Tag Archives: writing

Cotton Bleeds….

 

History-filled pages continuously bleed,

the crimson red truth of the cotton seed.

The relentless days of a ‘thankless’ job,

non-existent wages, for decades robbed.

To live another day, a bittersweet reward.

Oh, the power of prayer and one accord.

Prayers, hymns, the old negro spiritual,

survival tools of the daily ritual.

From the sweat of the brow to the aching feet,

 exhausting work that is never complete.

The silent suffering, harbored deep in the soul,

frame the unspoken stories that have yet to be told.

The fluffy white softness of a pristine look,

deceiving the eyes, of all the blood once took.

 The blood, sweat and tears that nurtured these seeds,

are painful reminders, that cotton does bleed.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

Images: Free Google Images

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.

Numb…

Sometimes in life we just go numb,

emotionally drained, down to the last little crumb.

The pain of life is often too much,

open wounds are raw and sensitive to the touch.

But once people go numb, what does that mean?

How dull the senses, that once were keen?

Will the treatment of others continue to worsen?

The obvious affects on each and every person?

Once people are numb, can they ever come back,

from a road of darkness and eternal black?

Or is it a conscious choice that one makes,

to take the risk, putting everything at stake?

Upon their return, will they have changed?

Will their once dismal thoughts be newly arranged?

Only time will tell, a journey incomplete,

so tired the bodies and calloused feet.

At least when people are numb, they don’t have to feel,

the layers of pain that slough off and peel.

Maybe being numb is not such a bad thing.

It helps to soften the pain of life’s sting.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

Blind Faith Sees…

Unknown roads are hard to follow,

no guarantee they will lead to tomorrow.

New experiences and adventures, waiting to be discovered,

are often blocked and thoroughly covered.

By paths so murky, can’t see where I’m going.

The roads are unpredictable, anxiety free-flowing.

But my steps are ordered, so I’ve been told,

according to the scripture of testament old.

But if I pay close attention, I don’t need to see.

My faith in God is what guides me.

As I make my way to life’s next intersection,

God is right there with me, in my mind’s reflection.

There to guide me should I stumble and fall.

He has heard my cry, even before I call.

Faith propels me to get up and try again.

To follow the roads as they twist and bend.

My faith has grown every step of the way.

A guiding light for each new day.

Penetrating the darkness that eclipses my view,

making way for the traveling I have yet to do.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

Men Cry From the Soul…

Related imageRelated image

In the moonless darkness of the soul, the men cry,

without a clue or an inkling why.

Voiceless are they, in the darkness of night,

longing for slumber, that is nowhere in sight.

What to do? This is not how men behave,

grappling and reaching for the rest that they crave.

Quickly swept away by their own waterfalls,

self-made currents that stifle their calls.

Hollow are the souls that harbor these men,

tear-stained trails mark where they have been.

If the moon does appear, will it shed some light?

For a vision renewed, restoration of sight.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

 

Images:  Free Google Images

Nature’s Alarm…

The sweet music of nature sings to me,

each morning when I rise.

The melodious sound, is the first thing I hear,

a welcome morning surprise.

The birds are chirping with great excitement,

even though they have not a clue.

Somehow they know they have a purpose,

there’s something they need to do.

So each morning in a purposeful way,

they sing a familiar tune.

What a lovely way to wake each morning,

how beautiful the songs they croon.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

Images:  Free Google Images

 

Pieces of Me…

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

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