"upholds" poems
Behold Nigeria my motherland
A land that sits upon the hills of many waters
A country built on the ancient landmark of heroes band
An Eagle that protects her citizens in the arms of her feathers.
A beautiful Nigeria whose fields are as green as green could ever be
An Iroko that stands on the root of peace and unity
A fertile land that is as fertile as fertility can ever be
A united people, a proud nation void of segregation nor discrimination in her city.
My motherland a land that upholds the staff of dignity and natural endowment
A land of unity and peace glowing like a river of gold across the horizon
A nation that feeds on the diet of heavens supplement
An ocean that runs through the test of raging storms un-torn.
My motherland! My motherland!
A Nigeria that adores her women more highly than the Queen of England
An Olive that yields more than the cedars of Lebanon
A land whose daughters are as beautiful as the daughters of Job in Jerusalem's land
An independent country as powerful as the King Nebuchadnezar of Babylon.
It's Nigeria my motherland
A land that rests on the pillars of her freedom
A country seated on the pearls and treasures of many Ireland
A Nigeria that lives on the soil of heavens wisdom.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:55 AM UTC
From depths of woe I raise to Thee
The voice of lamentation;
Lord, turn a gracious ear to me
And hear my supplication;
If Thou iniquities dost mark,
Our secret sins and misdeeds dark,
O who shall stand before Thee?
To wash away the crimson stain,
Grace, grace alone availeth;
Our works, alas! are all in vain;
In much the best life faileth:
No man can glory in Thy sight,
All must alike confess Thy might,
And live alone by mercy.
Therefore my trust is in the Lord,
And not in mine own merit;
On Him my soul shall rest, His Word
Upholds my fainting spirit:
His promised mercy is my fort,
My comfort, and my sweet support;
I wait for it with patience.
What though I wait the livelong night,
And till the dawn appeareth,
My heart still trusteth in His might;
It doubteth not nor feareth:
Do thus, O ye of Israel’s seed,
Ye of the Spirit born indeed;
And wait till God appeareth.
Though great our sins and sore our woes,
His grace much more aboundeth;
His helping love no limit knows,
Our utmost need it soundeth.
Our Shepherd good and true is He,
Who will at last His Israel free.
From all their sin and sorrow.
~ Martin Luther (1483-1546)
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
There is this place
It’s called Palestine
It used to be pretty
And peaceful and lively
The people lived as they do
Everywhere else.
Then there came to be this place
It’s called Israel
Which is basically Palestine
But mercilessly occupied
It attacked Palestine
And took over most of its land.
So now in Palestine
Or what’s left of it
Where there used to be quaint houses
There’s just a lot of rubble
With broken and burnt doors, utensils and limbs
Jutting out from underneath.
Where there used to be bright smiles
That could light up the world
There now are tears,
burn marks and bloodied cuts
That can rend any human heart
Except those that are not human.
It is a war, not between states
Not between races, nor between fates
Nay, this is a bigger war, one of faith
At least, that is how it started
But now, it is between
human and non-human.
Tell me, please
Is it human to **** innocent people
For the sake of self, and the sake of hate?
Is it human then also, to remain quiet
And watch such tyranny be?
It must also be human, to point guns at 4 year olds.
And by this definition,
Humans of this world, humans that feel
Are not humans at all, because they care
And those that don’t, well
They’re humans at their prime
The most evolved of them all.
Israel, I salute you, a salute full of mock
At your utter humanity, and benevolence
Your bombs when they land
With the cheers of your people,
And your guns when they point
At 4-year old terrorists; surely they can ****
Palestine, I stand with you, sincerely
Your children, your people, your land and your peace
Are my children, my people, my land and my peace
Their bombs when they land, make my prayers fiercer
Their guns when they shoot, make my eyes water
But know this, Palestinians, we are one.
So when they shoot you, I bleed
And when they bomb you, I ache
When they hurt you, I feel the pain
And when you cry for help, I pray
We are blood, we are one body
We are the Ummah, we will rise.
Until then we pray, we pray and we try
Dear Palestine, stay strong, stay firm…
Help shall come, in ways unimaginable
*Do not weaken, and do not grieve
You will overcome them, if you are true believers*
Allah has promised, and His promise he upholds.
~Moniba.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
I hide behind a mind engulfed with poisonous secrets I dare not to leave my mouth.
My feet are buried in shackles latched onto them while my skin drips in doubt.
My hands are stitch behind my back with threads of weakness.
My mouth expands while the truth is caged behind my teeth because it’s no one business.
I open my eyes and it flutters more than a bird in fear from a threat.
I lean my head to the side and analyze this disastrous home tormented by time but hasn’t given up yet.
I watched it light on fire.
I’ve seen it dismantled by hurricanes.
I heard the walls and wood creak from the distress.
How can a foundation be so strong after a wave of events?
We all are broken homes at some point of life even if it doesn’t make sense.
Financial crisis, heartbreak, anxiety, school, family, work, depression, racism, we all experience a wave that changes us for the better or for the worst.
Sometimes it becomes so consistent like an epidemic that one can feel curse.
Then we question, “why did I go through this? What did I do to deserve such a traumatic blow to the head?”
And we search for these answers in the same place that hugged us with so much agony and the countless stress it led.
Early nights turn to restless nights in bed because we force reality to sink in our head but it covers our nose and mouth until we faint in a pool of insecurity and beg for these feelings to dead.
Make it stop,
I’m drowning.
The sky turns to a bruised face and wakes up the roots with its tears.
I feel so connected as the drops fall to the floor because it reminds me we all break no matter how much we can bear.
I observe the rain dance on the sturdy house and admire it as the beauty glisten,
I grew a love for this home because it rebuild as much as despondence knocked on the door, it ignored and refused to listen.
It upholds its commitment to itself to never give up.
That no matter how much times it can get rough,
Know that you can survive and pretending your problems don’t exist will never be enough.
-dpk
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 3:05 PM UTC
Nothing ****** me off more
Than when people call me
Pretty
I get it, okay?
We live in a society that upholds beauty
As the most important quality
A girl can possess
So girls who aren't pretty
Feel like less
And guys, knowing this,
Call girls who were not gifted
With a symmetrical face
Proportional features
Or a "rockin'" body
Girls who rank on the lower end
Of that wretched scale
From one to ten
Pretty
Beautiful, attractive
**** exquisite
Gorgeous, lovely
Stunning, hot
And those girls
Those amazing, ugly girls
Infused with insecurities
Self-loathing
And sadness
Give in to those words
Give in to those guys
Believing, if only for a brief,
Tenderless moment
That those pretty words
Do apply
But I am not interested
In false accolades
If you don't find me pretty
Then don't say so
I have plenty of fine qualities
For you to compliment me on
Praise my wit, my charm
My intelligence, my confidence
Things I cultivate
Things I strive to be
Qualities
That complement me
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
Swept in on the sixth of the first
Icy winds sluiced on dripping fleecy snow showers
I saw a raging storm coming with vile foreboding nursed
Staple in peace in love in goodwill laid a fitting banquet for all hours
Rewards for toil and strive in minds attuned and goodness versed
I knelt supplicant before my Lord
Laid my just heart bare and without fear or dread
laid a ringing vow as in warmth or bellowing thundering cold
I rest in the forethought I am girded to sail sun's flames un thread
For no blooded being can justly state I harmed or injured in my fold
I will walk this vale of tears
Meet with demons and the ****** of the outer worlds
Face the volcanoes in hell and shame blazing red lava ingots
I will not cower before deadly serpents or baulk at icy frozen walls
If I fall I will stand again an again till God's time uneaten by maggots
I implored my Faithful Lord
Take me down grind and cast me asunder and bereft
If this be ordained that an innocent soul pays an unjust price
The darkest storm has raged wild and furious a depraved joy theft
My God upholds me and holds that truths and honesty never a vice
[email protected].
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 5:34 PM UTC
Shiva's pillar
of fire upholds--
what cannot fly
upward, fall
downward to
exhaust it.
nor can it be
gone around.
Sep 29, 2019
Sep 29, 2019 at 1:35 PM UTC
A Rock there is whose homely front
The passing traveller slights;
Yet there the glow-worms hang their lamps,
Like stars, at various heights;
And one coy Primrose to that Rock
The vernal breeze invites.
What hideous warfare hath been waged,
What kingdoms overthrown,
Since first I spied that Primrose-tuft
And marked it for my own;
A lasting link in Nature’s chain
From highest heaven let down!
The flowers, still faithful to the stems,
Their fellowship renew;
The stems are faithful to the root,
That worketh out of view;
And to the rock the root adheres
In every fibre true.
Close clings to earth the living rock,
Though threatening still to fall:
The earth is constant to her sphere;
And God upholds them all:
So blooms this lonely Plant, nor dreads
Her annual funeral.
* * * * * *
Here closed the meditative strain;
But air breathed soft that day,
The hoary mountain-heights were cheered,
The sunny vale looked gay;
And to the Primrose of the Rock
I gave this after-lay.
I sang-Let myriads of bright flowers,
Like Thee, in field and grove
Revive unenvied;—mightier far,
Than tremblings that reprove
Our vernal tendencies to hope,
Is God’s redeeming love;
That love which changed-for wan disease,
For sorrow that had bent
O’er hopeless dust, for withered age—
Their moral element,
And turned the thistles of a curse
To types beneficent.
Sin-blighted though we are, we too,
The reasoning Sons of Men,
From one oblivious winter called
Shall rise, and breathe again;
And in eternal summer lose
Our threescore years and ten.
To humbleness of heart descends
This prescience from on high,
The faith that elevates the just,
Before and when they die;
And makes each soul a separate heaven
A court for Deity.
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to turn into the whole wide world, the one that I design,
the one with lights of glistening gold
and wonder undefined.
Is to ignore the very brutal truth, on one's own accord,
ignorant and powerful, a
mistake one can't afford.
So here I am, as usual, how deeply I deny,
that "everything isn't so bad"
I stumble in the lie.
..maybe one day i'll get to see, right through the guise of gold-
the one disguising my whole life
the one denial upholds
Goodbye tomorrow- stay away- I wish to be no more.
my heart contorted, my mind deflates as
my soul and spirit tore.
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 4:37 PM UTC
It’s possible to speak too much to remember what your words mean.
And so is the two-fold danger faced by writers.
Danger is to pace a hole in the floor.
Danger is to stand until you can’t move anymore
like when shallow waves **** your feet into the sand.
So I try not to stand when I write.
I keep a narrow tack
without too many big words
which pedants use to dig great holes in the ground
–moats to keep others out–
or make you think they think big.
But anyone who reads knows about Icarus
and anyone with aims must beware:
to shoot directly upwards is to strike your own head
when like fate the arrow
returns to source.
You’re only as good as your mind,
your characters only as strong as you are.
—at least, this is true in so far as you know.
True in so far as they speak.
For to test them you must torque them
and twist at their cores,
and make opposing forces meet–
but only
as hard as you can.
This makes writing a hill slick with oil.
Insecure. Potential energy.
Potential failure
seated
in all of that grime
that cakes your toes like grease that coats
the teeth of great industrial gears.
So I try not to stand when I write.
But whether the better take comes when you plunge
and you slide and dissolve like so much ice,
I must say I don’t know,
the thought
seems nice.
But the same
It seems like those who let go
Are the ones
with the least to say.
I can't decide
either which way.
All I know about writing is
most sentences are punctuated wrongly.
The period is certain,
but writing is undecided.
It is the figuring-out, a quest-bound troop
that moves with all its own fanfare.
Question marks curl up—
invisible smoke on a summer coal fire:
heat twisting the air like irons in stoke
giving sign of the transformations there withheld.
For fire mediates matter,
so writing stands ever-between.
But I’ve spoken too much and I don’t know what these words mean.
And so I fold like there’s danger in writing,
while danger is imagined like borders on a continent.
Danger is thinking
I'm dangerous enough to keep silent.
Like shallow waves,
given way to sand.
So avoid letting voids form
where the mind dismisses confrontation to more capable smiths.
Writing is –at best– an attempt.
Even with shallow structures
in rhythmic din,
the silent breaks by force of pen,
and all because of the simple fact
that quiet refuses to bend.
All I can hope is my writing upholds these unknowns
while I try not to stand.
But you ask about writing?
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
Why not envision a new eco-poetics grounded in a heritage thousands of years old which upholds that everything in the universe is sacred?
Francisco X. Alarcón
Space, time and Borges now are leaving me …
J L Borges
The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of the personality.
T S Eliot
One does not often think of the tripartite goddess who gave her blessed name to Ireland - Éire, Banba, Fódla - not to mention other goddesses who have left their trace on the landscape, Danu of the Paps of Danu for instance.
Devotional poetry in India goes by the name of bhakti. In the heel of the hunt, a bhakta does not really adore or pine for any god or goddess; as with Mirabai’s love affair with Krishna, or Muktabai singing her own glistening Self; what is sought and what is praised is the brightness of eternal brightness, our shared Self, knowing neither birth nor death.
Some words in this poem sequence are ‘shaded’ to allow for another reading of a line, or a faint echo, a game much cherished by the Celtic poets of yore. Thus, the reader sees the word as the world when written as world and encounters bhakti invocations such as ma (mother) hidden in the word mad!
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From the waves of Poseidon,
To the strikes of Zeus,
Upholds the Philoshophers dream
That dream is a myth
But true in many ways,
To think immortal is given
To live like Athena
Is to have wisdom
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 3:02 PM UTC
Eternally accepted in God’s Son,
His righteousness now credited to me,
I’m pardoned, justified, set fully free.
By grace through faith, hesed is ne’er undone.
No merit of myself on which to stand,
my works of flesh and law won’t favor earn.
But God Himself in Christ, I’d finally learn,
had satisfied each holy, just demand.
And by same grace through faith that justifies,
Christ’s working out His righteousness in those,
by covenant before the world, He knows,
e’er keeps, upholds, protects and sanctifies.
Because in Jesus Christ I am approved,
from trusting in His love I’ll not be moved.
Jun 13, 2022
Jun 13, 2022 at 1:51 PM UTC
Stay strong and courageous
in the Lord.
Remember and know,
He upholds you
with His mighty
right hand.
No matter what
you may be feeling
physically, emotionally,
or spiritually,
He will never forget
or forsake you.
He's there right now,
Making his face to
shine upon you,
listening to
loving petitions
from your family
and friends, and
giving you peace.
Even as you walk through this fire,
He is saying to the evil one,
“What do you think
of my servant John Maple?
No one on earth is like him.
He is a truly good person,
who respects me and
refuses to do evil.”
My friend,
rest well.
You are in
Good hands.
Jul 27, 2010
Jul 27, 2010 at 9:58 AM UTC
#
*Within those connections
most filled with substance,
and depth..
..time, does not deminish
But instead, establishes..
Upholds.
Strengthens.
At times..
one feels so all alone.
You are not.*
#
Jan 16, 2022
Jan 16, 2022 at 9:44 AM UTC
Remember the moonlight, the sunlight,
remember the starlight, the light that holds together
the world.
Like this, let the movies and chapters of our lives
go oh, so far, for by the candles, where we rest, let's imagine
blood red trees, the metallic streets, and the lines between
dreams.
Underneath our feelings, the falling in love,
can seem like only glitter among the gold,
yet under the night, between the spaces of
you and me,
I sing softly your sweetest song.
For I am captivated by your touch,
let my voice call out that you are mine,
and I alone will build you our home,
for nothing will separate us my dear.
when I was a child I doubted love and it's
dreams, but my sweet dear, you eased into my
heart, and I could sing of our love forever.
And so our hearts will grow together as a vine and our
prayers will flow stronger than the blood of the moon.
And as the binding rays of the sun upholds our hearts,
and the deer pants for the waters, so my soul will always
stream to you.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 6:14 PM UTC
Dreams, that's where I have to go
fulfill my fate and reach my destiny, so.
Focus on things that matte,r
isolate myself from all those mad hatters
To see your beautiful face no longer
I distance myself and let reality conquer
consume every bit of me, uphold and devour.
I sit down in alienation and let the music linger.
Scenario's of your absence is rather different from your presence.
I then just realize, that your presence upholds hope's essence.
Hope, hope there's a conversation
between you and me, just us for the whole duration.
I must drift and set myself apart
it's what's best, it's mine to take part.
If you ask me, how I'm doing?
I would say I'm doing just fine, resisting.
I would lie and say you're not on my mind.
But I go out and I breakdown for I'm blind.
Finally I'm forced to face the truth, no matter what I say I'm not over you...
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 6:37 AM UTC
Cold winter river
Cormorant upholds his wings
Black on rock and ice
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 9:06 AM UTC
Breathless . . . Heaving . . . Sputtering . . .
Many more steps to go.
Hardened feet.
No longer are my steps maligned by stabs of blood.
Condemnation . . . Damnation . . . Corruption . . .
My seasoned back launches into my perennial burden.
And another step I take.
Into an inevitable future of drudgery.
Hope . . . Exoneration . . . Absolution . . .
Have long been forgotten.
Their burnt ashes adorn my forehead.
My shoulder screams ahead, into the weight it upholds.
Rumble . . . Rumble . . . Rumble . . .
Each step like the millions before it,
thrusts the stone another foot towards the jagged peak
that towers impressively up ahead.
Dum Da De . . . Dum Da Doo . . . Dum De Da Dum . . .
And the day goes on.
Dum Da De . . . Dum Da Doo . . . Dum De Da Dum . . .
And the night lives long.
Breathless . . . Heaving . . . Sputtering . . .
My war-torn muscles relax.
And the stone sits.
Stares at the valley below.
Lightning . . . Rain . . . Thunder . . .
The wind caresses and cajoles,
And the stone rolls down below, echoing Thor’s exclamations
And my heart leaps with joy.
After all, there will be another day.
And my feet have hardened anyway.
Ha Ha . . . Ha Ha . . . Ha Ha . . .
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 10:03 AM UTC
Time upholds his wonderful stride
He was born to win and ride
Sincerity was in blood to guide
Martyrdom was the essence of pride
On the edge of eternity to guard
The eternal life was gift of God
Valiant soldier was chosen by Lord
Time in itself became time barred
Total disregard for a while
Valiant son of the soil
Marched with soldiers mile to mile
Became role model in rank and file
Sword of honor kept the sword
Carrying call of duty aboard
Opted for himself that road
Which culminated above the board
The soldier proved his worth and mettle
With action of valor in the battle
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2013 Golden Glow
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 5:06 AM UTC
Could you contain my sighs of solitude
by harboring the anxiety in this fragile sea?
On your streets lies the tenderness, aging,
incandescent wind shelters and recalls
them in the distance
the flame anchored in your colors.
Habana,
Lucid, shadowed reminiscent garden
in an infinite insomnia
harnessing the dawn.
Throbbing uniquely,
uniquely understanding,
following the beat, freshness,
watercolor eyes of the city.
Giraldilla, proclamation, mystery,
chaste voice in a calm urge.
I consecrate your vitreaux,
sensing your baroque capitals,
Dusty, unraveled.
I'd like to talk:
Game, rainbow, love,
People, noise, cars;
Essays on flavors.
A captivated rumor,
your arbor dances a naked certainty:
A park, a cloud, summer, God.
The boundary hurts the clef,
the litany resorts to music,
when the stars nurse your elusive chant.
Far… blood calls for your passion,
Languishing, nobody edifies it,
in the absent dwelling of your sun, your moon.
The corner dwellers come to my mind,
the adjacent towns, trembling bedrooms.
I seek within you, dear city,
that home, The Cathedral,
that childhood, concrete flesh,
mother's kiss fading goodbye:
upholds my venerated memories.
Translated by Vanessa Cresevich
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 2:05 PM UTC
The pirate is not the lovable rogue,
The pirate is not the lovable rogue,
The pirate is not the lovable rogue,
He or she is the outlaw of the sea,
He or she is the outlaw of the sea,
He or she is the outlaw of the sea,
The pirate is against the rule of law on the oceans,
The pirate is against the rule of law on the oceans,
The pirate is against the rule of law on the oceans,
The hero of the sea is the captain who upholds law on the oceans,
The hero of the sea is the captain who upholds law on the oceans,
The hero of the sea is the captain who upholds law on the oceans.
Jul 16, 2020
Jul 16, 2020 at 9:56 AM UTC
We might all be able to achieve greatness,
But there can only be one greatest.
That title doesn’t include the many.
It doesn’t include the we or the us.
Sure, we can all fight hard,
Take what's coming our way,
Become stronger because of it.
We might be victorious, now and again.
We might hold the trophy over our heads
And shout and scream our triumphs to the crowd
And feel truly, utterly, absolutely great.
But that does not make us the greatest.
The media might herald our names,
Praise us, speak aloud of our greatness.
Others might follow us, love us, worship us,
Wish to be just like us.
Flocks of fans, declaring us the favorite.
But that does not make us the greatest.
We might make millions,
Accrue and accumulate wealth beyond wealth,
Seize land, buy power, pay our way.
Show it all off, the glitz and gleam;
A man makes money,
But the money really, truly makes the man.
But that does not make us the greatest.
We might be consumed by adversity
Yet come out swinging on the other side.
We might beat back all the others,
Emerge with our heads high and our fists in the air…
But that does not make us the greatest.
Who sets the expectations?
Who writes the criteria?
Who upholds the standards?
Who is the greatest?
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 9:21 AM UTC
A cowboy's hat, a symbol of pride
It tells a story, of the life he rides
Through the dust and the wind, it's his loyal friend
A reminder of the life, that he defends
It shields his face, from the scorching sun
As he rides through the valleys, on the run
Through the storms and the rain, it keeps him dry
A constant companion, that never tells a lie
It's a mark of his trade, and his heritage too
A piece of his soul, that he wears like a tattoo
Through the trials and the triumphs, it's always there
A part of him, that he proudly bears
A cowboy's hat, a symbol of his will
To fight for what's right, and never stand still
Through the highs and the lows, it's a constant force
A reminder of the code, that he upholds of course
So tip your hat, to the cowboys you meet
For they are the ones, who ride to the beat
Of a different drum, in a land that's wild
A place where a cowboy's hat, is the sign of his style.
Apr 20, 2023
Apr 20, 2023 at 8:41 PM UTC