O Come, Let Us Adore Him

Come
By: the iHope Poet

Come, let us adore Him,
the babe in the stall,
who gave us the blessing

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of giving His all.

Come, let us adore the
sweet son of our God.
The man who brought peace
on this earth from above.

Come, let us adore Him.
His birth and his life.
For Christ was much more
than a child in the night.

His mercy, His goodness,
His perfection and love,
His miraculous deeds
and His sacrificed blood;

Come, let us adore Him,
the babe in the stall,
who gave us the blessing
of giving His all!

Trail of Thorns

pins and needles make a crier
burning knives slide down my cheeks
blood is boiling
heart is pounding
beating out its final beats

sharpest pain releases slowly
making tears such tearful things
sobs are brimming
inhales chilling
headache comes with stabbing ring

crying isnt all that painful
pins and needles only come
once the tears have left me empty
and my soul has come undone

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Make the Choice

To Reach

By: the iHope Poet

fingertips are hardly simple tools

upon our hands.

they do not touch or feel or reach

without a choice command.

our ears, they gather every sound.

our eyes, each dancing sight.

our dizzy heads, they're rash

as every idle thought takes flight.

but our hands have something more in use

than mindless tendencies,

the miracle of our fingers is

they listen when we reach.

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A Star in the Sky

Out of Reach
By: the iHope Poet

Something is here that is missing.
There's a star in the sky, out of reach.
There's a thought in my heart, and it's beating out loud,
Fighting hard at this wall left to breach.

Morning is breaking through darkness;
I am seeing your face, though still blind.
It is hard to forget what I'm feeling these days,
All too easy to keep you in mind.

I'm trying to comfort the wounded;
Their same loss is what's breaking my soul --
        There is something that's here, but is missing --
        And what's missing is keeping me whole.

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Even though.

Knives and Hammers

By: the iHope Poet

Knives and hammers clash a lot.

You bash on me, I stab at you;

It's hard to not avenge the pain,

when we don't think before we do.

Bloody cries of battle wounds --

they make no difference in the war.

As long as I can scream out too,

I guess the fight will last some more.

The sad thing is, the screeching

of the metal never ends.

What's more, it seems to justify 

our words, so cold and rent.

I wish that I could stop

and hide my knife away for good;

that you could stop the pounding --

then we'd both be understood.

Well, even though I recognize

our fighting is in vain,

knifes and hammers clash a lot.

I will avenge my pain!

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A Gray Thought

Why I love the Color Gray

First, I loved it for its contribution to rain. As a little girl I was so fascinated by the dark clouds, thick sky, and heavy wind that always meant a rain storm was on its way. Gray was the theme of every rainstorm - it still is. And I still love it. I do not always have the time to dance in the puddles like I used to, but my appreciation for God's Teardrops remains the same. 

Then, I loved it for its temperance. A perfect blend of two extremes of the spectrum. Black and white. Gray. For whatever reason I felt a need to become gray myself - not too much of anything. Yet, as I grew older still, I learned and realized that my enemies love the color for the very same reason. 

Evil and good. Gray. 

If it all blends together, who's to say there's any truth left in this world? 

And so, desperately, I searched for the real, final reason of why this color could possibly mean so much to me. And I have found it in my poetry. 

I love the color gray for the same reason I love the gospel. For the same reason I look to Christ. For the same reason I love the smell of rain, and the same reason I have a journal of poems entitled iHope. 

Gray reflects Potential. 

It insinuates Hope and Possibility. 

It brightens the black sky, and shines through the end of the tunnel to remind me that, though all is not perfectly right yet, though the sun does not always shine directly above me, light is on its way. 

When I see gray, I remember that I am not lost. 

I remember that I still have a destination, I still have purity to attain; but that I am no longer hopeless. 

No longer alone. 

The Devil loves Gray for its shadow. I love it for its light. 

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There is a girl

Girl of Glass
By: the iHope Poet

There are many kinds of rebellion.
Rebellion to make a statement,
rebellion to make a change,
rebellion to simply not conform.
Well I don't have a statement to make,
or a change yet to pursue,
but I refuse to comply
to the world,
so easily accepted by all.

There are words that hurt more than others.
Some are said to touch the soul,
some to cruelly pierce the poor and wounded.
And mine, to sting the lies
that no one else thinks twice about.

There is a girl who is not particularly
smaller or bigger than who she lets show.
The mirror doesn't display some stranger
when she looks inside.
The fact is, she tries to be honest about herself
to everyone around her.
Honest, so that as she grows,
the world outside does too.

The only thing keeping her from showing more
is the thin glass wall, where people can see through,
but are kept from hearing what she has to say.
Because there are truths that must be spoken,
change that you cannot see, but only hear.

There is a girl who is true to herself.
She has no curtains to cower behind,
no stage to act on or doors to lock.
Though perhaps she has nothing better to say
than any comedian, reporter, or brilliant speaker,
the glass alone, unbreakable from the inside out,
keeps her truth she wants to tell 
from really being known.

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Don't do it alone

Without a Friend
By: the iHope Poet

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As hope is lost and faith is torn,
so light is broken, left unseen,
It's hard to grasp the thread of strength
needed to last that final reach.

Your truth is fallen, seeming wrong,
your wounds are raw and cutting deep
Humility alone won't bring relief
from all the pain and all the grief.

So, when bursting thunder rents you through
and darkness threatens without end,
keep in mind the simple truth:
You can't be found without a friend.

Roses have thorns.

The Risk

By: the iHope Poet

Life isn't meant to be lived in heartache;

though the heart does break, breathing helps us mend.

We don't climb trees with the intention of falling,

and when those branches don't hold, we just climb again. 

The risks shouldn't keep us from choosing the greatest, 

yet we must regard the prices we have chosen to pay.

So when we lose, or ache, or fall, or regret, 

it's best to accept the beauty caused our pain today. 

No, we wouldn't fly airplanes with wings tipping down, 

or expect our best kite to soar without wind. 

We wouldn't pick roses that've wilted and withered;

But we don't drop the flower when its thorns prick our skin.  

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On Looking Back

Old Ropes
By: the iHope Poet

Life moves along so quickly.
Often, I don't hold onto one rope long enough
to realize how suddenly
it slipped from my fingertips.

And the old ropes are replaced so easily.
Whenever I'm found empty handed,
It takes about a split second
before a new one is placed in my grip.

It's only when I stand upon life's hilltops,
looking back at the end of each day, month, year . . .
and the setting sun lights the paths I've long crossed-over;
that I realize all I've passed through.

It is then that I see how far
my own two feet can carry me -- and how swiftly
those neverending ropes drag me forward.
Ever forward. Leaving behind the old and grabbing onto the new.

So I'm sorry. That I never stopped long enough
to look back and say goodbye. I didn't realize I'd be gone so soon.
And by the time that sun glowed orange and pink across the horizon,
you were far away and left on your own path.

Probably glancing back occasionally, too.

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water colors

Drawing in the Rain
By: the iHope Poet

This paint is a cascading storm upon the canvas,
dripping in a long streak of gray.
It's all a world of tears;
the tears spilling down my face.
It isn't easy drawing pictures in the rain.

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A Beautiful Farewell

Your light is missed now

but we know the night will end

to show us morning. 

Love, until we meet again.

What if.

Afraid of the Response
By: the iHope Poet

You are afraid of silence.
A fear that if you stop to listen closely,
you won't hear anything at all.

You are afraid of the dark.
The illusion that if you pause to look deeper,
you'll be alone in an empty space.

You are afraid of the cold.
Fearful of reaching out with warmth,
asking for it, too;
and feeling a ghost's breath instead.

You're afraid of deficit.
For what is silence, but a lack of noise and sound?
Darkness, but the absense of light?

And a frozen soul just a heart without
the warmth of love.

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The sky dropped buckets . . .

On a clear, blue day. 

By: the iHope Poet

The sun was here the other day. 

It promised it would stay

a while. 

The clouds were white and far away, 

yet lingered, as if threat'ning bile.

Today those clouds have lowered, thick, 

and though the skies are still so blue, 

I see the world in grays and blacks. 

And white is gone, the sunshine, too. 

So much for promises of lasting sun,

so much for hope of days to come.

The rain is here today, 

and I

can only look towards the sky. 

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Hospital Gowns . . . and one fallen leaf.

The Waiting Room Outside.
By: the iHope Poet

You wouldn't think to marvel at the beauty of pain.
But I do.
You probably wouldn't notice the few leaves (this time of year) blowing
through the wind on the ground; rustling against the pavement -- the echo of death
mockingly grating against a sacred silence.
But I did.
I couldn't just sit there and hear talk of still-breath and funeral plans when,
just inside, just a left turn down the hall and through a door,
laying on a bed with the t.v. flashing and muted, she's there.
She, with all the blood and the tubes and the wilted skin,
and the monitors that always find a reason to beep! 
She, with the metal Christmas tree, in the middle of June, upon which hangs prescription ornaments dangling in clear plastic bags, with all these labels that mean nothing to me,
and yet, mean the difference between her life and death --
She's there.

And breathing.
Not a limp leaf, scrambling across the grounds as the wind teases its hopelessness.
Not a body just yet, but a spirit. A soul. Grasping for help as she struggles with the pain and the fear.
It isn't easy, fighting pain. But harder still is having the courage to fight the fear of pain.
She has that courage.
The courage to say a prayer, over and over, to be comforted when it would be easier
to panic and give in.
And she does not.

For the beauty of the pain she grapples with;
for the time she spends conquering her fears --
and all of ours.
For the beauty of that dead leaf, on the ground;
God only knows how long it struggled on the branches, before
the wind overcame its strength.

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Told you so - don't make me tell you again.

You think it. I know it. 

By: the iHope Poet

I know what I know

and I mean it.

Whatever you say is considered.

For the words that you say will not make me delay

or unknow what I know

to be truer. 

You think that you know

so you question

and contradict every conception.

For there's danger in anything I have to say

if it makes you rethink

your deception

(I've been wrong plenty of times. Now it's your turn.) 

Falling Away

Does anyone Care?
By: the iHope Poet

One rung at a time, she climbs to the top,
the top of the ladder to reach the sky.
And one rung away, she stumbles and falls --
falls down through the air and
does anyone care?

One hill and another, she hikes every slope,
each step rubbing blisters; just keeps moving on.
At the top of the last, as she looks gladly down,
she trips and falls back--back through sweat-dirty air
and does anyone notice?
does anyone care?

She's told herself over and over again --
I'll keep getting up, I'll keep taking the pain.
But for each time she falls, there's another glass shard
sticking into her side, digging deep to her bones.
And will anyone reach out a hand or a heart?
Does anyone realize she's fallen so far?
Is there someone who notices all she has done,

does anyone care she keeps trying so hard?

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Again and Again pt 2

On Glass Cages

I look in front of me and I see the world beyond, the road ahead, the pavement my feet are anxious to tread. My thirsty gaze drinks it all in, but my fingertips know what holds me back. An unseen barrier filters through the vision of what lays before me, yet denies me passage to continue the journey.

In reality I’m free, but I see the fish in front of me is not. He swims in earnest, agitated circles, but does he know what I know? Does he understand his fate in the bowl, or has he forgotten already?

Glass jars hold many objects, from swimming life to canned goods, their walls are both sanctuaries as well as cages. In many ways, I feel as if I stand behind their transparent walls myself -- perhaps as if drifting in a bottle in an open sea, tossed upon the waves of day-to-day experience -- or else sitting still in a panic, or banging against the glass, longing to break free and move. Some may consider the boundaries of a jar and think of safety and peace. I do not.

When I think of glass itself I often shudder, simply because the idea of seeing potential yet knowing it is not mine to reach is harrowing.

But I am not talking about many of the social barriers that perhaps you, reader, would associate with this scenario. For myself I do not speak of stereotypical “glass ceilings”, equal rights or free choice only; rather, I relate to the freedom of speech. Just days ago I discovered the limitations that come from a world of glass barricades, where people fight for the illusion of freedom but lock away those who have deeper perception by staying them from speaking out against the glass. I remember the tremors that coursed through my body as I realized how silenced I felt, incapable of being heard clearly by all those who chose not to hear, or else couldn’t for the sake of the jar that separated them from me. I felt as though my desperate grasp on reality, leaving sweaty fingerprints smeared on the window that blocked my words, was slowly tearing to shreds.

The obstacle I speak of exudes a wider view than that which is seen by a goldfish, a message in a bottle, or even a freethinker. I find myself trapped in a cage that shows me the world, as it disintegrates before my eyes, while I and the people who, somewhere, stand beside me, are forced to watch helplessly; though we know what we could say and do if only we were truly free.

This cage is not one typically considered, yet it exists. Even more startling, it traps those outside its walls as well. The words I am “free to speak” do not often break past the thickness of the glass, leaving those who lie beyond with deaf ears and single-minded thoughts. My question is then, what freedom do we really have? What are we losing? And what are we truly fighting for?

If we are ever to answer these we need to learn to see the glass and not through it. For that is the key to setting the fish free, to cracking the code from the bottle, or to hearing those who are simply not heard anymore in today’s society.

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Some important way . . .

There's a Reason why we're Loved
By: the iHope Poet

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There is a reason why we're loved,
each of us, in some important way.
A love that leaves an impression
on our hearts that lasts forever.
There is a reason why we love,
each of us, in some important way.
We love to let those people know,
they're loved, in some
important way.

it is beautiful

Beautiful Two

By: the iHope Poet

She did not feel the tears she let

slip freely down her cheeks;

And that is when her mother saw

her baby girl was weak.

I watched as two entwined in one,

as comfort healed the pain.

I saw how beautiful it was,

those two could love that way.

He doesn't let his family see

as trials take their toll.

His heart is breaking achingly

for grandma, frail and old.

I watched while even my own eyes

were wet with recent tears,

how beautiful my father is

as he fights back his fears.

We do not always recognize

when wounds still hold us back,

and even when we do, perhaps

we don't know how to ask.

How beautiful it is that there

are people all around, the friends

and also family who will hold us

when we're down.

There's beauty in the way we reach,

the way we seek to cure.

There's godliness in every hand

that lifts another's burden.

How perfect when I see the strength

of those who stand alone,

and what beauty found in moments when

the weak are wrapped in love.

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