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
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, 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
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
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
If I were a success,
what would that mean for me?
Would it be everything,
I had imagined it to be?
If I were a success,
how would things really change?
Would my preconceived notions,
become quickly rearranged.
If I were a success,
would I be true to myself?
Or would I be ruined,
by fortune and wealth?
If I were a success,
would I be complete?
Would I share the real me,
or selfishly retreat?
If I were a success,
would I gain many friends?
Would I be a frequent topic,
of social media trends?
If I were a success,
a better person would I be?
Would the true person I am,
be easy to see?
Hopefully!
By Sylvia Porter-Hall
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
In a day and age where loyalty wains,
behind your back, the looks of disdain.
The unseen daggers that caused you pain.
God’s love remains; supremely he reigns.
It’s not a fad, certainly not a trend.
When I praise my Father, it should not offend.
The minds of those who can’t comprehend,
the divine healing that thoroughly mends.
Do not despair when others fail,
to hear your cries and hopeless wails.
You’ve become the object of their wicked tales.
But the love of God forever prevails.
When everyone else has left your side,
and you’re all alone on that wicked ride.
There’s no where to run, no where to hide.
God sees your wounds, the tears you’ve cried.
It is difficult to get up from so many falls.
Your pleas are ignored like unanswered calls.
The weight of your spirit, too heavy to haul.
The endless tears, a baby’s bawl.
With knees that are bruised from the miles you’ve crawled.
The joy you once knew, now punctured and sprawled.
But your love still lives, though your spirit has stalled.
God’s love is truly the best love of all.
By Sylvia Porter-Hall
Hello all! Just want to share this awesome poem that was read during this morning’s church service. The author is unknown, but this piece is powerful. Enjoy!!
Six humans trapped by happenstance
In dark and bitter cold;
Each one possessed a stick of wood
Or so the story’s told.
Their dying fire in need of logs,
The first woman held hers back;
For of the faces around the flame
She noticed one was black.
The second man looking all about,
Saw no one of his church,
And couldn’t bring himself to give
The fire his stick of birch.
The rich man sat and thought
Of all the wealth he had in store;
Why should his stick be used to warm
The lazy, shiftless poor?
The poor man sat in tattered clothes,
He gave his coat a hitch;
No way would he let his stick be used
By the greedy selfish rich.
The black man bitter and full of rage,
Held his oak branch tight;
For all he saw in his stick of wood,
Was a chance to spite the white.
The last man of this forlorn group
Did nothing except for gain;
Giving only to those who gave,
Was how he played the game.
The branches held in fate’s cruel hands,
Was proof of human sin;
They didn’t die from the cold without;
They died from THE COLD WITHIN.
Author – Unknown
Why do people crush to the ground,
the broken chips already down?
Sharp heels that grind with commanding force,
pressing into the earth without remorse.
They ignore and pretend not to hear the plead,
of those in trouble and in great need.
Not a word of kindness just to say,
I know you’re struggling, are you okay?
Those you thought would have your back,
when you find yourself under attack.
But when you look, hardly no one is there,
Does death have to loom for them to care?
What once moved people, no longer does,
a new mindset, now trumps what was.
I wish that people could really see,
how very different things could be.
The lonely silence and absence of sound,
a stark reality, no one is around.
Would they recall those crushed to the ground?
when the broken chips were already down.
By Sylvia Porter-Hall
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