Alone

Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can't use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They've got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

-Maya Angelou

Marsha Norman quote

Dreams are illustrations from the book your soul is writing about you.

-Marsha Norman

A valediction: forbidden mourning

As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls, to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
'The breath goes now,' and some say, 'No:'

So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears;
Men reckon what it did, and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers' love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.

But we by a love so much refin'd,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if the' other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end, where I begun.

-John Donne

MEN

When I was young, I used to
Watch behind the curtains
As men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men.
Young men sharp as mustard.
See them. Men are always
Going somewhere.
They knew I was there. Fifteen
Years old and starving for them.
Under my window, they would pause,
Their shoulders high like the
Breasts of a young girl,
Jacket tails slapping over
Those behinds,
Men.

One day they hold you in the
Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you
Were the last raw egg in the world. Then
They tighten up. Just a little. The
First squeeze is nice. A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness. A little
More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a
Smile that slides around the fear. When the
Air disappears,
Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,
Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.
It is your juice
That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.
When the earth rights itself again,
And taste tries to return to the tongue,
Your body has slammed shut. Forever.
No keys exist.

Then the window draws full upon
Your mind. There, just beyond
The sway of curtains, men walk.
Knowing something.
Going someplace.
But this time, I will simply
Stand and watch.

Maybe.

-Maya Angelou

 

Fading laughter

It is not all laughter, all the time.
Who can laugh when the roof leaks
And the walls give way to floods?
Laughter is the seasoning of salt, and
Salt is not food, but a seasoning for food.
They have their sorrows, these men of the land
Poverty stalks them by the hour
And the Kente is a flesh in their lives
Handed down through the rungs of the years
From uncle to nephew through mother's stream
Times disintegrating fingers, have by stealth,
Loosened the threads
Where the weaver of bonwire had joined the strips
The dyes in the colors, red, blue , gold and green
Sapped by the devilry of age,
Have paled to where they can fade no more
But, to them, there is no matter to grief:
Life has other gifts.

-Kwesi Brew

Safe haven

This is one of my many poems i rarely share. enjoy. xoxo

Steadily I put it up, this formidable wall.

Brick by brick, I lay them,

Sealed with unswerving patience and promise.



Heaps of illusions. Then brine. More brine.

Desertion. Vexation...

Well-nigh did I lose myself in the lies,

The perfidies buried underneath ostensible affection.

Time elapses...



There’s a call to redeem my gravitas

And remould my purports

In my safe haven.

Many suns go down,

Many crescent moons turn full.

Yet here I am, mirthfully walled in.



My wall ---

High enough to shield me

From shallow travels

And their bathetic,

Wounding woes,

But low to permit

A love that’s built to last,

Find its way.

- Delali Writes

I know why the caged bird sings

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill for the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

-Maya Angelou

Remember When?

Remember when we were young and happy? Remember when you said you loved someone and maybe it wasn’t the first time, but this time you really meant it with all your heart? Remember when you didn’t think about the obstacles or how it was going to work...all you thought of was spending as much time together as possible? I hate that the outcome becomes the memory. Instead think...wow, I was so happy!

Naive? Yes. Yet, so happy. That, my friends is a life experience. Many times we get into the thought process where our great time must have to have a good ending to be a great time. Maybe the key is to think about it in steps, or snapshots. On the practical side... yes, you learned a huge amount from that situation and the hard times made you stronger. Knowing that does help you grow.

But to resist the bitterness you also have to remember the snapshots when you were young and free and gave your heart. Don’t get me wrong, a lot of us wish we hadn’t. But if we hadn’t then, we would have later. And really...wasn’t it fun? Wasn’t it blissful to be so in love that you couldn’t wait for the workday to end or the break between classes? Wasn’t it cool to talk about travelling and getting your own apartment and new jobs with all the hope you had in your heart? Yes, it may be naive, but there’s nothing like that rush and passion before you learn that you’re pushed into being an adult whether you like it or not.

There’s nothing like your first love, but there is greater love waiting.

Via- www.girlsguideto.com

[Courtney Trott]

AS I GREW OLDER

It was a long time ago.
I have almost forgotten my dream.
But it was there then,
In front of me,
Bright like a sun--
My dream.
And then the wall rose,
Rose slowly,
Slowly,
Between me and my dream.
Rose until it touched the sky--
The wall.
Shadow.
I am black.
I lie down in the shadow.
No longer the light of my dream before me,
Above me.
Only the thick wall.
Only the shadow.
My hands!
My dark hands!
Break through the wall!
Find my dream!
Help me to shatter this darkness,
To smash this night,
To break this shadow
Into a thousand lights of sun,
Into a thousand whirling dreams
Of sun!

-Langston Hughes

Ancestral Voices

 



They sneaked into the limbo of time
But could not muffle the gay jingling
Brass bells on the frothy necks
Of the sacrificial sheep that limped and nodded after them;
They could not hide the moss on the bald pate
Of their reverent heads;
And the gnarled backs of the Wawa tree;
Nor the rust on the ancient state-swords;
Nor the skulls studded with grinning cowries;
They could not silence the drums,
The fibre of their souls and ours -
The drums that whisper to us behind black sinewy hands.
They gazed
And sweeping like white locusts through the forests
Saw the same men, slightly wizened,
Shuffle their sandaled feet to the same rhythms,
They heard the same words of wisdom uttered
Between puffs of pale blue smoke:
They saw us,
And said: They have not changed!

-Kwesi Brew

Nathaniel Hawthorne Quote

“Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you sit down quietly, may alight upon you.”

-Nathaniel Hawthorne

FREE TO BE ME

I crawled, I crept under dark places.
I looked for greens
And longed for freedom.
Like a caterpillar up in a tree,
I went through my stages.
One
At
A
Time.
I wondered who I will be
Yearned for the moment I will break away,
Break
F R E E.
… Finally, I’m transforming into me
Being more like me
And less like anyone.
There’s no holding me back now.
The butterfly in me emerges.
I s p r e a d my wings,
My colorful-spotted wings
And fly away…
To see the world
To smell the flowers; the roses
To color up the world.
With
Each
Soar
High
Above,
I build my wings,
Ready to take up the world.
I’m excited!
Because there’s nothing more pleasant
Than being free to be me.

-Delali Writes

BEING 20-SOMETHING

They call it the “Quarter Life Crisis.” It is when you stop going along with the crowd and start realizing that there are many things about yourself that you didn’t know and may not like. You start feeling insecure and wonder where you will be in a year or two, but then get scared because you barely know where you are now.

You start realizing that people are selfish and that those friends that you thought you were so close to aren’t exactly the greatest people you have ever met, and the people you have lost touch with are some of the most important ones. What you don’t recognize is that they are realizing that too, and aren’t really cold, catty, mean or insincere, but that they are as confused as you.

You look at your job and it is not even close to what you thought you would be doing, or maybe you are looking for a job and realizing that you are going to have to start at the bottom and that scares you.

Your opinions have gotten stronger. You see what others are doing and find yourself judging more than usual because suddenly you realize that you have certain boundaries in your life and are constantly adding things to your list of what is acceptable and what isn’t. One minute, you are insecure and then the next, secure. You laugh and cry with the greatest force of your life. You feel alone and scared and confused. Suddenly, change is the enemy and you try and cling on to the past with dear life, but soon realize that the past is drifting further and further away, and there is nothing to do but stay where you are or move forward.
You get your heart broken and wonder how someone you loved could do such damage to you. Or you lie in bed and wonder why you can’t meet anyone decent enough that you want to get to know better. Or maybe you love someone but love someone else too and cannot figure out why you are doing this because you know that you aren’t a bad person.

You go through the same emotions and questions over and over, and talk with your friends about the same topics because you cannot seem to make a decision. You worry about loans, money, the future and making a life for yourself and while winning the race would be great, right now you’d just like to be contender!
What you may not realize is that everyone reading this relates to it. We are in our best of times and out worst of times, trying as hard as we can to figure this whole thing out.

Via- www.girlsguideto.com

AFRICA

Cracked lips, parched land
Dusty promises of help at hand
Hungry children on Christmas cards
Won't help a world that's growing too fast

I just wish it would rain on Africa

But storm clouds gathering won't bring relief
Just darker days with no hope of peace in Africa

I just wish it would rain on Africa
Wash out the pain of Africa

Guns and bombs, tears and mud
Luxury limos race through blood
But bound by debt to hopelessness
Can we ever clean this mess?

I just wish it would rain on Africa
Wash out the pain of Africa

-Brynn Fier

NEW MOON

I looked up the sky, and there she stood,
A new phase of the ever smiling moon,
With a gorgeous charm she gladly glowed
Wearing her crescent in a concave curve,
Reminding all again of her newness come,
And that life has come to another curve.

I reviewed my wishes and counted my blessings,
And then I resolved as I prayed by wishes made,

To be guided again like the curving moon,
So when the convex meets the concave curve,
To complete the cycle for another full moon,
I would have yet on my hand to count again,
A new list of blessings and wishes came,
With the crescent of another smiling moon.

-Oliver Mbamara

MAYA ANGELOU QUOTE

“I’ve learned that you shouldn’t go through life with a catcher’s mitt on both hands; you need to be able to throw something back.”

-Maya Angelou

If you forget me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

-Pablo Neruda

I am not yours

I am not yours, not lost in you,

Not lost, although I long to be

Lost as a candle lit at noon,

Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still

A spirit beautiful and bright,

Yet I am I, who long to be

Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love -- put out

My senses, leave me deaf and blind,

Swept by the tempest of your love,

A taper in a rushing wind.

-Sarah Teasdale

QUOTE

“You are a being of light, of wisdom, of love. You are not your body, your brain, not even your mind... You are a spirit, and a spirit has no limits. When you look into the eyes of another, any other, and you see your own soul looking back at you, then you will know you’ve reached another level of consciousness.”

-Unknown

OBLIVION

I want to remember the fallen palm
With whitening fluid of wine
Dripping from its hardened belly
In this forest of life.
I want to remember it from the road
With mud on my feet,
And thorn-scraped flesh
From the branches by the water.
I want to remember them well
The sight of the green-eyed forest
The jubilant voices of the frogs
And the pleading crises of the owls.
I want to walk among the palms
With their razor-edged leaves
Shadowing the yam and cassava shrubs
Under which the crab builds its castle
And the cocoa pods drooping like mother’s
Breasts feeding a hungry child.
I want to remember them all
Before they die and turn to mud
When I have gone.

-Ellis Ayitey Komey

My song

Here
On
This
Public
Square
I
Stand

I sell My Song for those with ears to buy
It is to a tree that a bull is tied
You do not bypass the palm’s branches
To tap its wine

The things I have to say

I say them now
I shall stand aside
From those who care
To clear their throat and
Dress their shame in lies

When you meet a poorly-dressed neighbour
At a great durbar
You do not spit on the ground
And roll your eyes to the skies

The umbrella I bought
You stole from my rooms at dawn
Now I walk in the early morning rain

You point at me to our young maidens
And they join you in laughter

Think
My People
Think
Think well before you laugh at those who walk in the rain.

The gifts that bestows at birth
Some had some splendid things
What was mine?
I sing. They laugh.
Still I sell My Song
for those with ears to buy

My cloth is torn, I know
But I shall learn to wear it well

My voice is hoarse, I know
But I shall learn to wear it well.

-Kofi Anyidoho

Virginia Woolf Quote

Let us begin by clearing up the old confusion between the man who loves learning and the man who loves reading, and point out that there is no connection whatever between the two. A learned man is a sedentary, concentrated solitary enthusiast, who searches through books to discover some particular grain of truth upon which he has set his heart. If the passion for reading conquers him, his gains dwindle and vanish between his fingers. A reader, on the other hand, must check the desire for learning at the outset; if knowledge sticks to him well and good, but to go in pursuit of it, to read on a system, to become a specialist or an authority, is very apt to kill what it suits us to consider the more humane passion for pure and disinterested reading.

-Virginia Woolf

Gwendolyn Brooks Quote

You are the beautiful half
Of a golden hurt.

-Gwendolyn Brooks

Phenomenal woman

 Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's 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 step,
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 in 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 of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

-Maya Angelou

Helen Keller Quote

 

“When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us.”
― Helen Keller

"Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words."

Robert Frost

A Sandpiper To Bring You Joy

She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles, whenever the world begins to close in on me.

She was building a sand castle or something and looked up, her eyes blue as the sea.

“Hello,” she said.

I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child.

“I’m building,” she said.

“I see that. What is it?” I asked, not caring.

“Oh I don’t know, I just like the feel of the sand.”

That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by.

“That’s a joy,” the child said.

“It’s what?” I asked, uncaring.

“It’s a joy! My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy.”

The bird went glissading down the beach. “Good-bye joy,” I muttered to myself,  “Hello, pain…” and turned to walk on.  I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.

“What’s your name?” She wouldn’t give up.

“Ruth,” I answered. “I’m Ruth Peterson.”

“Mine’s Wendy,… and I’m six.”

“Hi, Wendy.” I offered.

She giggled. “You’re funny,” she said.  In spite of my gloom I laughed too and walked on.  Her musical giggle followed me. “Come again, Mrs. P,” she called. “We’ll have another happy day.”

The days and weeks that followed belonged to others: a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, an ailing mother.  The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater.

“I need a sandpiper,” I said to myself, gathering up my coat.

The never-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly, but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed. I had forgotten the child and was startled when she appeared.

“Hello, Mrs. P,” she said. “Do you want to play?”

“What did you have in mind?” I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.

“I don’t know. You say.”

“How about charades?” I asked sarcastically.

The tinkling laughter burst forth again. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Then let’s just walk.” Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face.  “Where do you live?” I asked.

“Over there.” She pointed toward a row of summer cottages. Strange, I thought, in winter.

“Where do you go to school?”

“I don’t go to school. Mommy says we’re on vacation.”

She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other things. “When I left for home,” Wendy said, “it had been a happy day.”

Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.

Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic.  I was in no mood greet even Wendy.  I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt like demanding she keep her child at home.

“Look, if you don’t mind,” I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, “I’d rather be alone today.” She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.

“Why?” she asked.

I turned on her and shouted, “Because my mother died!”-and thought, my God, why was I saying this to a little child?

“Oh,” she said quietly, “then this is a bad day.”

“Yes, and yesterday and the day before that and-oh, go away!”

“Did it hurt?”

“Did what hurt?” I was exasperated with her, with myself.

“When she died?”

“Of course it hurt!” I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself.  I strode off.

A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn’t there.

Feeling guilty, ashamed and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door.  A drawn-looking young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.

“Hello,” I said. “I’m Ruth Peterson. I missed your little girl today and wondered where she was.”

“Oh yes, Mrs. Peterson, please come in.”

“Wendy talked of you so much. I’m afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance, please accept my apologies.”

“Not at all-she’s a delightful child,” I said, suddenly realizing that I meant it. “Where is she?”

“Wendy died last week, Mrs. Peterson. She had leukemia. Maybe she didn’t tell you.”

Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. My breath caught.

“She loved this beach; so when she asked to come, we couldn’t say no.”

She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days. But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly….” Her voice faltered.

“She left something for you… if only I can find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?”

I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something, anything, to say to this lovely young woman.

She handed me a smeared envelope, with MRS. P printed in bold, childish letters.  Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues-a yellow beach, a blue sea, a brown bird. Underneath was carefully printed: A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY

Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that had almost forgotten how to love opened wide.  I took Wendy’s mother in my arms.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I muttered over and over, and we wept together.

The precious little picture is framed now and hangs in my study. Six words-one for each year of her life-that speak to me of inner harmony, courage, undemanding love. A gift from a child with sea-blue eyes and hair the color of sand-who taught me the gift of love.

(Author Unknown)
Submitted by Richard

Via- www.inspirationalstories.com

COMES THE DAWN

After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security,
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today,
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans,
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure...
That you really are strong,
And you really do have worth.
And you learn and learn...
With every goodbye you learn.

Veronica Shoffstall

 

Two roads diverged in a wood and I - I took the one less travelled by, And that has made all the difference.

-Robert Frost

STILL I RISE

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

Maya Angelou