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

If I Were a Success…

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

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

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

When Broken Chips are Down…

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

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

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