I found something in it to touch my heart, or I thought it had a message I agree with; the second part consists of some of my original poetry. Hope you enjoy!!!
Yesterday a butterfly Came floating gently through the sky. It soared up through the atmosphere, Then drifted close enough to hear. I said, "I'd love to fly with you It looks like it would be just fun To fly up towards the summer sun. But I have not your graceful charm; I haven't wings - just these two arms. I've been designed to walk around- My human feet must touch the ground. Then magically, it spoke to me And told me what IT'S wish would be. It said, "What I'd love most to do Is walk upon God's Earth with you - To squish it's mud between my toes Or touch a finger to my nose. I'd love just once to walk around With human feet to touch the ground. But I have not two legs that swing; I haven't arms, just these two wings." And so we went our separate ways In wonder and surprise; For we'd both seen God's precious gifts Through each other's eyes. - Author Unknown The Cold Within Six humans trapped by happenstance In black 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 her's back, For on the faces around the fire, She noticed one was black. The next man looking across the way Saw one not of his church, And couldn't bring himself to give The fire his stick of birch. The third one sat in tattered clothes - He gave his coat a hitch; Why should his log be put to use To warm the idle rich? The rich man just sat back and thought Of the wealth he had in store, And how to keep what he had earned From the lazy, shiftless poor. The black man's face bespoke revenge As the fire passed from his sight; For all he saw in his stick of wood Was a chance to spite the white. And the last man of this forlorn group Did naught except for gain; Giving only to those who gave, Was how he played the game. The logs held tight in death's still hands Was proof of human sin. They didn't die from the cold without, They died from the cold within. -Anonymous The Dash I read of a man who stood to speak at the funeral of a friend. He referred to the dates on her tombstone from the beginning...to the end. He noted that first came the date of her birth and spoke of the following date with tears, but he said what mattered most of all was the dash between those years. For that dash represents all the time that she spent alive on earth... and now only those who loved her know what that little line is worth. For it matters not, how much we own; the cars....the house...the cash. What matters is how we live and love and how we spend our dash. So think about this long and hard...are there things you'd like to change? For you never know how much time is left. (You could be at "dash midrange.") If we could just slow down enough to consider what's true and real, and always try to understand the way other people feel. And be less quick to anger, and show appreciation more and love the people in our lives like we've never loved before. If we treat each other with respect, and more often wear a smile... remembering that this special dash might only last a little while. So, when your eulogy's being read with your life's actions to rehash... would you be proud of the things they say about how you spent your dash? (Author Unknown) Phenomenal Woman Pretty women wonder where my secret lies I'm not cute or built to suit a model's fashion size But when I start to tell them They think I'm telling lies I say It's in the reach of my arms The span of my hips The stride of my steps The curl of my lips I'm a woman Phenomenally Phenomenal woman That's me I walk into a room Just as cool as you please And to a man The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees Then they swarm around me A hive of honey bees I say It's the fire in my eyes And the flash of my teeth The swing of my waist And the joy in my feet I'm a woman Phenomenally Phenomenal woman That's me Men themselves have wondered What they see in me They try so much But they can't touch My inner mystery. When I try to show them They say they still can't see I say It's in the arch of my back The sun of my smile The ride of my breasts The grace of my style I'm a woman Phenomenally Phenomenal woman That's me Now you understand Just why my head's not bowed I don't shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud When you see me passing It ought to make you proud I say It's in the click of my heels The bend of my hair The palm of my hand The need for my care 'Cause I'm a woman Phenomenally Phenomenal woman That's me. -Maya Angelou If of thy mortal goods thou art bereft, And from thy slender store two loaves alone to thee are left, Sell one and with thy gold, Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul. -Author Unknown
They were old, young lovers Still basking in the afterglow Of a distant summer. Decades passed but could not erase The passions they ignited For love, for life, for laughter. Each chose a different path But their hearts would not forget What their bodies could not remember... Gerri She's like a fairy tale enchantress Emerging from a book, Who steals the handsome prince's heart With a single, sultry look. Next, she's off for tea with Sherlock To help him sift through clues, Then on to Norman Mailer For some other "juicy news". And don't forget her friend, Dean Koontz Or the master, Stephen King She stands right up to all their ghouls And the terrors that they bring. But don't mistake her love for books As the salve for an empty life, She's bright and far more complicated Than just loving mom and wife. When she longed for things of beauty She did what others do not dare She went back for piano lessons Now sweet music fills the air. Then it's time to be the banker Or the chauffeur or the chef Clean the house and groom the dog Or babysit for Beth. She's the unpaid psychiatrist There's no doubt what she's been through, She's solved more household problems Than most social workers do. She'll fight fiercely for her children, As wives go--she's the best! And I hope her family realizes How truly they've been blessed. Better Left Unsaid Sometimes when certain thoughts Dwell deep within your head, It's been my observation They're better left unsaid. For once set loose They rule the brain They tear and rip And cause us pain. The Temptress' Song Ripped from my childhood By the giant arm Of something I cannot see I stand Paralyzed by fear. Somehow I know The door I'm about to open Will lead me into perilous And unfamiliar places Where monsters loom. Disguised as the things My heart desires, They call to me Like a temptress Seducing me with her song. I close my eyes And long for her promised joys. I am powerless-- Held hostage by my lust. I reach for the door... "HONOR THY PARENTS!" I am awakened from her spell. I turn to see my place of worship Now filled with an angry throng Each one pointing a finger of shame upon me. "HONOR THY PARENTS!" The temptress sings again And I turn once more to the door. She sways And slithers around me Coaxing me with her erotic dance. I am sickened Yet strangely excited By this creature Who tries to possess me So completely. "CONTROL YOURSELF!" Booms my father, "ONLY ANIMALS HAVE NO WILL!" I turn and see my mother. Tears of sorrow fill her eyes. I cannot bear it! She who has been my strength Now weakened by my lust For things she cannot give me. But still the temptress sings... And I cannot ignore the song. She sings to me Of truth and opportunities But they are not my family's truths They are not my church's truths. If I open the door, Will all I've held dear till now Abandon me? If I don't, Will my lust for what remains out of reach Consume me? It's not my fault! I'm torn in two! Can no one hear The temptress sing? How she beckons me? "I HEAR" says he. I turn to see the worried face Of a man I do not know. Has he been sent To guide me? I open the door... He takes my hand and leads me, "EXCELLENCE WILL JUSTIFY. BE GOOD AT WHAT YOU DO" We walk together through the door. Years later Through the fog, I glimpse the place where I once lived. All different now... Offered as a sacrifice to the temptress. Was it excellence I strove for? For surely that is good. Did being best Heal the wounds I caused along the way? I cannot know. Nor can I care. I was forced to go, you see-- The temptress' door Was the only door That allowed me to be me. *A note of explanation about this poem: I wrote it as a reaction/review of a book I'd just read called "My Name Is Asher Lev" by Chaim Potok. It is a story about a boy who was brought up as an Hasidic Jew. He was a brilliant artist, but his parents and his church felt that art was not a fitting career to pursue. His talent was great and the call to pursue it even greater. I included it because I felt that it applies to any type of struggle to be ourselves. And I offer it in that light.
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