"unburdened" poems
The joyful heart is the buoyant heart—
empowered to rise above its circumstances,
unweighted, unburdened, unbound,
tied only to that which would lift it higher,
untethered from anything which would
pull it down, pull it under or suffocate it.
It's the free heart, quiet and at rest
yet jubilant and uncontained,
the celebrating heart, the praising heart,
the thankful heart, the heart set on pilgrimage,
bent on adventure, journey and romance.
All the while it's a waiting heart
because it's a yielded, led heart—
a heart which doesn't run ahead of the LORD
but willingly, quickly to the LORD—
a heart that though eagerly anticipating each
twisting turn, next horizon and changing path
keeps its eyes fixed not on the scenery
but forever on the Shepherd
because it's a heart persuaded
that He alone is the Great Reward
for which it has always been looking.
True joy is only ours when we find an endless
source of satisfaction, and of these I know only One!
The secret to all joy is to crave Him above all else.
The joyful heart is the one addicted fully to Him,
desperate for Him to the expense of all else,
willing to sacrifice everything to have that craving satisfied.
Joy and idols, I have learned,
do not easily reside together in the same heart.
So if I find that joy is chased away
the most likely culprits are my own desires.
What am I wanting more than Jesus?
For if intimacy with Him is the supreme goal of my life
then nothing can arise which I'm not enabled to bear with joy.
There is, I suppose, nothing so reliable as suffering and loss
to expose all of the hidden idols within me.
It's surely those who have suffered the greatest
and most frequent losses for Christ who are also
most capable of knowing the deepest and most abiding joy.
For it's when we've been stripped bare of everything else
that we begin to know for certain that our joy is based
not on the temporary blessings of our circumstances
but only on the presence of the Eternal Blesser Himself.
Sometimes He offers to us all that is in His right hand,
but for any with eyes truly opened to see
the most precious of times may be those
when He offers to us only the intimacy of His right hand.
Rivers of sadness can open up
into wide gulfs of endless delight and
are often the very courses needed to carry us there.
When all is lost, we find to our amazement
that, even so, we still have ALL
and no one can rob us of it.
When He takes everything from us
He proves Himself to be EVERYTHING to us.
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 4:11 PM UTC
precious innocent soul
skipping rocks
on cobblestone roads
vulnerable untarnished pure
no residue of earthly soil
return me to that naiveté
unburdened by layers
of fake masks
and perfect capped teeth
in narcissistic societies
but I shan’t grasp
at ethereal edges
of nebulousness
and ephemeral
innocence
i shall endure
what I abhor
a master’s soul
cannot be forged
in paradise
wisdom’s essence
‘tis not pristine white
hints of ivory
tinge the effervescence
of the sage’s breath
©2016janetaylor
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 11:53 AM UTC
I don’t think history is romantic.
I’m “American”; this means I’m unburdened
with having to be nationalistic or patriotic.
Don’t have to be prideful about hundreds of
years of ******** and mythology.
It means I might hate Bukowski,
but I find him way less repulsive
than Shakespeare. I had to stab a
pathetic sense of “spirituality”
[religion?] in a public place with prejudice,
to truly gain a sense of enlightenment in
pure hopelessness. Something like that.
I might be deaf to some other culture,
but I’m hearing megaphones in America.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 4:30 AM UTC
The heart’s not homebound
Wanderlust soul seeks to travel
Through the enormous universe
Feel the harmony of cosmic energy
This heart wants to travel beyond
Like an unburdened soul, with valor
Veer away from the usual path
Prepare for the eternal travel
Multiple destinations and one purpose
To enter the wormhole of space
Traveler always and enjoy the cosmic circle
Whirlwind of a tour of the vast eternity
The heart’s not homebound
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
Even as dying, I have no time
For bitterness.
Life was too short,
Even before.
Each step holds gratitude for the sound
Of snow beneath it.
For
Now
I carry my passenger
Unburdened.
Say no to nothing. Not
Even the cancer.
Even tomorrow's mother's tears,
Father's clenched fists upon casket;
Flowers; loss. Inevitability.
Death grows inside me.
The opposite of a
Pregnancy.
Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 1:31 PM UTC
The jaguar of your tongue
Slithers and stalks to desolate locations
Unburdened by the guilt of temptations
Burning deep in the gullet of desires
Forsaken by the drawings of cave paintings
Clawed ragged breath discipline
Polaroid flawlessness beneath the Blood Moon
One wild summer
Mar 10, 2012
Mar 10, 2012 at 12:31 AM UTC
You share your words, I cup my ears.
You shed your shell, I catch your tears.
When life goes awry, wisdom gives bliss.
I hold your face, forehead graced with kiss.
My words are calm, warm, and tranquil.
I'm gentle, understanding; tell me how you feel.
You're unburdened, cumbersome no more.
Uplifted you thank me and say your peace.
I'm alone again, but it's better now. I'm sure.
Wings flap; I close my eyes and feel the breeze.
Their once storms, now but a gust.
Shepard their dragons, I must.
Their dragons are slain, the fire is gone.
I shoulder their pain, my words drawn.
As they sleep, I sit and gaze at the stars.
I'm arrested, their beauty. Oh, how they glisten.
Frankly, I weep as I'm fighting their wars.
As dark as the night may fall, I'll always listen.
To whose ears may I profess?
Am I not too, simply a mess?
No one to be me, for the father.
Everyday, the man seems closer yet farther.
Who is there when it all seems so bad?
I know who I am, the man, my own dad.
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 5:01 PM UTC
Venti, I admire,
I wish I was like you who soars through the sky.
Free like the bird you are,
Unburdened by worries,
just like stars dancing at night.
venti sits.
Up in his statue,
He admires the city,
that he built.
Venti, my sweet,
How lovely is it for us to meet,
Your green hair, your glowing locks,
Please comfort my soul, so my heart will be unlocked.
Your voice, your longing stare,
I love that you're always waiting there.
Your dreams, your goals,
I love that you'd rather be free,
like the god of wind! You fly happily.
Venti, my sweet,
stop drinking wine,
you're higher than a grape vine.
Venti, my sweet,
You prevent me from getting enough sleep.
my thoughts wander,
to your fantasy world I wish to discover.
Your calming presence speaks,
volumes of comfort,
You never fail to bring me relief.
May you sleep well.
I'll be back for tomorrow before you say farewell.
I love your antics, I love your voice.
I love that you play with me, I love that you bring me joy.
Venti, my sweet,
Come have a picnic with me!
At Windrise, for an afternoon tea.
There's cake, there's biscuits,
a lovely day, for you and me.
A picnic, with me!
I'm sorry, I didn't get you alcohol,
I worry about your alcohol capacity.
It rains.
You once asked me to come out and play,
over puddles, in patches of green grass, mist and hay,
What a lovely way to spend the day.
venti,
your beauty is like no other,
as pretty as the stars under glistening skies, its no wonder.
I fell for your grace, I fell for your personality,
how your smile brightens up my day entirely.
slander your name, they do,
but I shall savor my time spent with you.
right or wrong, they dictate,
but I shall pay them no mind, as always, my playmate.
you live in my mind,
however you like.
as long as you're happy,
I feel peace, basking in the moonlight.
Dec 15, 2020
Dec 15, 2020 at 2:07 AM UTC
At night-the light turned off, the filament
Unburdened of its atom-eating charge,
His wife asleep, her breathing dipping low
To touch a swampy source-he thought of death.
Her father's hilltop home allowed him time
To sense the nothing standing like a sheet
Of speckless glass behind his human future.
He had two comforts he could see, just two.
One was the cheerful fullness of most things:
Plump stones and clouds, expectant pods, the soil
Offering up pressure to his knees and hands.
The other was burning the trash each day.
He liked the heat, the imitation danger,
And the way, as he tossed in used-up news,
String, napkins, envelopes, and paper cups,
Hypnotic tongues of order intervened.
5.9k
a little boy sits on
the top of a staircase
his laden, waterlogged
eyelashes droop
his vision fogs
with salt
his heart pulses hot/cool
snowmelt
throughout the body
there are missing
people
no mother
no father
no brother
only boy
locked in house
too scared to sleep
while snowflakes
fall in unfettered
air
*there is joy in storm
if one can see it
through the tears
there is comfort
to be had once
the emotion cools
and tree branches are
unburdened from the
weight of ice*
movement happens
up the stairs
dear sister
who the boy forgot
was there
places her hand
upon the boy’s
quivering back
*"We call it snow
when the parts of God,
too small to bear, contest our bodies"*
and angels tell us
to taste the tears
before they freeze
on our red-rubbed
noses
here, taste your tears
says sister.
they’re salty, aren’t they?
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
II
Blue base and pink hues, black lining, framing the face saw once in dreams, a face with a name that began with the letter M. The other painting – a hazy black, red lips, no eyes – is a man’s face. Flying across shadowed, spiralling stairs, I encountered exits blocked by chairs – all these impressionist paintings hanging along the corridor, where a painter was explaining to his students the woman he met in his dream… they all called to me as a dream factory, dream logic – where everything was bound and unburdened, and we were told to identify faces in these coffin paintings. All day we tried matching, mouth stuttering half-formed names, lost faces, amputated body parts, strangers’ fragmented memory. Then the old lady I was working with let out a wail. She bolted, I followed, and there we saw creatures known as man and woman – to the woman on the right, she greeted with the M-lettered name, and to the man on the left she pointed at the eyeless painting, said, stranger, this is you– and they wept together.
Apr 21, 2021
Apr 21, 2021 at 11:29 AM UTC
if you find one happiness
like the barrel on your head
loaded with a pocket of air for you to breathe
then you know that if you sink
to atmospheric tides
you must find fresher barrels
when the novelty declines
and the oxygen gives way
to the oceanic brine
for the last moments of time
you’re chin-up on a water bed
the water cradles your esophagus
and then you find you surely must
find some fresher air to breathe
but to search is to be dissatisfied
to question once is to imply
that everything can be replied
with answers and with truth
that bucket on your head
running out of salty air
to stay is to slip into death
like listening to the ocean in a seashell
till slow blood flows in too few waves
but could you not also swim?
abandon the comfortable end
for the off chance that some underwater shelter
will serve you shots of oxygen?
the funny thing you find
when you let dying pleasure go
and you’re suspended, all alone
the gas trapped beneath
was too stale for you to breathe
but enough to buoy the unburdened barrel
into swiftly surfacing
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 6:37 AM UTC
Ski Jumping
Leaning forward, body parallel to the skis
arms neatly by the side
hands pressed in tight; flat
down the slope he goes into the unknown
flying free
for a few moments
landing as far as he can
then arms aloft in triumph.
How do you begin such a journey?
Armchair bound we are
never to speed down the icy slope
eyes and goggles peering down and down
ready to fly, see the sky.
Yet in a moment we can be there
down the slope in our minds
unburdened from reality
no years of practice or skis to heft
no chance of failure.
We can fly on the ski slope of the mind
an adventure of the imagination
synapses firing neurons glowing
and so let it be with death and life
down the slope jumping, arms aloft
into tomorrow, into the unknown
alone, down the slope, jumping.
Malcolm F. Davidson October 11th 2013
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 8:09 AM UTC
when the sun surrendered
to the moon's seductive words of sleep
into my mind did
I delve deep--
I visited my memories
Piled carelessly on shelves
An endless library of my emotions,actions and reactions
which with every new day evolved
"Tell me,"I ask,"what is happiness again?for I've forgotten
what it's like to be free
Of gloom,to be unburdened."
"You still know joy,"my memories whispered,"we know you remember.
"We see what you see,hear what you hear,and make it somewhat sadder or sweeter."
"It's almost left my life,"I retort.
"I am idle with indifference,
I can't feel pain nor joy;why chance
pain by living your life at all
when you cannot feel other emotions?Why not just die?
Why bother?"
"Because there is always a way out,"
my memories reply."There's a door,
a ladder,a vent,a reaching hand.You
may be imprisoned,but there's more
to a prison than hopelessness and locks.all locks have keys,now you
must find yours;before you lose your way;there's no going back if you do."
with that in mind,I went home and dreamed of leaving;leaving the confines of the system,leaving my
sorrows behind me.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
Yesterday my childhood came.
Playing and jumping around.
Unburdened, without any aim.
I kept on looking, spellbound.
With half eaten oblong eclair.
He ran after the goats herd.
Stopped to look at the hare.
And scared the tiny blue bird.
He moved slily to catch butterflies.
And plucked flowers from a tree.
I kept looking with yearning eyes.
Baffled, surprised he looked at me.
He ran towards the narrow ravine.
And disappeared into bushes green.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 3:55 AM UTC
I marvel at this broken child who lived inside of me,
who struggled for so many years just longing to be free.
To live a life unburdened by my dark and early years,
that made my youth a living hell wrapped in unspoken fears.
My haunted past and broken heart could never quite recall,
the missing piece tucked safely back behind a guarded wall.
So well my mind protected me from all those silent fears,
that n'er did I suspect what lie behind those childhood tears.
Like the ghost it was, it came to me to haunt me in the night,
and brought me to my knees when life refused to treat me right.
Then suddenly, though sent by God, you've given me the key,
To open up these long locked doors and set my spirit free.
Now each sweet day is filled with so much joy and hope I find,
that little girl, so happy now, is dancing in my mind!
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC
Softly and steadily we munch
A roller motion action
As we gently pass over
Living in a contented silence
Randomly we each call
Hollow pipes we are played
By the holy organist
As life plays its tune
Understood be very few
As we submit to the herd
And spiral around a oneness
Mooing and mooing
With a great gusto
We send out O's
circles spiraling
Softly blowing bubbles
With an oily shine
We are carried forward
In these bulbs of light
Air filled with vibration
Caressing and holding
Our community with
An invisible film
As we all feel this
Light headed embrace
And the golden ring of community
Is placed on our finger
We say "YES YES YES "
For we love her very much
Living free of hierarchy
As everyone is equal
Servant and master
Divorced from the conflicting
Ties of politics
We are as level and free as
The planes from which we graze
Living a freedom faraway from
Rank and power
And enjoy the vast out stretching
Places where our hearts unburdened
By mountains unfold into unlimited spaces
Collapsing within each breath
We spread our Love with the ease
Of melting butter in the African sun
Far and wide
In the mating season
We may bumble around
Like bumper cars
As you can not underestimate
The force of each individual
As we bang and bang our way
Through life until opportunity knocks
Until life says yes
As our our stubbornness
Is not just the perfect No
But the perfect Yes to
And mothers reward our newborns
With her loving milk
The perfect colostrum
A silky bliss
In the expansive community
Of wildebeest and cattle
Where endless love
Can spread like water
We can learn so very much
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 7:09 AM UTC
What is freedom?
Is it the choices we are free to make?
Is it the paths we are able to take?
Or is it to live devoid of lies?
Our right to be without disguise?
What is freedom?
A wrist, unburdened by chains?
A mind, unblemished by stains?
Or happiness attained by few,
Happiness that pulls us through?
What is freedom?
Perhaps it is the leaf that dances in the breeze,
Or the wind that rushes through the trees,
The wolf, howling its dreadful song,
Or the bird, whose travels are long?
What is freedom?
Perhaps it is the relationships we make,
Rather the relationships we break,
Or maybe ignoring what’s at stake,
Not dwelling on each and every mistake?
What is freedom?
Is the way we choose to live what makes us free?
Not creating the you we expect you to be?
Or siezing the moments before they pass?
Not letting the days escape all to fast?
What is freedom?
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 10:11 PM UTC
A picture of your mother
dull colors of a bygone era
a polaroid born faded
a memory bestowed upon you by another
a hearsay tale long lost in time
more far than you can count on fingers
she smiles
a smile reserved for the unburdened
you wonder when this woman is
she looks happy
A finger painting of your mother
all colors watered down
a reminder that you must
prioritize
some things carry more meaning
other need meaning poured onto them
cupped like water in both hands
presented to a lip-cracked child
some water saturate the soul
while keeping others thirsty
some colors are skin deep
Your mother, wrapped in blankets
in an almost vacant bed
her paint, dry and life-bleached
you sit with her
through all these final hours
watching as the outer coating
peels off and settles to the floor
solemnly, you sweep the flakes
an acolyte on hallow ground
choosing the most beautiful
pasting to a piece of paper
crafting the image of a woman
that once could have been
your mom
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 2:08 PM UTC
.
*”If you are to love,
love freely and unburdened
by the tombstones
of past miscalculated regrets.”*
But the heart
inadvertently beats
to the mismatched rhythms
of a hundred
caged doves’ wings.
Sep 1, 2021
Sep 1, 2021 at 9:46 AM UTC
i'd like to live in my mind
of fantasy lands
and overgrown worlds
bustling and shaking with life
in all forms
of giant snakes that zoom through the air
of witches and wizards in constant war
of golden knights and fair-headed dames
princesses wielding swords off to battle
and magic coursing through my veins
my blood is liquid dreams
and my heart beats to the melody of a lullabye
oh how i wish to live in my head
untouched by the grime of time
unburdened by the weight of my reality
unbroken
unburied.
Jan 28, 2021
Jan 28, 2021 at 7:18 AM UTC
A skeletal stag standing ten trees tall
Hanging moss adorning His wide antlers, patches of rocky lichen covering His driftwood bones
Large cloven hooves stepping carefully yet purposefully among the bleached remains littering the forest floor
He alone reigns here, in this place beneath ours
Even the pines fall silent as He passes
Even the stones
The air is old here
Thick with a power lost to time
Only He is left; a dimming flicker in a collective consciousness
Keeping a lonely vigil in an ancient forest a thousand miles deep and a hand's width beside us
No breath is drawn here
The soft rattling of His timber ribcage is the sole sound as He moves
Ceaselessly
Without rest
To a place always changing, never quite there
The ossuaries lay in a heavy silence
He assures the eternal slumber of all who rest here
The hollows in His skull seem to observe them, undisturbed
He moves on
His name has been forgotten for millennia
This sacred ground has become but a fleeting memory
Few old gods remain, lost to the quickening of time
He remembers, as He stands keeper of this place
Of an age before ours
When they would polish the skulls of the hunt with holy oils in His name
Dancing wildly and unburdened around towering flames
Primal sounds ripping raw from reverent lips
Now He is all but a wavering in the annals
He pauses in His endless march
Raises His great antlers to the thick canopy above
He listens
Feels the shift -- another one has faded
He will most likely be the last of His kind
A somber sentinel tasked with ensuring the dead wake not from their final sleep
Ensuring the silence is suffocating
A deep, weighted vibration
As if the place under ours was itself thrumming with power
Though none remain who once spoke His true name in fearful whispers
He will outlast
For all will eventually come to know
The one they now call death
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 8:14 PM UTC
Sway seconds ecstatic bliss
The taste of lime and salt
Skin glows, criss crossed shadows
and a panic of lights.
Shifting music
Rhythm intoxication and
Shifting energy
Boldness alights
like a flock of crows gliding in at dusk,
landing on the shoulders
cast in neon-disco light
They fan feathered-dollar bills
With prospects of revelry and dancing
odes to debauchery and youth
and feigning adoration
from the swaying, neon hips.
Subtle chants and hungry eyes
We deserve this
We deserve this
We deserve--
Disappearing in her act,
She arises, in the fame of a dove
Unburdened and free
in the whitest of lights.
She thinks briefly of flying away.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 7:10 PM UTC
***Our souls are enfettered
By an Inexorable Penance,
Sorrows & Lamentations:***
In pining for
The Light of Transmutation
The Adamantine Wings
Of Stalwart Bahamut
Unburdened our etherealized hearts.
(Speaking for the future)
Spira has lost its
Yoke of Communion
To this Cimmerian Millennium.
Redemption’s Revelation:
Aeonic sin hath reigned
Under the Cathedral of Deception
Forged by the taught tongues
**Of Yevon;
Despotic Lunae
Eclipsed the light
Of a forlorn sky,
Divine Pantheon
For
Numen of Sol.**
Cast a
Stygian Shadow of Sanctimonious Suffering for Souls.
Seems eternal; truly, ephemeral.
**For,
the Hearts of nations
Are
Sacrosanct Luminaries.**
Our tears
Have been shed,
Our vanities
Indemnified.
**Skies shall bleed Empyrean Bliss
And
The Opus of Life
Shall cleanse
This wearied Spira of Pernicious Sin.**
(Amen.)***
Sep 25, 2017
Sep 25, 2017 at 5:47 AM UTC
I give you my heart son
For today you gave me my bread
And I knew it was time to pass the baton
Shift the crown on your head.
Today you passed me my bread
A precious gift in love I earn
To softly place on your head
The crown as it’s your turn.
I felt so great and so good
You’ve taken over my son
With the humblest of attitude
From my hand the long held baton.
Today as you passed me my bread
In the crossroad where we now stand
Happily I unburdened my head
Passed lovingly the baton from my hand.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 5:36 AM UTC