Tag Archives: writer

Worst Day Ever?

Hello fellow blogger friends! Every now and then I come across a piece that I find so fascinating, that I just have to share it with you all. This piece is amazing but be sure to follow the instructions at the bottom to get the full affect! Enjoy!!

By Chanie Gorkin

Today was the absolute worst day ever

And don’t try to convince me that

There’s something good in every day

Because, when you take a closer look

This world is a pretty evil place.

Even if

Some goodness does shine through once in a while

Satisfaction and happiness don’t last

And it’s not true that

It’s all in the mind and heart

Because

True happiness can be attained

Only if one’s surroundings are good

It’s not true that good exists

I’m sure you can agree that

The reality

Creates

My attitude

It’s all beyond my control

And you’ll never in a million years hear me say

Today was a very good day

**Now read it from bottom to top, the other way,

And see what I really feel about my day.

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

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

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 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

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