Forgiving Friends
You are my best friendYou always will be
Yet sometimes I get mad at you
I wrote this poem for a friend that means a
lot to me. I will always forgive her for anything she ever does, even
if it hurts me so much. I just wanted her to know that I will be her
friend no matter what, and that I will always, always forgive her. So
Sarah, if you read this I hope you like it.
You always will be
Yet sometimes I get mad at you
You always will be
Yet sometimes I get mad at you
I wrote this poem after I made a terrible
mistake. I drank a little too much one night and I tried to make more
out of a friendship with one of my best guy friends. Things happened and
now he cannot talk to me. I can no longer apologize, for it is not
doing any good, and I was at a loss for words to what to say to him. So,
I wrote this poem.
And you aren't ready to forgive
But I need your friendship
More than you'll even know
I need you there to live
Without you by my side today
The Mistake You Cannot Forget
You say you cannot forgetAnd you aren't ready to forgive
But I need your friendship
More than you'll even know
I need you there to live
Without you by my side today
We are often drawn to adventure that takes
us away from those who love us. The ocean of emotion sometimes sets us
adrift. The returning tides bring us back into the heart of another who
keeps the vigil.
The venture satisfied, we eagerly anticipate returning to open arms.
I must now ebb
The time has come
to sail my oceans
Rolling away from you
like the waves from the shore
rippling out to the vastness of the sea
that beckons my ship of folly
I'll not ask you
to stand the night vigil
on the shoreline
of memory
The venture satisfied, we eagerly anticipate returning to open arms.
Like The Waves From The Shore
I must now ebb
The time has come
to sail my oceans
Rolling away from you
like the waves from the shore
rippling out to the vastness of the sea
that beckons my ship of folly
I'll not ask you
to stand the night vigil
on the shoreline
of memory
We always have this set of ideals for our
special one. But life, as fickle and volatile as it may be, never grants
us the exact things we want. Same with finding her, I never expected
that she was waiting for me, loving me . . . just there.
I did not see you.
So close to me,
but yet so veiled.
Just There
Where you were,I did not see you.
So close to me,
but yet so veiled.
After being hurt and not knowing love, not
know how to love, not wanting to love - Michael showed me. He was my
best friend and slowly I began to love him more and more. I wrote this
poem to show him how much his life meant to me and how important his is
to be with mine.
and wouldn't let anyone in
I had trusted and loved only to be hurt
but that would never happen again
I locked the door and
tossed the key as
hard and as far as I could
Key To My Heart
I had closed the door upon my heartand wouldn't let anyone in
I had trusted and loved only to be hurt
but that would never happen again
I locked the door and
tossed the key as
hard and as far as I could
This was a dedication to my Grandfather who
passed away several years before he could see his first grandchild
born. Each year since he's been gone, our family has written a poem on
the anniversary of his death to remind him that we love him.
I am named after him, and so is my son.
that you could gladly say
how you'd become a Great-Grandpa
who's more proud everyday.
Though you've been gone
for many years,
still you're loved just the same.
Now my son will be
our legacy
I am named after him, and so is my son.
A Great-Grandpa To Me
This year would have been the firstthat you could gladly say
how you'd become a Great-Grandpa
who's more proud everyday.
Though you've been gone
for many years,
still you're loved just the same.
Now my son will be
our legacy
The Winter of 1998 was the first time in
over two decades that I found myself immobilized by heavy snow of
Michigan. For three very long days. One result of that enforced
isolation was a poem called Winter's Threads.
Not being one to repeat past mistakes (I much prefer the excitement of making new ones), I packed my motor home the day after Christmas, 1999, with the intention of spending winter in California. I made it only as far as Louisiana, where I stopped to visit family (and instead became involved with family). Nonetheless, I stayed warm, renewed some familial bonds, and learned I'm really not very well suited to the travelling life.
Eight weeks later, with warm weather breaking in Michigan, I again headed North. While on the road, with little else to occupy my mind, I penned this sequel to Winter's Threads. And like its precursor, the poem is less about Winter and more about the choices we make in life.
(With apologies to Robert Frost, who also wrote of choices, in a very similar format - and did it much, much better.)
'Long roads less traveled as their way,
Nor question choices made by them
In days long past or nights long dim
by words they spoke and did not say.
Not being one to repeat past mistakes (I much prefer the excitement of making new ones), I packed my motor home the day after Christmas, 1999, with the intention of spending winter in California. I made it only as far as Louisiana, where I stopped to visit family (and instead became involved with family). Nonetheless, I stayed warm, renewed some familial bonds, and learned I'm really not very well suited to the travelling life.
Eight weeks later, with warm weather breaking in Michigan, I again headed North. While on the road, with little else to occupy my mind, I penned this sequel to Winter's Threads. And like its precursor, the poem is less about Winter and more about the choices we make in life.
(With apologies to Robert Frost, who also wrote of choices, in a very similar format - and did it much, much better.)
Winter's Roads
I cannot speak for all who stem'Long roads less traveled as their way,
Nor question choices made by them
In days long past or nights long dim
by words they spoke and did not say.
This is a poem I wrote when I first was diagnosed with Social Anxiety. It was a way for me to look for hope and keep trying.
It's about how I would feel everyday.
The world was moving all around me,
but it seemed as if my life was in a standstill.
The doctors say its anxiety.
Everyone thinks anxiety means nervousness or fear,
but it is deeper than that.
Anxiety holds you prisoner.
You can't leave your house.
It's about how I would feel everyday.
Power Of Pain
I sat alone another day.The world was moving all around me,
but it seemed as if my life was in a standstill.
The doctors say its anxiety.
Everyone thinks anxiety means nervousness or fear,
but it is deeper than that.
Anxiety holds you prisoner.
You can't leave your house.
At times I feel like my life is
complicated, like God has allowed more grief and suffering to come my
way than He should have. But in my heart, I know I should be thankful
that I have access to opportunities that others will never even dream of
having, that I should be glad I even have loved ones, even if they are
taken away from me.
I have had painful things happen to me, and I know what sorrow feels like, but there are always those who have been hurt deeper than me. To them I can only offer my prayers, and my sympathy.
What it's like to sacrifice
How it feels to do without
What it takes to pay the price
To offer all I have
Unto others with a need
I can only imagine
For myself, I live in greed
I have had painful things happen to me, and I know what sorrow feels like, but there are always those who have been hurt deeper than me. To them I can only offer my prayers, and my sympathy.
Their Pain
I can only imagineWhat it's like to sacrifice
How it feels to do without
What it takes to pay the price
To offer all I have
Unto others with a need
I can only imagine
For myself, I live in greed
When we reach a certain age where we find
ourselves looking back at all the tears, all the laughter, and all the
joy, we also discover that those memories are what keeps us holding on.
all the way upstairs,
is something very special,
that I would like to share.
A Book Of Memories
Hidden in the attic,all the way upstairs,
is something very special,
that I would like to share.
This poem is what I have learned through
many years of not having friends and believing it was due to the way I
looked. I have learned that looks are not everything in life.
Make sure you pick the right one
Don't listen to the voices
Hear only yours and you have won
Life's Choices
Life is full of choicesMake sure you pick the right one
Don't listen to the voices
Hear only yours and you have won
In 1829, the wonderful and nearly mythic
Edgar Allan Poe penned a poem describing his feelings of uniqueness and
aloneness. He knew, early on in life, that he was different from others,
created and shaped in a different mold. History, of course, proved he
was right.
Over a century and half later, Michael Anderson read those words. He recognized a Golden Truth in Poe's poem, 'Alone,' and it lit a deep-felt sense of comradeship ironically based on shared aloneness. It also provoked a response, the elegantly simple, sweetly flowing words you are about to read.
Poe and Anderson are gifted writers. Using words and rhythms, and uniquely universal imagery, they are able to conveny both meaning and feeling. In this, perhaps, they are unusual. Even alone. But the Truth they share with their talents is far less unique. Poe was different, and history remembers him for his differences. Maybe, a hundred and fifty from now, Anderson will be similarly remembered. But each of us, even if unremembered by history, is nonetheless equally unique. Each of us is born and shaped in a 'world not the same,' and each of us is unable and maybe unwilling to bring our passions 'from a common spring.'
Each of us, in the end, is Alone.
Over a century and half later, Michael Anderson read those words. He recognized a Golden Truth in Poe's poem, 'Alone,' and it lit a deep-felt sense of comradeship ironically based on shared aloneness. It also provoked a response, the elegantly simple, sweetly flowing words you are about to read.
Poe and Anderson are gifted writers. Using words and rhythms, and uniquely universal imagery, they are able to conveny both meaning and feeling. In this, perhaps, they are unusual. Even alone. But the Truth they share with their talents is far less unique. Poe was different, and history remembers him for his differences. Maybe, a hundred and fifty from now, Anderson will be similarly remembered. But each of us, even if unremembered by history, is nonetheless equally unique. Each of us is born and shaped in a 'world not the same,' and each of us is unable and maybe unwilling to bring our passions 'from a common spring.'
Each of us, in the end, is Alone.
This poem originated as a challenge from a friend to write a piece containing the phrase, "the miracle continues".
There's only one "unexplained phenomenon" I have experienced in my life I would deem miraculous. Witnessing my deceased father's gestures, attitudes and facial expression in my now 8 year old son I first found kind of spooky.
Now I see the gifts we all have to give in life is why life, itself, is deemed a miracle.
In everyone for all to see.
Some keep it hidden, some never realize-
The magnificence they hold in others' eyes.
There's only one "unexplained phenomenon" I have experienced in my life I would deem miraculous. Witnessing my deceased father's gestures, attitudes and facial expression in my now 8 year old son I first found kind of spooky.
Now I see the gifts we all have to give in life is why life, itself, is deemed a miracle.
The Miracle
There is a majestic quality-In everyone for all to see.
Some keep it hidden, some never realize-
The magnificence they hold in others' eyes.
This is the story of a woman bereft of
love. She believes that she is no longer able to live the life of her
dreams. Past hurt guards her heart, and she struggles to find the answer
in the rain of her life.
As she mulls through it, she comes to realize that she must take the chance in order to find happiness.
Dripping coldness past, memories old pain.
As she mulls through it, she comes to realize that she must take the chance in order to find happiness.
Into Every Life
She looks into air, herself falling rainDripping coldness past, memories old pain.
The past present itself as visions and
images found in long corridors of time. The human mind perceives the
past and tries to make a meaning out of it.
Memories may be good or bad, but to make most of the past, one has to probably look at the mistakes committed, and to keep oneself cheerful, often look at the happy days, taking screenshots of the better glimpses that the past presents.
Memories may be good or bad, but to make most of the past, one has to probably look at the mistakes committed, and to keep oneself cheerful, often look at the happy days, taking screenshots of the better glimpses that the past presents.
Some women of African Decent get so tired
of all the trouble they go through with men, work, church, organization
etc. I dedicated this poem to those who experience my pain.
From a colored woman's prospective today
With my Brown skin
Dark eyes
Thrifty dreams
African American eyes
Respect
What am I to sayFrom a colored woman's prospective today
With my Brown skin
Dark eyes
Thrifty dreams
African American eyes
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