This poem is describing who I am in this
world of ours. I feel I have the right to say what is on my mind. What I
am and how I feel is simply my choice, others may not come to agree
with me but really I hold my head up high and am proud to be myself. And
so should you!
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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