PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

To love, truly love,

is not the tremble of the lips in spring,

nor the wine-glassed vow beneath the moon’s soft ring;

it is not the poem etched in bloom and sigh,

but the dirt beneath the fingernails

when hearts break open and do not die.

It is to walk, barefoot, into the unknown

of another’s heart, not with lantern or map,

but with the trembling whisper: “I am here.”

And when storms rise like unspoken grief,

to plant your feet, not disappear.

Yes, it is easy to love when laughter spills

like light through clean windows;

when joy is abundant,

and the garden of the self needs no tilling.

But real love?

Real love, asks for hands in the dark,

asks for breath when breath is short,

asks for silence when words could wound,

asks for presence,

when every part of you longs to run.

It is the holy art of staying soft

when the air is stiff with tension,

of whispering calm when the storm is not yours,

but rages through the person you adore.

It is patience in the face of confusion,

kindness in the drought of understanding.

It is to sit beside another’s ache,

without fixing, without fleeing, simply being,

an open hand in a world of closed fists.

Love is not perfect.

It limps. It forgets.

It loses its way and learns again.

But oh, it is worth it.

Because beneath our bones,

behind our histories, we are just souls,

longing to be seen, to be known,

to be met in the stillness

and held as if we were light.

So love.

Love not for the reward,

but for the reverence.

Love bravely. Love deeply.

For this, dear heart,

is the divine labour of the living.

Pain, by itself, is a blunt instrument,

a raw note struck against the hollow bone of being,

it reverberates, yes, but teaches nothing

until we still the echo and listen.

For pain is not a prophet,

only a presence.

It screams, but wisdom whispers.

And only in silence can one hear

what the ache is trying to say.

When the heart bends low enough

to ask, “What is this shaping in me?”

then pain uncloaks its savage grace,

the burn becomes baptism,

the scar, a script of survival.

Reflection is the alchemy,

turning suffering into gold.

The wound that once split you open

becomes a window for light to enter.

Mistakes, now mentors; and endings,

the first seeds of beginning.

Progress does not come from avoidance,

but from allowing the flame

to temper you without consuming you.

Let it sculpt your spirit, not your story.

Each setback is an invitation to expand,

to find the pulse beneath the rubble,

the music within the bruise.

Pain without reflection is merely endurance.

Pain with reflection, is evolution itself.

When I stop to ponder this subject…I’m not as perfect as I think…

I have never been able to whistle…my left eye…I can’t wink.

Without my glasses I can’t see clearly…I have a huge gap between two toes…

My hair has stopped growing on my head…

but it keeps growing on my back 

and in my ears and nose.

I could go on and on…but that’s enough about me….

What if I’m exactly the person my Gods created me to be?

What if the Gods in all their wisdom…as part of their mystique…

decided to make none of us perfect…but all of us unique? 

What if when they got together to create us…

after choosing human as our name

they decided to make everyone a little different…

so no two people are the same?

And what if they hoped we’d come to accept the differences in ourselves..

as well ads in each other…

differences large and small?

Knowing only when we do…

will we have a perfect world after all.

Every day…may acceptance and compassion in each of us increase…

and may we continue to comfort one another

and be instruments of peace