Category Archives: female poet

Pieces of Me…

I never knew how important you were,

until I had to say goodbye.

Even though some time has passed since then,

I can’t stop wondering why.

To suffer the loss of such vital parts,

that I never thought I would.

I’ve learned to take one day at a time,

by embracing the bad and the good.

The hazy self-image in my mirrored reflection,

is a reminder to me every day.

I certainly would not be the person I now am,

had things not worked out this way.

I had to lose these pieces of me,

to find my true self worth.

I’m a better person, in spite of the loss.

I have found my purpose on earth.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

To Whom Much is Given…

To whom much is given, much is required.

God supplies all of our needs, our deepest desires.

Through the roughest terrain,

the hottest of fires,

God always brings us through,

revealing the devil as a liar.

Every time we praise and give thanks to our Lord,

we rebuke the devil, the power of one accord.

So instead of wondering, why me?

Maybe the question should be why not?

Especially, when so much is required,

and we’ve indeed been given a lot!

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

A Man Who Sits Alone…

Admiring the beauty of the surrounding land,

and the home he built with his own two hands.

In his comfortable chair, always facing the east,

for a few precious moments, not a care in the least.

Often daydreaming of someone special and rare,

the perfect reason to place another chair..

Or would the peace he’d known, soon be disturbed?

Would his tranquil life somehow be curbed?

He wondered if things should stay just as they are?

As he searched for the answers beyond the stars.

Just as sure as the changing of the seasons,

A man who sits alone, does so for a reason.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

Granddad’s Hat…

Image result for free google images of drawings of men wearing hats or caps

He stood tall, about six ft. two,

a man of great stature and mystery.

If only my granddad had had the time,

to gather the threads of past history.

I remember him to be a man of few words,

what little he said, he meant.

A quick glance from him and one instantly received,

the message that he sent.

A quiet presence, yet powerful indeed,

a man you had to respect.

His interactions were always understood,

short in length and very direct.

Amidst the serious steel-like demeanor,

you might catch a glimpse of a smile.

His hat always rested perfectly in place,

capturing his signature style.

Granddad’s hat simply added mystique,

to a man who wore it well.

One could only wonder what made him tick,

though his lips would never tell.

Granddad always wore a hat,

some may have thought he was shy.

Though none dared to ever tip the hat,

to reveal the message behind his eyes.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

Penny Thoughts…

A single penny for a thought,

is that really all it’s worth?

A cost that is cheap, unlike the talk,

the babble post-baby’s birth.

You would think that after all this time,

our thoughts would be worth more.

But the more we share what’s on our minds,

the pennies seem to pour.

I wonder what was on the mind,

of the person who came up with this?

The value of thoughts misunderstood,

the mark was surely missed.

A penny for a single thought,

or so the saying goes.

Obviously not a lot has changed,

no matter what the prose.

Maybe it’s best to keep our thoughts,

safe and securely bound.

If thoughts were never shared out loud,

no pennies would be found.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

Sometimes Gender Bends…

Some people can’t leave well enough alone,

And accept the fact that, to each his own.

What do they care about others choices?

The varying opinions of different voices.

A gender that bends in the opposite direction,

will reflect the truth in its mirrored reflection.

Sometimes he becomes she, and she becomes he.

Who is anyone to say that it shouldn’t be?

The negative influence of unkind words,

of those that are ignorant and rudely absurd.

Because in the end, what will be will be,

Even though some refuse what is plain to see.

The truth that is staring them right in the face,

that would be called, the human race.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall