Feelings, o how glorious! - poetry
Sometimes we feel hard-pressed,
Sometimes we feel fierce anger
Sometimes we feel excited,
Sometimes we feel so lonely,
Sometimes we feel too sensitive,
Sometimes we feel depressed,
Sometimes we feel deep hurt
Sometimes we feel divine,
Sometimes we feel loving,
Sometimes we feel deep grief,
Sometimes we feel resentful
We come across all kinds of feelings
A sacred gift, our feelings
Rev. Saundra L. Washington, D. D. , is an designed clergywoman, old hand common worker, and Break down of AMEN Ministries. She is also the creator of two auburn table books: Room Beneath the Snow: Poems that Preach and Negative Disturbances: Homilies that Teach which can be reviewed on her site. Her new book, Out of Deep Waters: My Grief Management Workbook, is estimated to be existing soon.
You are accept to visit AMEN Ministries: Your Soul's Assistance Station for spiritual refreshing, soul edification, browse our newly lengthened mini shopping mall or appraise our suggested books you may want to add to your not public library.
Blessings to all!
Ceasar Vallejo: Black Roses [In English and Spanish]
Cesar Vallejo: Black RosesBow down your head ol' poet- To face God's grace ahead There are no more trenchesTo dig today? In the afforest of your head,So-: Bow down, bow down,Ol' barbaric poet! Death rides the horse ahead I hear the crackling of a whip See the demented eyes of death.He directive you to his den- The devil and his wind,So-: Bow down, bow down Your blood marked brows He will take you to the edge.
Article on Poetry and Two Poems
Writing Poetry for TomorrowWhat does a man need to be a poet, or tomorrow's literary giant? Questions many a undergraduate has asked, from Harvard all the way to the cooperation academy in one's hometown. What is the answer? Well, I can give you mine, and I'm sure if you asked a hundred writers, or a hundred scholars, you'd get two hundred assorted answers.
Whats A Prisoner to Do?
What's a prisoner to do when acceptability fails and the childlike is escorted off to jail?What's a prisoner to do once stigmatized, caged and abandoned and ostracized?What's a prisoner to do there's no one to trust; the arrangement fails and the outcome unjust?What's a prisoner to do when category decide the punishment is necessary and justified?What's a prisoner to do while confined in a cell; the perpetrator's free and faring quite well?What's a prisoner to do once his reputation is dead and his life has been ruined as of what a big name said?What's a prisoner to do when he's not believed, though he's forceful the truth, he's accepted wisdom to deceive?What's a prisoner to do as he sits all alone, no one seems to care; ex- acquaintances all gone?What's a prisoner to do meeting lost and idle and most of one's judgment be converted into suicidal?What's a prisoner to do when freedom's taken away and the will to live diminishes each day?What's a prisoner to do when hedged in by strife; with no avoidance possible; no accidental for a new life?What's a prisoner to do when he can no longer see the beauty of the sky or the waves of the sea?What's a prisoner to do when the sun he can't feel, nor the breeze of bound since his fate is sealed?What's a prisoner to do when doomed to despair but still praying to break away from the exciting chair?Tell me, what's a prisoner to do?Rev. Saundra L.
Infected Ideologies [a Poetic Portrait]
the disease of extremism is infectious-; whoever cannot think of their child growing up exclusive of it is part of the phenomenon! (the amount of the day). fanaticism,-- with a able ideology are seeds for suicide! murder: giving reasons to rage!.
Poetry and All the rage Culture
Is poetry too difficult for the arithmetic mean reader? Is it too cryptic, scholarly? If you ask a large group of arithmetic mean citizens what they like or don't like about poetry, you'll get a few altered answers, but there is an awesomely conventional kind of responses.One of the main reasons that citizens say they aren't addicted to contemporary poetry is that they feel it is too cryptic.
I Shall Wait...
I Shall Wait..
Robert Burns Love Poem: A Red, Red Rose
Robert Burns, a poor man, an educated man, and a ladies' man, is agent of Scotland, much like whisky, haggis, bagpipes, and kilts. He lived a life shortened by aching heart disease, 1759-1796, but his life journey all the way through poverty, informal education, disappointed love, nationalism, and literary and monetary sensation can be identified by all Scots and conventional men the world over.
I never attention I would have to say GOODBYE to my best friend? But that's what I had to do today I had to let go of her everlastingly -There was no other way For me to face certainty Or pretend to be okay I had no belief -Of how hard it would be To essentially let go Of this huge part of me? Not tomorrow or ever -Will my life be the same Lacking my Grannio here Life seems to be a game - Of accidental and questions?Questions that never end And have no answers That can begin to mend The wide hole exclusive of meNor come close to curative My heart and soul that Seem to be atmosphere Lost, numb and empty-Completely hollow? Like I have nonentity left To especially be a consequence - All through life with respectShe was so much more Than my Grandmother I knew that already She left this earthAnd I told her so More than once or twice Since she had to know Just how very exceptional -And truly blessed I felt to have her as my associate She was the best Lacking a doubt -My Grannio gave me More than anyone Will ever actually see? It was an assumed -Kind of love That came with no environment And went far above The conventional caringAnd be an average of assist For a grandchild - Or ancestors of any sort She gave more of herselfTo me than any person In my life ever will No one could have done What she did for meWith so much devotion, Answer honesty And true emotion? Her constancy was -Sincerely endless I appreciate so much Now that I'm crying - And wishing thatI had just one more day To spend property her hand And annoying to take away Her fears and her pain -That took over her Body and her mind Like never before? In our lives -I would have from the bottom of your heart Given 20 years of my life To have her just Be here tomorrow -I cannot account for The way I feel today Or how much I pain Is contained by of me -That will never go away No affair how much time passes I know this ache will stay With me forever?Just as her exclusive touch Will all the time be with me And mean so very much - To me and my son?Jakob Thomas Her "BabyDoll" And I assure To never not remember -What she would have done If she was still here For him - her only one Great-grandchild?Resource Box - © Danielle Hollister (2004) is the Publisher of BellaOnline Quotations Zine - A free newsletter for quote lovers featuring more than 10,000 quotations in dozens of categories like - love, friendship, children, inspiration, success, wisdom, family, life, and many more. Read it online at - http://www.
Because of You
You are to me my lifeline my security. That scares me.
The Dead God of Copan (in English and Spanish)
English VersionAnd the Death God said: "Let it rise to its glory in the Rio Valley-for a season; then let it be gone, we shall call it Copan?"Prologue: Empires come and go, liken to cosmic events, or the storms about the world: Atlantis, Mu, Greece, Persia, Rome, the Inca Nation, and even the great Maya heroic times of Copan, in Focal America. All came and all left, one way or another; now just dust and artifacts in the spiral of time.
The Time Has Come and Buzzing
Most of my poems are printed late at night, often, as this one was, after I have curved out the illumination to go to sleep. It seems that is the time when I am most creative.
The Art of Being paid Poetic Critique
You can show your poem to your mom, your spouse, your co-workers, or your friends, but you might not get the responses that you can suck up into your a small amount characters fingers to use in an crack to refine your craft. What does it exceedingly mean when a celebrity who cares about you, but not for poetry says, "Wow, this is great.
Grandpas House & From Iraq with Love [Two Poems]
Grandpa's House [The ole Real House]The house looked-for painting Sun-blistered and flaking Grandpa happening to have us Boys-Mike and I- start Doing some scraping-While he, pealed off the ole Paint, and ongoing painting?Just a humble inexpressive house With a number of rooms, but Strong adequate to keep the Winds and coldness snows out, How he loved that ole house!..
The Plane from Iquitos [1959-Part One]
Iquitos & the Amazon Part OneIt was December 2, l959, I was meeting on a small prop-plane exit Iquitos, Peru for a trip down the Amazon about the opening, the mouth of the mighty Amazon,--to Manaus. As we flew low one could see the waters of the Amazon, the city all the time impressed me, but more from this birds-eye view, you could see the mighty river in its squid like form, with all it tentacles [contributories: waters concerning to the river].
Two Poems: Black Poncho, and Spirits of de Copan [in English and Spanish]
English Version12) Black Poncho(of Saint Cosme Hill, by Lima, Peru)Lost in the grottos of Peru- By the hills of Huancayo Black Cape was given A treasure of gold?; By none other than, Demonic goblins!?in the form of boiling fruit; Hence, Black Wrap fooled The goblins of oldBy using his cape to pull The burning fair fruit Through the Andes to Lima, Peru!?Henceforward, he was swindled By a jeweler of dire repute. Thus, his life misrepresented (as so often they do); And now he lives with: Thirty-five dogs, on San Cosme Hill.
Three Poems: The Monkey Man of Lima, Plus Two More
What Hides after the Minute?What hides at the back the minute? It seems, no one exceedingly knows; How many times will we wakeup, To count the log gone?The rose was dead when I arrived; The sword, was rusty and dull; The chance curtain was open, And there was music in the hall.Oh lovely minute, where art thou? One, is not like the other-: Whirling in an human orbit, As the illimitable world discovers.
Beautiful Dreamer, Stephen Foster, Americas First Folk Song Writer
"Beautiful Dreamer" was in print by Stephen Cultivate just beforehand his death in 1864 at age 37. The song became one of his most illustrious and most popular.
I Hunted TO SAY IT WITH A BUNCH OF Vegetation A CARD WOULD HAVE SUFFICED.I Sought TO SAY IT WITH A PACK OF SWEETS A' HI' WOULD HAVE SUFFICED.
Memoirs of a Wastelands Rim [a Poem: now in Spanish and English]
Memoirs of a Wasteland's RimIt still was light when she paused at the wasteland's rim- Over, the rim rest like a sleeping brute, a inexpressive frame Adjacent to the blue where early stars hung like oil lamps Hanging from old beams and shade?the stiff frame Her foothold trapped the beams, as she had fallen onto it Alone, she watched the forenoon, climbing about her A hobo woman, apparent by life, and diagonal dreams With development of hurt and molded muscle on her face Her assume impressed alongside the inexpressive frame, She tried to jump, and lost her balance, lynching like a bird Now sipping the gloom in the ledge and crushed hopes She yielded already the listless early payment of sunset Blood dripped, with her dying darkness And a cherry moon hurled a flame across The eerie clouds, burning during the sky The beset sky above her?Crossing the valley's floor her eye enthralled it Rocky images, peak points Thrusting herself up audaciously from to the ledge The painted cock-crow blushed over the rim Her brows and nose, face anti the stone stone Massive injuries was compelling form, Her line balanced so languorously crossways the sun It was too great a task-to die alone?she wished now She had not jumped?a thousand feet below, yet to go. Too much for any woman in a lost world Out of the weak wood her mind had peace; She knew soon it would all be over-alas Mute and protesting aligned with life's uselessness A narrow path lay below her little body Between death and attainment, a careless foot The rocks beneath her weakening, she plunged Plunged to her death, in the monument hands of the valley Thinking of it, as she fell, idea with a smiled, Saying, looking up-dead beforehand her echoes: 'Time is short?time is short?time is short!' When they found her, her face was brave of falling.
Why I enjoy Writing?
During interviews and all-purpose conversations with the public,one of the most challenging questions for me to answer(timely and thoroughly) is,"Why do you enjoy writing"?So due to the challenge manifested in such a question,I pondered on creating an answer. Many reasons came to mind,but after digesting much"time for thought",I managed to condense my answer to three items.
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