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cait-cait May 2018
i am holding an axe...

empty towers stand tall in snow
-
yet
still i climb ,
(each step) —

like
a toy upon a shelf
(i am freezing)/

when
you rip the stuffing out of
me
and try to sew me
shut ,

but the
wound is not healing
(it never will)

and
the walls get stained with nicotine::
(i miss when they were white)

when i come back to, i am lost -
scared
(because it is dark)
.

i
try to howl ,
gurgle instead:
and then
i start to weep-
(and my tears all freeze like little pearls) .
.

when i look for them again,
(those girls)

they have turned into
wolves
(i remember my axe)

and they look me in my eyes —
glimmering//

so
spit on me, again,
i say

i
dare you —
this time,
i am not afraid to bite.

(they do not come back for me)
.
the other title for this poem was “i look at you or maybe you look at me.” I let people on my instagram vote which one they liked better. This is about feeling alone in a battle against many different people you care about. I spent a long time working on it.
Yue Wang Yidhna Nov 2018
My every thought had a life

My every thought was a living soul

Whose very birth and death begin and end

With the existence of you


I have never truly felt such joy

Rippling through every atom within me

Each blooming into a sea of wildflowers

A sea of every living thing

Playful, wild and free

Until I've met your eyes

Until I've met your smile


When you rushed into my presence

I've not just suddenly seen the light

But felt its wrath

Felt its everlasting warmth

Felt its very presence

Merely standing distances away from

You

Letting it consume me

Letting it wrap its invisible arms around me

Seep through my being

And transform me into a

Vessel carrying only love and fear


I've been asking questions all my life

Asking to be accepted

Asking to be fearless

Asking to be loved

And thought I needed answers


Yet the moment I saw you

And every moment when you were

Within my sight

I've readily forgot how to fear

How not to let happiness through

I've even forgot my own existence

Let alone its troubles and tears


And then, came the darkness:

What you have brought with

Your presence

You've taken them with you with

Your absence

And as you turned your back and

Walked away

The joy followed you

Then the light

Then my very dream of sleepless nights

My very dream of living

Until only the dreamless, the starless

Were left

To tear me away from my own soul

To break apart my every living particle

And along with the unbearable and breathless

Pain of its tearing, hurl each of them

One by one, into the abyss

Of loveless silence

And pointless existence


I've savored the twinge of its tearing

Endure the pain of its death

And rejoiced at this everlasting suffering

Knowing my love for you is true and endless


In the end, may it never end,

If I were to never love you

I'd only wish upon you

The heat and wrath of this joy

You've once gifted to me

And never, for a moment

Feel this pain, and suffering of your

Absence

Even, if I'd have to endure them

Eternally

For you
(May 21, 2019:
Found this poems:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2806601/vessel-of-love-and-fear-carrying-your-pain/
Reposted on Wattpad:
https://www.wattpad.com/652068712-if-i-weren%27t-crazy-i%27d-be-insane-✔️-23-vessel-of
Without credit.
The poem was written by me, Yidhna, on October 5, 2018, but was not posted on HP until November; meanwhile, the Wattpad dates the whole book to October 19, 2018. I have, fortunately, emailed myself the poem on the day it was written.


October 5, 2018
I am so grateful to have my poem "Help me love my humility chosen as a Daily. And thank you so much for all your kind comments!!!

I wrote this not long after I announced that I'd be staying off HP for a while and I am not really back yet.

This was one of two poems I wrote before I became completely silent in words again.
To even think about poetry became stressful for me recently. So unfirtunately I havent been on this site to read all your wonderful writes!

The Constant Battle

By: Yidhna

Every little detail feels so grand and insurmountable

Every greatness seems so unreachable yet trivial in the face of immediate threats and envy

Like the match that’s jealous of the campfire while the moon shines coldly and so distantly

Every moment of happiness and sorrow feels as if they are at the edge of a fall of complete loss

Every moment of stillness feels so numb and dull

Every step I take is a great journey of only weariness and aches

Every great journey cannot hold my attention away from the littlest distraction

My simple words feels so undecorated

And

My more flourished pieces seem so convoluted

I seem to be an individual that’s too different

Yet

Not original enough

And

These are the constant battles in my mind

Waiting for your presence

The call for ceasefire
FrankieM May 20
After being painted over
In black and blue

When we split in the Spring
I carried on I bloomed

No longer recognizing
Such vibrant hues

I flourished more beautifully
Without you
On no longer needing you

“Flourish” continued..
Alyssa Underwood Feb 2016
Awakening will find me
through the daily mundane
faith's step in front of tiny step
for the sake of Christ's great name
Even David the brave did not set out
with a lofty ambition to see the giant slain
but walked forth instead with a servant's heart
obediently for his father, carrying cheese and grain
and as he went in faithfulness about this simple errand
God raised him up with sling and stone to champion His fame
*Inspired by this morning's sermon from Doug Rutt
Cynthia Aug 2018
You dig a hole in the ground
You keep digging deep down
So the echo won’t slip
because your goal is to scream
Scream loud
to ease the pain inside
 
The dirt on your hands
is the hurt, the pain
You’ve been carrying around
Somehow you kept holding on
now freedom is what you seek

Fading memories is your dream
But what happens after you scream?

You have been carrying this weight
on your feet
feeling the heat
Blood flowing through your veins

Love turned into hate & trust into fear
So after all are you really at PEACE?

Then…
The battle with your mind begins
Because digging is no longer your escape
Your own fear has captured you in a cage
 
So you write it down on paper
Not in pencil but in pen
Because there are no mistakes
That can be erased
What’s done is done
And your shame cannot be wiped away
 
Once again you fight in the flesh
all you want is peace
And a resting place
Yet you seek no one but yourself.
Have no fear for He is with you
Seek Jesus let him be your escape
The one who fulfills that empty SPACE!
Pagan Paul Jul 2018
.
In a costume of conflicting emotion,
of crossing diamondic colour,
with regal posture in grief,
the Harlequin and the King,
a display of opposites
creating a composite being,
that eases her body
gently into the waiting water,
to float away serene,
on her journey to the nether.

Midnight blue and emerald green,
the regalia of ermine,
both ostentatious and humble,
robeing the aspects,
understated in crowning splendour,
the gentleman King bows,
and the Harlequin laughs,
the bi-polar reaction
to the tragedy of misfortune,
with a sting in the myth-tale.

With the dark hues of mourning,
a legend passes on her way,
across the streams of time,
on a voyage to discover herself,
carrying her Harlequin in a purse,
holding her King to her breast,
owning them both in her heart,
the medicine wheel spins,
knowing the grapes of wrath
yield the wine of spite.

The motley speckles of attire,
a starry parody of night skies,
lighting the decorated funeral barge,
gliding along the rivers of space,
worn with the mantle of sorrow,
and it sails into the sunset,
as the Harlequin and King observe,
the mandala turns,
the bier of the Queen departing,
bears their sadness forth.

The Harlequin laughs and laughs 'til he cries,
his heart grows cold, then withers and dies,
whilst the King, statuesque, memoirs his life,
lamenting the legend of a Queen, his wife.



© Pagan Paul (24/07/18)
.
laura May 2017
I see him drive around on his orange scooter
carrying boxes of pizza to various people
he must see a lot, got the tan skin and hangs
with pretty women. The best of both worlds
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Sitting in Circular Quay in a bistro on a warm winters day
dreaming while watching the tourists and ships sail by.
As I eat oysters and drink the day in with my wine,
past memories wash over me.

Morning teas, chats, and paper bark trees,
hikes through the bush and walks along the beach.
Watching dolphins play at dawn
and fishing the waters on New South Wales shores.

The Harbor Bridge alight with Bicentennial Fireworks;
a surreal beginning to this adventure.
Wringing every drop from days spent,
finding a new world with each step.

Discovering myself through the wisdom and eyes of you,
maturing, becoming my own.
Like family, you’ve been both mentor and friend,
carrying me through fire and back.

My life was undone as I first saw your shore.
Feeling my heart would break
with our first goodbyes,
unknowing that an permanent bond had been forged.

Tracing back over the years since we met,
I’ve been given more than my share.
Making me ponder how I have been blessed,
to count you as a true friend.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
I like immigrants, immigration. Legal immigration, Jane
passionately corrects. Actually my goal is a borderless world.
That's a new idea to her.
Gathering the neighborhood like family.
The men discuss sterilizing welfare mothers. I say You're working
      around the edges,
humanity has exceeded the carrying capacity of the planet,
even those with jobs. And spouses. And houses.
Yet it's an idyll of an early summer evening, new cut grass,
two baseball teams of children playing in it. Safe from Pakistan.
News photos of Muslim refugees, women in blue robes, biblically
carrying children away from holocaust. The fundamentalist army
not far behind, beheading sinners, sure in its righteousness
as the Holy Roman Empire.

Somehow Joel Osteen the evangelist comes up
while talking about how the Catholic Church is irrelevant in North
      America,
even Latin America and Africa are going evangelical.
Izzi likes Osteen, awesome extemporaneous speaker, no teleprompter,
up from bootstraps message and my wife says he's probably Jewish.
No one wants to go there.
Fortunately no one claims the Holocaust never happened or slavery
      was voluntary.
What is the carrying capacity of the planet? Two children
have replacement value. In China is it each couple or each adult that gets
one offspring? As life expectancy and standards rise,
family size diminishes. We draw together into greener, tighter cities
surrounded by farms surrounded by forests.
The children of three monotheistic religions, atheists and agnostics
play in city streets, work farm fields, explore forests, deserts,
      grasslands, space.

Two ancient female poets: Enheduanna and Sappho
are a revelation. The clarity of their complaints:
lost lover, lost city.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
MJL Mar 9
I’m here
No party
Who’s ****?
I'm not afraid
Everything’s primitive
New baby’s old
Suckling eternity
Carrying his mother
Teaching her father
A universe of historic shame
Threatening
The expanse of senseless
Intolerance
Grasping ignorance by the pores
Infant nails dig in and hold
Evolutions face of madness
Bloodshot
Biding a soiled fate
Biting for more
Sanity
Growing until -ism’s explode
Tears that crave change
Go forward
Moon Star Traveler
Be you
Be here with me
Recede against hate
Be one with the human race
Be one with the universe
Each generation brings us a step forward to ending intolerance.
KiraLili Sep 2016
From across the club
You could see her carrying them
Arms full of roses
Logan Robertson Jul 2018
A black crow's darting eyes
spans the wheat field
and an orange pumpkin patch.
She sees
tall grasses of brown
seedlings,
bristling in the wind,
soon to be bushels of grain
and a pumpkin pie that she never savored.
She sits, atop her tree perch,
at times warm and storybook,
hidden by tree branches,
and at times out of harm's way
and infamy.
Her friends, the sun, and clouds in concert,
dancing along.
Her other friends bring alms and smiles.
Life is so good at times.
Down the road sits a mill
next to a waterfall
and a cabin,
with reindeer horns
hanging above the doorway.
She is in her element, happy,
carrying for her nestlings.
Back and forth her parental eyes dart
the hilly fields, a smoked filled chimney, and her babies,
all crawling with sustenance and awe.
Storybook.
A mother feeding a worm to her baby.
Storybook.
Off to her side is not a blind eye
watching her,
scary stick figures of
straw tucked under red shirts and hats,
with a tied tinfoil strips dotting
her eyes and tease.
Scarecrows, cease.
At times life is good nature, hand in hand,
knock on wood.
If only life could be circumspect.
Than darkness filling the light
and a stutter of life.
For a sad page is turned,
pause
... tears.
Then, feathers fall.
Hers.
The sound of a thud.
Silence and tears of her friend's swelling.
A baby's cry, missing her mother.
More orphaned tears.
Who would be this despicable?
On that rogue day.
A kick of a donkey,
an ***,
one bad rock on her path,
breaks the air,
as three little elementary kids were walking along
to school.
One, me, with a rock in his hand,
taking aim at her perch
and the death of the black crow's pages.
I confess.
... Bless me, Father, for I have sinned
it has been fifty years since
my last confession ...
a Tom Sawyer-like childhood gone worse.
I repent.
Some fifty years later I think of those first cairns,
including stealing the reindeer horns and milling
my brother and sister's storybook.
Waterfalls
stream tears, and a sorry boat
rowed downstream
sadly
thereafter.

Logan Robertson

7/25/2018
Sam Hawkins Jul 2018
Last night, a spiraled light
it caught and submerged me--
carrying far off
all my fears.

My drum-pulsed heart was flying.

I rose and weaved my airy way
among jagged mountain rock--
my path opening, opening

until a high-arched gate appeared,
laced with colored flags
and I moved through it and beyond.

In a while I saw among distant shadows of villagers
and wisps of smoke a child there, sitting,
her back to me.

Are you my teacher?
Yes, she said, though not with words.

What do you have to teach me?
Be simple.
this is a generalization account of an "upper world  journey" I took the night before. this is what happened. shamanic journeying with a drum pulse as "vehicle" is a technology. Seek out a highly trained practioner as a guide...if you wish to travel. Anyone who studied with Michael Harner (now transitioned) is a ringer! I am not permitted to be a guide for others.
Andrew Sep 2017
Oh, what I would give to be nine and benign
Because as I grow older the flow of concepts grows heavier
And swirls around me rapidly
Creating a whirlpool
I can feel the world pull
In the gravity of ideas
Given weight by words
That brings down birds

We look up only to see Jupiter
And we live on the Earth's back
Weighed down like mules by it's presence
Carrying conflicting considerations
Ideas inflicting incineration

The rain precipitating from the clouds in our minds
Develops a lofty humidity within humanity
And the leaves on the trees point downward
Erecting walls
To trap us in our gravity garrison
Plotting ways to crush each other
Time becomes the most effective method
As we wait to weigh down wanderers
With a point of view
In our gravitational pull
To make them our mule
Carrying our concepts
To strengthen our impact on the maelstrom

As our brain gets bolder
The water gets colder
But this ocean keeps spinning
Keeping the frigid water from freezing
And the gravity of what we think
Is the gravity that makes us sink

From concept cradle to gravity grave
Tranquil transcendence is what we crave
Columbusphere Sep 29
Sometimes when sorrow sinks in
I worry a wailing might screech from my chest
And every person for miles might hear it.
Or feel it shake the air, like hot flame
Ripples carrying my saddest indulgence
As the beast that weighs me down, croons.
So that people quaking, step out of the way
And we have room to sing the lonely wail, some more.
© 2019 Columbusphere All rights reserved
Umi Mar 2018
Of ones heart with shadows lurking to take over spite is made precious to be felt exciting while it is in fact trecious, but a sleeping terror awakens at times as well, thus a rampage is made amongst it,
A thrill wandering down your spine when you wrong someone and see them tremble through your actions a cold shiver followed by spite
Choosing a carefree life, yet unable to hide the fact that no spark would be able to illuminate whats in your dark, where angels fear to tread, only to explore this loitering abyss within you for some time,
All this blood lust must bring you to insanity, make you a lunatic,
But let it happen, in this emotionless shell it's what feels majestic,
The storm raging inside, waiting to feed on this caused chaos,
Evil and vile, heartless not carrying a smile while mercilessly continuing this riot of a resented soul waiting, longing for destruction
Feeling alike to be burning up, priceless about this act of cruelty until the wanted realisation drives its way into your soul and you question yourself what you have done, or why you have done it for anyway,
But the time will come again for sure, so be ready for it to arrive
When the sleeping terror awakens for another dance

~ Umi
Irah Rahim Jan 2014
Today I wrote a pathetic poem again,
With the pencil of soul that I had sharpened nights and days before,
I then tied it to an old, weak pigeon's feet,
To be sent out to unaddressed land—
Carrying my sorrow and gloom along.

I've always been a hopeless soul,
Dreaming about peace of heart-
Which seems to only exist 6 feet under.

Now I'm waiting by my window again,
Wishing for the pigeon to return,
With a poem tied to its feet,
With the voice of the Reaper,
Coming for me, here at last.

I.R.
Read My Feelings Sep 2015
Such a restless mess,
wishing you could
count the steps,
you pace across concrete.

Threads catch,
scuffing clean socks:
devastating.

Ants emerge from tunnels
in your heart, marching
toward cranial burrows,
carrying answers.

Birds flock, strike, and take.
Your porous skull sits
open and empty, waiting.

The persistent flow of time
bears no change:
only the steady beat
of footsteps.

Neurons fire without purpose,
like legs plodding across the floor,
wearing new socks,
now tragically tattered.
This needs work.
7 September 2015, 6 pm
beth stclair May 2015
like a stone you fell, stars on your lips,
out of the dark, like a bird carrying the sky.

i stretched towards you my soul singing
of meadow grasses and old ruins.

everything you touched became a flame,
joy burnt like a fever beneath your wings.

i ran to you, shadows drawing back
the night like a curtain.

oh, the echoes of a pounding heart, across hills,
across continents, you strided on the wind

until the sea shook out its sheets
and the leaf shivered on the branch.

the night settled its layers of black
into dark forests, rested against the glassy tide

and you were gone, you were gone,
lost to hair more fragrant than mine.
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/and-then-i-returned-to-you-you-my-poet-of-the-water-beth-st-clair/1115678228?ean=29400165

from my book
Advent Oct 2014
i only write in the middle of the night
while the stars watch me
waste ink of blood
dripping from the veins of my brain

i only write in the middle of the night
while the moon guards me
as i write the message of my soul to the universe
solely dug from my heart

and suddenly everything comes back to reality
the sun sets high
illuminating the pitched black sky
and i wonder,
will i ever enjoy the daylight
while carrying the burdens i hold inside



a.t.
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