The Best Love of All….

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

The Cold Within…

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

When Paper Meets the Pen…

Until the paper meets the pen,

private thoughts remain unknown.

The deepest, darkest secrets lie,

in the marrow of our bones.

Therapeutic is the art of words,

hidden safely behind the lips.

A silent dance, they do perform,

while the beat of our hearts skip.

The transparency that our sharing brings,

does open up the soul.

Forcing us back into our shells,

to reclaim our original roles.

So, until the paper meets the pen,

the world will never know.

The direction of our inner thoughts,

and which way they will go.

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

To Know Me is To Love Me

To know me is to love me,

or at least that’s what I’ve heard.

I hesitate to agree with this,

at the risk of sounding absurd.

To know me is to love me,

at least I’d like to believe.

I dare to utter these words out loud,

to those unwilling to receive?

To know me is to love me,

a work in progress indeed.

Please don’t judge the humanness,

from which my faults do feed.

To know me is to love me,

for I’m growing every day.

Like a rare and unusual flower,

that blossoms in its own special way.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

I Won’t Give Up

I won’t give up, I simply can’t,

it’s not the way I was made.

Within me lies the will to live,

best made plans have been laid.

What am I to do when hope runs out?

No silver lining in sight.

The only thing that makes any sense,

is to face the fire and fight.

So, I’ll fight as though my life depends,

and often, it usually does.

Looking back will surely bring regret,

for all that is and was.

So, I won’t give up, I simply can’t,

it’s not the way I was made.

The fight in me will never die,

nor will I be afraid.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

Scars

Though scars may fade and even heal,

their presence still remain.

While not allowing us to forget,

our fleshy wounds and pain.

The visible reminders of many journeys,

tough travels over time,

Consistently failing to forgive,

a self-defeating crime.

If only we would realize,

that forgiveness is the truth.

The visible scars may still remain,

 our healing is the the proof.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

2014 in review

Thanks to everyone for all of the wonderful support of my blog in 2014. A special thanks to my most frequent comment makers and very interactive fellow bloggers: Levi Thetford, Lorrie Bowden, Mihrank, Viktoryarch and The True Light.  Your positive support is priceless!! 🙂

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,500 times in 2014. If it were a cable car, it would take about 42 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.