the torch of
a feeble reason lit.

a decision made, ablazed
in a haste passion,
cursory images
fleet
as fragile foam.

the ocean,
thuds
lulls and wilts
promises.

his lean vessel thrives
on magickal waves,
erupts, as a time
borrowed torch,

bold and beautiful.

Love is the root of missions
and sacrifice the fruit of missions
Glory to the anointed King
the creator of a chosen offspring.
Ever so delighted to be enlightened
by the ignited spirit that is heightened
from the light rays of a new dawn
til the warrior within is born
The essence of being radical
is the will of good
the conceptual of a root
rooted and built in God’s image
a fully-fledged seed of Abraham
As Apostle Paul’s spirit
overflown with thanksgiving
his objective was to implement change
strengthen our faith and live in peace
Pieces of greenpeace
misunderstood by malicious-minded creatures
I recall hollowness
dearly engraved in the
hearts of many
superficial increment in
today’s youth
often inferiorated from the truth
they’re spiritually pretendin’
to be naturally defendin’
Oh, lily of the valley
make their minds pure.
Do you ever wonder how God sees you?
A radical Christian who’s simply a quality
of a New Testament normality
it is in your core to be pure,
to be called by the Lion’s roar,
to not live but to live who’s in you.
Apostle Paul’s awakening
was radical
thought-provoking sensation
as being biblical
the words he spoke were profound
his temple so refined
yet his view on earthly living
was actively passive to godliness;
to live is Christ
and to die is gain, he said.
The ideology of being radical
is to live in the sense God created you to be
politically and socially,
its force is to make you philanthropic
boldly empathic to the notion of being rhapsodic.
I am artistic
poetic instincts in the fullness
of embodying metamorphoristic mystic.
Theology unfolds a mystery that
we should be the change we want to see
a generation that profiteth free
a ministry holistic as can be.
Be vigilant.
Be diligent.
Be practical.
Be radical.

i think how we need to be loved as adults stems from our childhood (or lack thereof).

if you were abandoned, you need to be smothered, to know every second that you're adored. but as a child you were always alone, so the very love you crave makes you feel suffocated and crawling white knuckled to get out.

and so this war rages inside of us, until we have exhausted ourselves & perhaps those who were brave enough to extend their hands.

©raine cooper

Sometimes it gets foggy
and bad days come around too often
but just remember
Life is worth living

You made so many promises that you didn't keep
You bought me this promise ring
It used to fit so perfectly.
And it used to shine, just like your promises
I find it funny now that we're finished,
This ring no longer fits.

What a funny thing.

Come clean, soul
comfort thy heart and make it whole
call your redeemer and make Jerusalem your home
count your blessings, may the grace cover that hole

Come clean, soul
breathe in serenity of meditation
birth a mentality of pure levitation
break the intoxicated deception

Come clean, soul
repent, crave for wisdom and more
rebirth, crave for peace and glow
rebuild, crave for a righteous path and grow

Come clean, soul
comfort thy heart and make it whole
call your redeemer and make Jerusalem your home
count your blessings, may the grace cover that hole.

At the risk of being critical
You’re nothing but a criminal.
You take what you want
And even stop to flaunt
You thinking you are pretty
Makes you have no pity.
You take all personal pride
From how you look outside.

You’re as deep as a saucer
And before I go further
Let me lay this fact on you
Most of us are on to you.
We expect so little of you,
It makes it hard to love you.
There’s so little more to see
Than your superficiality.

To be sure your looks served
To attract me so I swerved
And ran along beside you
To learn what was inside you
But imagine my great surprise
To find nothing behind your eyes.
As far as I soon came to tell
It was like I was talking to a well.

But it is okay, cutie, it’s all fine
I’ll just move on down the line
And find someone with a soul;
A personality that is whole.
I will find a person who cares
About more than clothes and hair
You can move on and have fun
With some other image-oriented one.

I was a free spirit.
At the age of 4 child’s play
was my joy and weakness.
When I was 5 it never
mattered to be 6.
Between 7 and 10, reflection
of mother nature was born in me
like a half-fledged thing
I found security in materialistic image,
became nothing in Messiah’s kingdom
walked in the depth of recurring death
I was 11 then ...
with tears of anxiety and deep depression.
I reached 12
tall in flesh but little and empty inside
I hid from textbook illusions and false affection from loved ones.
13 became 16 in a split second;
lessons became a routine than
blessings building from within.
I make countless of mistakes,
constantly reminiscing over the good and bad trials of my life cycle
when I should be progressing
and indulging my vision
how typical!
17 is an era I make up for everything
I am because God is
and it’s time I revolutionalize my generation
because my spirit is timeless, and my time is now!

When I was 4
my folks would say
I was born a human fireball
I graced the presence of the
people in my hood with
rhythmic movements of dance.
5, 6 ...
I never grasped into the knowledge of music, until
I played some neo-soul records
in my aunt’s home
was it love that I was developin’?
or a passion I was embracin’?
or both? only God knew.
Literature came to light as
I was 7, always in my phase
of knowing the unknown.
Teen spirit fever
causing a ravishing sight
in my 13 as I opened my eyes to the beauty behind art.
15 was my age for
my spirit to fit in
creative waters flowing from within
the deepest ocean of my heritage.
I am 17 now, with poetry as my sightseeing forest, freedom in the cultivating mantra of peace,
a peace of mind causing refinement in the living of my soul.
I am 17, an artist,
ready to sanctify my heart and
awaken my generation
in the path enlightened
with wisdom and love.

when the telephone rang
at six in the morning
four days before Christmas Eve
   I knew
things were not right

they told me
   my father had died
   at three in the morning
   and would I please come by
   arrange for the burial
   and collect his belongings
at the senior citizens home
where he had spent
the last four years
of his life

they had rested him nicely
he looked at peace
I kissed him on his forehead
   like I always had
   at the end of my visits
and cast a last long look at his figure
   before the body would be taken away

    and suddenly I noticed
       how big his hands were
    they’d never seemed so prominent before

as if in death they sent me a reminder
of how much he had loved his hands
   for work   for play  for sports
   for fight and for survival
   to point and to gesticulate
      they held me as a baby and
         some times
      slapped me as a child
   they repaired toys   split wood
   built sheds   drove cars and motor bikes
   were patient and precise
   caressed and soothed and loved

they were his life
they held his world

my father’s hands