A Quiet Exit…

 

Maya Angelou walked away,

from the world today,

leaving behind a magnificent legacy.

She no doubt left her footprints

deep within the earth’s surface.

If you look closely, you can still see them

outlined in the fresh moistened soil,

as if she had just walked there.

But her footprints gradually became lighter,

until slowly they began to fade

as she neared her exit.

Her footsteps soon disappeared

as she crossed over to the other side,

where the grass is greener,

a new audience awaits,

for the wisdom she will surely bring,

and to find out too why the caged bird sings!

Rest in peace great lady…

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

 

Terracotta Dreams

 

In the depth of slumber,

terracotta dreams flow silently into existence.

Aburst with a brilliance that burns slowly,

and without mercy, quietly and relentlessly.

Etching its presence deep within the recesses of the mind.

A smoldering reminder of the fine line

that exists between the conscience and sub-conscience.

Magnificent terracotta colors

seer their way through, blazing a fiery pathway

that leads deeper into this temporary place,

that only exists while asleep.

To awaken, risks disturbing

the unique tranquility of this colorful space.

The sweltering terracotta madness,

gathers one securely in its clutches.

An unsolicited hypnosis cloaked

in an undetectable disguise.

Terracotta dreams will overtake you,

the moment you close your eyes.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

 

Image found at: http://etsy.com

 

 

Private Anguish…

How could anyone know the pain,

of my distressed and tortured mind?

The mental clutter carelessly strewn about.

Many regrets have I,

but there is no one else to blame.

A bad choice, cannot be taken back.

What’s done is done.

My mind can only ponder a choice

than cannot be reversed.

No matter how much I hope and wish

that things could go back

to times before the choice was made.

I am now left to bask in the worry

that is mine and mine alone.

Anguish is the visitor that I invited

to this private party ~ by ‘invitation’ only,

that which has been readily accepted.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

Image found at: http://lunagirl.com

 

Alone

 

Alone in my bed,

with nothing but the thoughts inside my head

to keep me company ~ but it’s not so bad.

For I am never truly alone

My conscience is my guide to places unknown.

Anxiety and regret ~ my silent companions

always there to mingle

with the thoughts inside my head.

A frequent traveler am I,

occasionally, interruption and distraction stop by

to wreak havoc on my solitary world.

I run for cover

under the cool protection of my sheets.

I am early ~ I am alone,

I lie in wait,

for my thoughts to join me…once again.

Image found at: http://lunagirl.com

 

The Woman I Am….

 

 

The woman I am is filled with hope.

My life experiences have taught me the ropes.

 

The woman I am is focused and steady,

to take on the world, I know I am ready.

 

The woman I am is sensitive and caring,

giving freely from my heart, I don’t mind sharing.

 

The woman I am is secure and stable,

to take on like’s challenges, I am willing and able.

 

The woman I am is aging with grace,

all the wrinkles in life have not left their trace.

 

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

 

Misunderstood…

The twisted dreads upon your heads,

are a wonderful array of madness.

People stop and stare at what you wear,

with a mixture of both sadness and gladness.

You stare right back at this visual attack,

as you proudly sport your attire.

The viscious stares, the sidelong glance,

to their displeasure, you are on fire.

The envy is clear and so is the fear,

as you make your mark in the world’s atmosphere.

The strength of your presence, brings a frown of unpleasance,

as you behave in your natural state.

A state that is great, at any rate,

for it ultimately determines your fate!

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

 

 

 

 

 

A Heart in Bloom

 

 

A heart that blooms opens deep and wide,

unselfishly allowing love full entry inside.

With each new petal, aburst and new,

uncovers another colorful layer or two.

The secret cocooned and so well protected,

has been slowly revealed and carefully detected.

Love is in the air, which is the main reason,

a heart that blooms is always in season.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

 

Burning Embers of Passion

 

Burnt orange embers glow endlessly,

beneath the smokey flames

that we have created.

Our starving souls hunger for

untamed spirits to intertwine

The smoke of the flames smolder feverishly.

Our hearts searching and yearning for more.

Unquenchable and insatiable

are we, for we burn in eternity

Through hearts of fire,

driven by passion-filled

supreme love and desire.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

 

 

The Woman in the Mirror

 

A mirrored reflection holds the painful truth,

Blossoming beauty is not what I find.

My image has not changed much over time,

The years have not been kind.

Daily I struggle to ignore the reflection,

that boldly stares right back,

A constant reminder of all my flaws,

and everything else that I lack.

My skin is uneven, my hair is a mess

and my lips are much too big.

My sanctuary lies in a deep, dark hole,

that I long since started to dig.

However, I’m becoming weary of this,

while hiding from the mirror everyday.

It’s time to face the truth head on,

and view myself in a different way.

Slowly, I’m starting to realize,

God has blessed me far deeper than the eye.

For too long, I’d been kicking myself,

asking my reflection, “Why?”

But my reflection has answered me all along;

for the mirror reflects the truth.

I’ve been blessed with a beauty so profoundly deep,

and the woman in the mirror is proof.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

 

Fingertip-sation!

 

I remember that night,

when you washed my hair.

As I melted in the heat,

that your hands did share.

 

The massage was so wonderful,

your hands were a gift.

You relaxed me completely,

I was tempted to drift.

 

I received so much pleasure,

from your wonderful fingers.

My skin still tingles,

for the memory does linger.

 

Now, every time that I wash my hair,

I’ll remember that night,

when your hands were there…

 

By Sylvia Porter-Hall