Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Alyssa Underwood Aug 2017
Jesus, please set my bound heart free
Let not this world my prison be
Where fear and shame would pull me down
To suffocate and cause me to drown

'Stead loose my soul that it may soar
Heavy, fettered, chained no more
So You can lead me to the hills
Away from where 'perfection' kills

In You alone my worth is found
What joy immense, this truth profound
To know I'm precious in Your sight
My strength, my hope, my life's delight

Surrendered now to Your control
'Tis love which heals my wounded soul
Convinced that I can trust Your heart
Toward me, to You my cares I impart

And selfish may I no more be
But lend me eyes that I might see
The wounds which other souls still have
To give to them Your healing salve

That You might take their tender pain
And turn it to eternal gain
So suffering may not wasted be
But used to set our cold hearts free

Then we who in triumphant praise
More closely on Your face may gaze
Beholding all Your beauty vast
Held tight to You, content at last!
~~~

"So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed."
~ John 8:36

"But whenever anyone turns to the Lord, the veil is taken away. Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And we all, who with unveiled faces contemplate the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into His image with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit."
~ 2 Corinthians 3:16-18

"I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us."
~ Romans 8:18


~~~

Sung to the tune of
'Jesus, Thy Blood and Righteousness'
(music by William Gardiner)
Azurel Nov 2018
You used to tell me that beautiful things come from pain and adversity.
Like motherhood, unconditional love, and true stories.
As I stood in the middle of a room painted white,
Staring at the remains of rolling hills burned to black,
I saw you staring back at me.

Burnt fields like black panther fur
Shining against your bones
Velvet black
You’ve changed
And changed and changed
Yet your love still remains
Burnt fields like black panther fur
Whiskers are the needles on a compass
Always pointing to the azure sky
You used to sing when I cried
Rolling your r’s over rrolling hills
A haunting melody startling black birds into the night
Feathered constellations against a sliver moon
And lips pressed to my salty cheeks

You told me that your favorite skin tone was chocolate,
As you laid out in the sun hoping to melt. “A quarter black” is what you say when you want to feel proud,
Even as you tell me stories of how your mother was called negrita,
The girl who stood too dark amongst the crowd.

Burnt fields like black panther fur
Black like the broken wings of mothers before you
Who had hands with scars from cotton seeds
And blue veins like uprooted trees
Stretching all the way to their tired knees
Burnt fields like black panther fur
You criticize your aging beauty
Speaking in envy of the color gold
Like you are a broken bowl in need of kintsugi
Yet silver snakes still slither
Over the pebbled river beds of your black curls
Dripping down the small of your back
Until they reach the base of your ivory spine
Burnt fields like black panther fur
You criticize your aging beauty
Because you never thought
Cocoa lips and sun spots painted on sculpted clay that never cracks
Could ever look as stunning as it does on you

You told me that it is better to speak my truth then tell pretty lies.
So I told you mine and you cried,
And cried and cried.
But look where we are now,
Standing beside each other with the same eyes,
Just different reflections.

Burnt fields like black panther fur
Tongue like a sword set ablaze
Tempered in pools of milk and honey
Blood red sun grazing the tops of your eyelids
Still reminiscent of those in old photographs
Where you saw the little girl you search for in me
Burnt fields like black panther fur
I am sorry I made you cry
But even when our backs are turned
We are still
Black birds singing in the dead of night
Free
Thank you mama for my broken wings.
Inspired by a photograph of a burnt field that I saw in an art gallery. For my mom.
B L Jun 2013
“You know, son… There’s a reason...
God had a reason to give you broad shoulders --
It’s so you could carry this load… It’s so you could hold up all these boulders.”

“But these boulders aren’t my own, so why did He leave me them to hold?”
I can hardly hold them now… surely I’ll collapse when I grow old.”


“You can’t think in terms of time, it is not a restriction by which He is bound…
Instead you must think it as your cross, think of the thorns upon his crown.
He will not notice the time; that’s a human concept we’ve created…
Instead he’ll judge you by the size of the burdens with which you’re weighted.”

“Well, that’s a relief, but how can you be so sure?
He’s never turned the night to day; I’ve never seen a disease he’s cured.
Excuse me if I’m wrong, but I struggle to have faith
When the world that he created has become this wretched place.”


“I can’t convince you that he’s real, I can’t show you how to feel.
But if I showed you cold and silence, would you say that they were real?
Yet these aren’t real things, simply the absence of others…
So you must look to the voids, when you wish to discover.”

“I hope that you’re right. I hope he’s up there listening…
I hope there’s golden gates I can admire, I hope that they’re still glistening.
I hope God can take my hand, and tell me ‘Son, you’ve done well.’

I hope to God there’s a heaven – ‘cause I’ve been living in hell.
“The love betweenness^ a mother and her son”
when it’s healthy strong and ancient,
like this, is for me, and it seems,
for you as well, almost a supernatural force in certain ways.
I know many other women who understand this.
It’s been probably the best surprise of my life.” Medusa

sometime, a poem commission needs a quiet time rumination,
a seventh inning time out to birth a perfect game,
a mental stretch mark,
did your know your commentation was a commandation,
write me up, punch my ticket and jump back into murky waters,
where a hu-man boy child only gifted me a tertiary imagination, comprehensive incomprehension

this look upon differing and different, parenting parts of me,
with the bright den mother’s sun gazing eyes of a new motherland,
promotion to an incessant guardianship,
an ordered mathematical centrality,^
a forever buck private’s uniform shoulder stripe pointing to mom

maternal rhymes with eternal

for children go off and go on about their lives,
occasionally glancing backwards,
but a mother’s eyes are an all encompassing, an all white canvass painting that the artist continue-ously slyly forward refreshes,
forever white repainted with each perpetual glancing thought added

this mother woke, sensing her make-male creation
is a gender separate separation,
a mystery needing learning, genes requiring a crisper adult education, a breast refilling is a sharing, eye to eye,  
****** to mouth, transferring a transformation,
between a new meaningful, an analogy of understanding that
swims in both directions, across a uniting natural division that unites,  better called an open boundary

daughters are different but the insanity~same,
a poem for another day

a supernatural surprise that occurs daily,
that you rightly appel it, as ancient  is correctly unsurprising
for the knowledge is in every cell recorded, time immemorial

apologies;
my insufficient words
can’t explain this
dotted line division,
only that, I too am a student driver mother,
my son, a teacher,  a natural scholar,
the understanding we shared is instantaneous and confusing,
as we go back and forth together,
travellers tween the dotted line spaces,
absorbing his milky ways,
informations that were not obviously ****** in me, or if they were,
awaited this suckling’s coronation and education, invitation


our differences are not a true division,
but a new manner of best embracing

which is why with good humor, our private joking, is that he
is my very own  nap-ster master,^^ we are an ordered centrality^
march 31 2019 9:37am
^Definition of betweenness
: the quality or state of being between two others in an ordered mathematical set

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2714533/texas-my-very-own-nap-ster-
master/
The hanky he was sobbing into was crusty,
*****, unwashed, unclean; yet strangely comforting to a little boy,
as he cried he made his way to a culvert behind the school,
some place the other kids couldn’t see him crying,
it was more comfortable being near rocks
-next to that watershed for some reason?

He looked down at his antagonist,
the scaly-green feet,
they made him cry harder,
he lamented…

“Why have I been tormented so?”

“Who gave me these feet? Who made me this way, lizardly, scaly, an animal no?”

“What class am I, what species? Are those toenails, claws or a disease?”

“The way I’m treated makes me sad. Where is my mommy, where is my dad?

“Did I come from an egg? Didn’t we all? Why do they pick on me, make me feel so small?”

“My feet are reptilian even I can see that!”

“Am I part lizard? Are there horns on my back?”

“I can’t hide in sneakers ‘cause the claws tear them apart.”

“Not great at math, language or art.”

“They always pickin’ on me, today it’s in the schoolyard.”

“That is why I sit here on the rocks crying with my **** feet and sullen heart,”

“Cannot run fast so no baseball, basketball or soccer…”

“The other kids tried to stuff me in my own locker…”

“One mean little girl even threw a dead mouse at me!”

“But I’m only part lizard as far as I can see?”

“My English teacher says that my words are like a bird song”

“If I talk like a birdie along with monster’s feet, no wonder I don’t belong!”

“Even still, to be so mean to me, I know that it is wrong…”

“ONE DAY I WILL SHOW THEM ALL, THESE FEET THEY HAVE A PURPOSE!”

“MY WORDS OF SONG AND FEET OF MAGIC COMBINE A COSMIC CIRCUS!”

“I am no freak of nature, no forest Pan or Satyr…”

“It is not the way I look, my clothes or feet that matter…”

“It is what is in my heart and mind, the things I do that truly count…”

“For those things that make us different, for they are tantamount…”

“Seven heads, seven stages, seven fables, seven sages”

“Seven stars and seven wonders and seven heavens that we’re under…”

“And all those things they say are great and marvelous about us…”

“Will one day be written in the book by Great Old Uncle Taautus!”
Children's rhyme. Scylla represents the rocks near shores who rend ships to pieces that venture to close to them.
William Eberlein Feb 2013
Today,
for this day,
let me bear
the weight of the world.

Let the sky weep on my shoulders.

Let the earth crack with insanity under my feet.

Let the sea rush to drown me with it's sorrow.

Let today be the day that I bleed,
so that gardens may grow tomorrow.
jcl Mar 16
i am tired of fighting, i am too old, i’ve seen too much

i am throwing down my weapon, i surrender, **** me if you must have blood

i don’t care anymore, i don’t remember what i am fighting for, i just want to go home.

put this war behind me, live to love, not to ****, not to die, for what purpose, for what god.

who will commemorate our battles, and those who have died just yesterday

who will remember our names, aspiration, dreams once we are dead

we are disposable, born to ****, then die, who cares, why care, we served your purpose

we are the pawns, expected to die for the greater good that we can not have

look at your lives, was it worth it, how do you honor Them, those who died, so you can live
mannley collins May 2015
One Son of 'god'
Kills another Son of "god"
and the bombs explode in the 'side of the bog'.
Let me tell you brothers
I can feel it in my groin
there are strange goings on in Old Ardoyne.
Were ringing in freedom sings the Fighting man.
Mr Politician gonna put you in a Can.
Mr soldier boy you better go to bed.
Wake up in the morning with a hole in your head.
Verse from a song (unrecorded)that I wrote in the middle 1960s when the IRA(Irish Republican Army) and the British Army of Occupation in Northern Ireland were fighting each other on the blood drenched streets of Belfast and many other places elsewhere in Northern Ireland.
Ayeglasses Aug 2013
Please don't be like your actual father, please don't go down that path.
Born to unmarried parents, found by a party some beer and some laughs.
You are my first cousin, small but tough.
You take the craziest falls, no matter how rough.
Though your father is old, not in age, but in soul.
He has not enough water to fill up your bowl.
As for hope, you'll need a source more than one.
So, I'll do my best.
To help you grow strong.
Help you stay away from what's morally wrong.
If I can teach you these things along the way.
While you run and laugh and, without worry, play.
Your potential is something you can't outrun.
I suppose you're like my practice son.
I love that kid.

I hope that he goes far, so badly. I'll do what I can to help him along.
Abednigo Mogale Oct 2018
Tell me

Do you still say my name
Like how I write yours on the open sky
In the country side by the lake
Where we first said hello
Does the sound of the way you say it
fill your teeth ring
In your ear? like sirens
Rushing to save a mother
And her unborn child from
The gift that takes and gives life

Does it taste sweet
Like honey accumulated from
Pollen stolen from roses
That lay waste at a grave
Of a father, a lover who served his
Country well but defeated by
His enemy with bomb strapped
On a child who barely knew love

Tell me do you speak of me
Like a fairtale
A story of a prince and a black horse
A tale told to
A child who never knew his mother
Her death a secrifce to grant him
The ability to fall in and out of love
Filling the seas from the Nile
Of his heart.
Gosh love and it's ability to bring you back to life when it breaks your heart!
MeanAileen Mar 2017
Where are you going
my little one...
my precious son?
Why are you taking
my baby from me?

Close my eyes
and you're two...
Close my eyes
and you're four...
Close my eyes
and you're walking
right out of the door.

Where are you going
my little one...
my precious son?
You just keep growing
too quickly for me.

Close my eyes
and you're eight...
Close my eyes
and you're ten...
Close my eyes
and I just want
to hold you again.

Where are you going
my little one...
my precious son?
You've no way of knowing
how proud you make me.

Close my eyes
you're in school...
Close my eyes
and you're grown...
Close my eyes
and you're a father
precious son of your own.
This is more of a lullaby then poem. I used to sing it to my son when he was a lil guy. He's 22 now!!! Where does the time go?!
The wind, it whispers like a choir of hags,
under the light of the moonbeams,
there lay a broken child.
In his filth, he mutters,
in his dirt, he shudders,
so quick to judge we are,
the Prodigy Son.

Crackling trees and dried up leaves,
under the light of the moonbeams,
they shelter the child.
It cannot be said,
that the everlasting dead,
can't raise the living youth,
and show them how to be alive.

Out of the furnace and into the fire,
one mans plight is another mans pleasure.
Buried beneath garbage, recycled from his head,
his undeniable will is hard to measure.

The chatter is growing louder,
among the who's and what's,
the where's and when's,
the how's and why's,
they're racing round,
throwing sand,
throwing stones,
blasting the boy,
the fears he holds,
the anger he stores,
they set the trees on fire,
the dry leaves burn ten fold,
it's a hot box,
a red hot forge,
it melts his skin and bones,
then dies as quick as it caught,
and from the ashes, the Imperfect Son is born.

Rising above the smoldering orange embers,
under the white light of the moonbeams,
there stands the Imperfect Son,
and he washes his hands with mud.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
Nat Lipstadt Jun 25
“I am a warrior, so that my son may be a merchant, so that his son may be a poet.”

John Quincy Adams, 6th President of the United States
<>
a bad weakness, mine, mess with the perfect of others,
unsure what to add that will addictive illuminate further,
but as homage, a tribute, a salute
got to
got too,
no middle class delayed gratification for me, none, whatsoever,
read the words and my own hands choke me
as if to pull out, to free
the upsurging words in my chest-forming,
to uplift me up, from the floor where I am roiling in
wonderful wonderment at a prophecy come true

my recent family history,
about 400 years worth, got it written down someplace,
escapees from a Spanish Inquisition,
a Roman one before that,
meandering Jews who found a respite, a small welcome
in a small village in Germany

(the irony does not go unnoticed)

from villager to merchant, from tiny town to big city folk,
we went, warriors if any, kept secret, best unheard,
attract no attention, but do what survival doesn’t
always politely request

here I am child of the proverbial wandering jew,
fancy me a poet with, at best, a very small p,
one of three children, historians, book writers, scholars and even
poet~traders,
and so a President’s words, hammer my cells
upon an anvil for human skins,
the future shape of me foreseen
and I think to myself,
alone and out loud:

This, This!

is what makes America great, 
welcoming the stranger,
even predicting their
possible pathway to a peaceful existence,
giving their descendant’s generations liberty,
liberty to become poets,
free, who can stand upright
Ted Jun 2018
Running to catch an unraveling sphere,
Always running,
Running after my leaving siblings,
I trail in their laughter
As it rains on me,
me,
so easily left behind,
Everyone waits with a blank face around me,
Till they know nothing worthy will follow,
I follow,
They laugh at
the joke with no punchline.

I will stand at the chair in front of my father's empty desk.
The one place I know,
that he truly wants to be at in this house.
I wish I could garner the attention he wants to embed to these inanimate objects.
I stare at them,
wondering how to become that important.
Maybe it's something that comes with age.

My family is always so capable,
I can't even skip a stone on still water,
How pathetic.
So easy
they make it seem.

I am always waiting to be their age,
To finally matter,
I wait,
In total wonder of their capabilities,
I'll never be fast enough to catch up in age.
Forever waiting behind.

The baseball falls in the grass, the red stitching coming undone.
My father pleased that we're together, playing ball.
Not an interest of mine,
just the generic thing a father does with a son.
So obvious,
that he wants to be back in that empty chair.
Kaitlin Evers Jul 2018
You draw me gently near  
Letting me know I have nothing to fear
Your touch soothing as a breeze
You've set my beating heart at ease

But before I was so close to you
A bridge had to be set
To link our great divide
Yes it was you
Who paid my debt
And sent Your Son who died

It was Him they did seize
When it should've been me
Twasn't but ordinary fees
But still You thought it worth your Son to save humanity
Next page