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

 

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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

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