Men Cry From the Soul…

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In the moonless darkness of the soul, the men cry,

without a clue or an inkling why.

Voiceless are they, in the darkness of night,

longing for slumber, that is nowhere in sight.

What to do? This is not how men behave,

grappling and reaching for the rest that they crave.

Quickly swept away by their own waterfalls,

self-made currents that stifle their calls.

Hollow are the souls that harbor these men,

tear-stained trails mark where they have been.

If the moon does appear, will it shed some light?

For a vision renewed, restoration of sight.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

 

Images:  Free Google Images

Purple Reign…

Image result for free google images of Prince Rogers Nelson

A ‘prince’ among men, in all of his glory,

we were allowed a glimpse, a few chapters of his story.

Prince made his acquaintance, when he burst onto the scene,

for his musical magic, his fans became fiends.

Millions of records, he sold worldwide,

salacious song lyrics, often donned the flip side.

But the worst tears were shed when he exited the earth,

all the media speculation, what was his net worth?

In the end does any of that really matter,

so much inspiration now broken and shattered.

I wonder what he’s thinking as he watches from above.

Does he feel the loyalty of his fans, the dedication, the love?

Could he possibly know just how much he’ll be missed,

his ‘extra time’ and wind-blown ‘kiss’?

Prince’s musical mastery may never be matched,

the entire earth’s surface, he thoroughly scratched.

Through a misty haze of purple, great music, and now pain,

His memories will live on….in purple, he reigns.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

Quantam…

Consciousness consists of frequencies of quantum energy,

hidden to the naked eye, yet bouncing off every tangible surface.

Obscure in all of its power, stored up, pent up, built up.

Yearning to be freed from the invisible restraints that hold it hostage.

On the verge of breaking through to the thin, protective layers,

that separate its intangible existence, from its illusive reality.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

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