.
With signs as subtle as which way the wind blows.
Or if you’d rather,
Hold on as tight as you possibly can
Eventually you too will become exhausted.
Pleasure or pain isn’t the point,
Since both are subjective,
And interchangeably desirable for some.
The point is finding there is really no point
No up or down
Only that space you’ve exhaled to.
(8/10/26)
IN TODAY’S POLITICAL-EDENIC GARDEN
Sow liberty’s seeds;
Reaping fruits not spoiled by
Infecting trump-plows:-
Cool and quiet awareness came.
Through scattered dreams now all but unknown.
On the mercurial sunset of a love never to be owned.
Out of smiles and tears rendered on every earth tone.
And still you rejoiced...
Is not everyone on life's road but a teacher?
The new dawn not yours to surrender to once again?
And the journey inward not where true existence begins?
My sensitivity is not a burden, but strength
I feel everything deeply through every blow
Standing firm as roots with my standards rising
I won't crumble. I will grow
I lose the version of myself that survived
To find myself after getting lost in sorrow
Shattering old beliefs as I plant this new seed
I won't crumble. I will grow
I will show up and do the inner work
With my crown on straight, watch me go
Scars become wisdom as I water these dreams
I won't crumble. I will grow
I soar with my inner radiant light
Protecting my energy with peace to follow
I reflect, release, and rise in the warmth
I won't crumble. I will grow
I refuse to become what broke me
I honor my soul as I let him go
Closed doors direct me to open ones
I will not crumble. I will grow
i know its july
come softly to our rescue
take the heat away
Granny wished the worst male evil upon me when I was young and I never truly forgot.
Consumed by her unchecked lust and desperate for mens' approval; she's lost the plot.
The ancestral spirits tell me to forgive but remind me that her heart is still a cold dot.
Note: This poem is about a paternal grandmother of mine. I rarely talk about how she used to leave me in hot cars during excessively hot summers just to go shopping for herself. While I truly do admire her fashion sense, I don't wish to be like her at all when I am older, either.
Recovery From Categories
Definition | What is Recovery From in Poetry?
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.