The strength of a woman
Is not in her tongue
Or the length of her hair
Or the songs she has sung
Control is not found
In the clothing she wears
Or seduction she offers
Or the child that she bears
Her honor and glory
Comes not from what shows
Except her reliance
On God that she knows
For God gives her power
Beyond height and length
And makes her much stronger
To display her strength
It’s there deep within her
And flows through her being
Revealing a boldness
And strength we are seeing
For man cannot crush
All the things she can do
For she is a woman
And warrior too
Wrinkle, wrinkle on my face…
Couldn't you have found some other place ?
What made you furrow between my eyes ?
And all those creams, they are nothing but lies….
When I look in the mirror, all I can see…
Is a silver haired person staring back at me….
Then there are the lines , which run down the sides of my nose…
Running in circles, round my lips, down my neck and into my clothes….
Speaking of clothes , isn’t that where the wrinkles should be ?
Is nature playing a trick on me ?
Or is this a sign “ old “ is sneaking up on me ?
It seems only yesterday I was a young girl .. and had my whole life ahead of me…
So simple..so free……
Which don’t take me wrong I have enjoyed my life’s ride…
And there isn’t much in my life, I haven’t tried….
But it should would be nice if I could just see…
Myself with one less wrinkle…when I looked back at me…..
Kill a smile with a kiss
The demise of it will visit you in your dreams
Never will I let you
Drown in a pool of angry thoughts
I will be your unexpected smile
Every time I bring u roses b4 valentine
A wet poem I would recite for you
I would make you my 1st rhyme
your heart-beat will rhyme
Twist my beat box
Into a love song
A cartoon I would paint in your heart to keep you smiling
Your twin smiles I would define in vernacular
Though I speak no language from Peninsula
My parents will define your beauty as African splendor
Black mother nation
Smile please smile
as silver moon
is the woman of mine.
tender and lively,
swift and keen
flowing and silken.
light and vivid colors,
which takes me
come argento di luna
è la mia donna.
La vita illumina
Tenera e vivace,
rapido e penetrante
fluido e suadente.
Luce e colore vividi,
che mi prende
God And Woman
I did not want anything from The Almighty
Sacrificed untouchable realization
Which is symbol of myself
And dedicated emotions, silence.
I did not demand anything from the woman
Allowed her into the corner of my mind
Which is the center of bleeding
And presented my intuition.
The Almighty and the woman repeatedly call
Destruction in my lonely life
It's the ability to do more by them...
SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA
Day by day we pray to stay alive, ladies, the face of this world is slowly changing, no longer do we need to hold our heads in disgrace, and it’s about time we take our place. No longer let us be connived, nor let us forget the silent cries in trees that our sista’s souls are still hangin’, see the true in others denies rather waistin’ yourself complaining. Nor keep us from strength to stand by man, strength to leave if struck by hand, no more bruises upon our face for we also help to make this race. No more scars upon our souls for only marked with beauty moles and let our stories be fortold for we are women who behold, a key to inspiration and moral pride, coming out of our hide, Gods rules are to which one should only apply, but most chose pain to keep inside, left alone and died. Your elimination of God’s creation, we are but faith to this nation. Men of ignorance we are sick of belligerence, cuz we prove intelligence, cuz where there’s no woman there is no man strong and on this land we belong as distinct and separate persons walk along. Before your ignorance get the respect that you so vainly seek, practice what you claim til' all things you do or speak shall in reality be the same, nor let us be so eased to blame and give us our well earned past due fame, all musical and sorrowful stories contained. My people, make me proud to know your name and I’ll return the favour by doing the same.
For all men whom think us fast, remember the good ones always finish last, we women are still raped future and past so personally you can kiss my ... In us your babies wombs all your life fluids we consume, to mothers growing up too soon, to those mommas babies and daddy’s maybes.....REMEMBER, when your round to actin' shady, we are the ladies of this land, women with pride we stand, I am a WOMAN and for equal respect, I would do it again!!!
Who tears behind the mirror?
Made me who I am
My hardened heart she took
Tenderized it with love
Took my salty tears
Turned into joyful tears
Who sighs behind the mirror
Sighs in memory
Memories and feelings
Hardships she went through
To feed my whole stomach
The woman pulling back her mucors
Does so in fear
Fear that ill not be what she hoped
That teared woman
Crys in fast and prayer
Crys for my dark self
Cries for my future
That woman crying
Tears down her body fluids
Hopefully that her anger and disappointments
May atleast flow out with them
Her body almost running dry by now
That woman calls upon God
GOD atleast make him better
That woman cries for me
That woman cries for her lineage
That woman cries night and day
How I came to be
To be what I am
I don’t know how
A slave of the world
A slave with one work song
A song entitled failure
The first stanza of calamity
The last stanza dead man where I am heading
Looking at her cry
Twists my brains
Is this what I am?
Is this my purpose to the world?
Is this the man the world wants?
Is this what God spent time Molding
Is this what the bible describes?
Just for her
Just for her I take my life back
Just for her God I stand strong
Just for her I say no
NO no no this is not me
Come mummy take this handkerchief
I don’t wannna see those tears again
I love you mummy
She sits there in the back of the class, doodling on her paperwork. Getting lost in
the scribbles, tuning out the teacher, forgetting all the madness around her, her life
fading in the paper. Slap! The sound of the ruler splintering across the desk. PAY
ATTENTION! Head jerking upward, she sits up in her little desk. Pencil dropping from
her hand, rolling off onto the floor. She looks straight ahead, back straight as a
board, eyes glued ahead as the teacher drones on. Drilling things into their heads,
eyes sharp like an eagle. Looking for every chance to catch someone falling asleep,
to catch someone passing notes, to catch someone whispering. The little girl quietly
picks up her pencil and her mind drifts to dreaming of playing dress up, drifts to the
path the lead makes on the paper. The curves of a woman, not a little girl. Dreaming
of growing up into a woman. Confident, pretty, smart, strong....someone people will
notice....a woman with a voice. Slap! The ruler across her hand. She jerks it back,
clasping it to her chest. Instant sting, instant redness and she feels the tears start
to pool in her eyes, her lip quivering to hold back the yelp. Pay attention! You’re not
listening! I asked you a question young lady. Should I repeat it? She’s so scared
that she can’t even speak so she just meekly nods her head. Hard as steel, cold as
ice, the teacher repeats the question. She hangs her head and answers but her
voice is barely above a squeeking whisper. Speak up! says the teacher. The class
can’t hear you, I can’t hear you she says. The little girl raises her head and repeats
her answer. WRONG! Slap! The ruler across her other hand. See if you had been
paying attention instead of DOODLING, then you wouldn’t have gotten the ruler.
You’ll make sure next time you will listen now won't you. The little girl doesn’t
answer, doesn’t speak up. She doesn’t want the ruler again. So she carefully and
quietly lays her pencil on her little wooden desk that bares the markings of many
ruler slappings. And on her little wooden desk, she rests her hands that bare the
scars of many ruler slappings. She stares straight ahead at the chalkboard,
unwavering, searing a hole in the chalkboard. She tries to find the dream of dress
up, tries to find the girl dressing up as the woman she wants to be. But all she sees
on the chalkboard…no matter how hard or how long she stares...all she sees on the
chalkboard.....is nothing but chalk.
In my life I often feel I am alone; alone in my thoughts, alone in my musings, alone in my day-to-day movements and unsatisfying activities. I move like a ghost through hallways and down sidewalks, unnoticed and, at times, gratefully so.
I do not wish to be eternally alone. I long for togetherness. But despite this desire for a real connection, I find myself regularly retreating from that temperamental beast that is human interaction.
“Come on now, sweetheart. Don’t lower your head. Don’t look away. Look up! Smile at someone! No! Don’t go back into your bedroom. Don’t lock the door! Why are you doing this?” my brain will plea.
I can’t help myself. Aloneness is comfortable. In being alone, I don’t have to worry about anyone but myself. I don’t have to please anyone else. I can think anything I want, wear anything I want, listen to anything I want, and laugh at anything I want.
And still there remains that nagging desire to be loved and wanted and needed by somebody. I do not know the feeling of being truly desired. I do not know what it is like for someone to crave my company, my smile, my kiss, or my touch.
But I would like to…
I cannot make someone love me or like me or want me in some primal way. It may hurt, but I cannot make that handsome boy want to hold my hand or brush my hair back behind my ear. I can only struggle on. I can only work within myself. I can only try every God damn day to hold my head up, keep my eyes fixed ahead, a give the world the best smile I have. I and I alone can bring myself out of the safety of my bedroom and into the bright world that lies beyond that locked door.
I often find myself alone with nothing more than my thoughts and the ever-strong glow of a computer screen. But no longer will aloneness be the constant in my life. It is true that never having known the caress of a man’s hand on my thigh doesn't make me any less of a woman, but I fear that if I stay confined within myself much longer I will begin to become less of a human. A flower cannot grow if it retracts its leaves and petals every time it feels the warmth of the sun or the kiss of a gentle spring rain.
And I want to grow. I want to grow so tall and blossom so big and beautifully that every place on earth is touched by my shadow at some point in the day. And I will grow. I will push myself and share myself with the world, and finally
know the closeness and comfort of love and honest, unabashed companionship.
All right, here is the scenario and the how. Defeat the deceit she believes to be
hers, abandon the bond between us, with re-established trust admiration and lust
must appear. Bring me a woman that has made mistakes, bring me a woman that
can appreciate love. Allow the grace of my space be music and fire, offer me in
peace solitude to display my desires. Allow the pens flow in rhythm with the stereos
display. Fire in dance lifts morbid ideas in each instance to date. I will behave in
paradise, that is if they never surprise my glide. I know this really cool place at the
mountains base where we can get away for a few days, the grass of noon will creep
below our feet bare beneath the sun of June. Now we no longer must linger in wait,
the time allowed for slide past debate is lost on my mind. My side, the right, slid left
releasing the shake of my hand in invite. Freedom yet remains the stake, though
money is no longer illusion. I wish to say something on this occasion upon which we
now celebrate, as long as Christmas has wreath I will have wrath and wreak havoc.
You see love, mastering the art of conversation does not mean you control them, it
means you are in them. Speak or fall, seek allies and meet demise, simply satisfying
me with surrounding may eliminate inquiry. They are all so pretty with their smiles,
so sexy with their denial yet none are beautiful. The three core parts of woman that
carry the absolutes of truth: the eyes, the mind and the smile. For these attributes I
offer dream and choice of my serenities. Let it be aggressively possessive,
astonishingly perceptive, apparently personable, awakened passion paints a
portrait of a poet.
I possess an image
I am the woman
The woman who is
In absolute possession
Of the courage
As brave as a warriors staff
The woman who knows her rights
And fights for it
I am the woman
With the “man”
I possess a heart
I am the woman
The woman with
An inner child
With an overflowing joy
With no worries bigger
The woman whose gleeing spirit
Brings hope to all
I am the woman
With the “womb”
I possess an art
I am the woman
The woman herself
All pieces of earth
And soothing the broken
The woman whose arms
Wraps those she loves
I am the woman
©Naa Takia, All Rights Reserved 2012
By Stanley Collymore
Never speak ill of the dead we’re constantly and solemnly
exhorted regardless of who they are or the life that
they freely chose to live, as they’re no longer
around, is the lame and unconvincing excuse
that’s often and dishonestly given in explanation, to rebut or
defend their name, any accusations or adverse criticisms,
however concrete or valid they might be, being made
against them; and in those circumstances therefore
to then embark on such a plan would in itself be
quite unbecoming while serving as nothing
more than a cheap and cowardly way of
attempting to exact one’s own revenge.
But hang on a moment, how truly valid is this
simplistic and supposedly moral exhortation; and why
should the intervention of death, distinct from any
other known phenomenon, be the sole exculpation for
someone’s life-long sins and premeditated wrongdoings
that disparagingly have callously, schemingly,
perniciously, quite methodically and comprehensively
destroyed the lives of so many who were
exclusively picked on and especially targeted for
reasons of dogmatic political ideology, or
those specifically and illogically
associated with their race
I was never a miner viewed as the country’s low-life and
thusmalevolently castigated as the enemy within, but
I am and have longstandingly been a proud trade
unionist whose movement just as
viciously by this self-centred,
venal and privileged elite was likewise tarred
with the same condemnatory brush and
scandalously branded the same.
Similarly, I was an anti-apartheid activist firmly
committed, as I always will be, to the noble concept
globally of the universality of human rights, equality
for all human beings and the ultimate eradication
of racism, tirelessly working also in tandem
for freedom of expression by everyone,
genuine democracy and the lawful and
moral right to withhold one’s labour,
and particularly so in manufactured industrial
disputes specifically designed to disrupt the cohesion,
deliberately break-up and ruthlessly destroy the
bargaining rights of all trade unions.
So why would I, or anyone else for that matter
with a social conscience, want to actually
eulogize and not rightly despise someone who,
while together with their husband was
profiting massively financially from South Africa’s
apartheid system, none the less perversely saw fit
to label Nelson Mandela a terrorist and roundly
vilify the ANC as a terrorist organization, while
astonishingly and without a modicum of regret
laud the architects of apartheid and the
ardent supporters of institutionalized
racism as the veritable champions of
what they deem as democracy?
Unless, of course, such individuals have short or convenient
memories and are themselves a complete abomination of what
society, which we were told by this woman doesn’t exist,
or come to that humanity should actually represent!
So I’ve no apologies to make or will I relent from
the stance I’ve taken because Death, inevitable
to us all, has finally, and some would
justifiably say, long-sufferingly and somewhat
kindly stepped in and brought the life of yet
another tyrant to its end. So feel free those of you
who want to eulogize or even dress yourself up
in sackcloth and ashes if you wish amidst your contrived beating
of chests and sorrowful refrains; but in doing so, I’d like for
you in your unrestrained orgy of engineered anguish
and false grief to jointly entreat you to abstain
from ever doing any of this in my name.
© Stanley V. Collymore
12 April 2013.
In the midst of life there is death the great leveller of us all. We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. So what doth it profit a man or woman if in their life time they gain all the riches of the world yet lose their soul for eternity? The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the Name of the Lord.
Piercing my heart:
Her nose-pin twinkles at me,
Her lip-ring smiles at me,
Her dark eyes make me lust,
Leaving everything like rust.
Her cheek-piercings make fake dimples,
Fake eyelashes arise ripples,
Inside my heart.
She is a prostitute from Havana,
I first met her in a sea-side cabana,
On my head, she fastened a cool bandana,
Every night, she gives me insomnia.
Tiny star tattoos trailing her waist,
I want to keep her in my vest,
On me, she pours liquor of zest,
With her I’m never exhausted.
To her tunes, I’m devastated.
The navel piercing makes her sensuous,
She makes my heart joyous,
The tattooed sun under her navel,
and the inked baby angel,
Are enough to create a novel,
I can’t forget the cross tattoo on her backbone,
And the chuckle of her cheekbone.
I can’t forget how her toe-rings caressed my body,
And her toe-rings were gazed by me.
To me, she means joy,
Her cupid tattoo is carnal envoy.
She showers drops of joy,
With tiny stars convoy.
I kissed the tribal tatt on her lower back,
I’ve loved her for god’s sake,
Her sensuality makes me shake,
But I am not fake.
I desire to bed her every night;
I desire to be her personal knight,
Loving her is my birth right,
I conceal her inside.
She is my secret passion,
She is my strange obsession,
I can tear away all taboos for her,
She has pierced my heart.
I love the way she smokes a cigar,
I love how she applies glitter,
I love the way her lips shimmer,
But I hate the way she ogles at strangers.
I depict her face on my life-canvas,
I inscribe her name on each piece of paper,
She makes my days luminous.
She is invincible and incredible,
In my life, her presence is inevitable.
I wish I were a gem of her necklace,
I’d ward off her foes like savage,
I’ve kissed her anklet,
I’ve loved her restless,
She’s made me mad,
And colored my fad!!
Pharisee went into the Temple to pray
Sure of his goodness and love for God
He prayed confidently about his deeds
Fasting, tithing, praying, He did faithfully
This man was glad when the sinner came
Into the Temple with eyes downcast.
For it gave a perfect contrast to himself.
So he thanked God he wasn't like this sinner.
Sinner was bowed so very low before God.
"God have mercy on me a sinner." he whispered.
No list of good uttered, as he could see none.
Jesus said Sinner not Pharisee was justified.
Simon the Pharisee invited Jesus over to eat.
Simon didn't have servants wash Jesus feet
He didn't kiss Jesus or draw near for fear,
Fear of what others Pharisees would think.
In came a sinful woman with unkempt hair.
She wept at Jesus feet without looking up.
Carefully she wiped these feet with her hair.
Simon was now sure Jesus was no prophet
A prophet could surely tell she was a sinner.
How could he let her touch him that way?
Reading Simon's thoughts Jesus taught.
Using this contrast in real life as a lesson.
He asked Simon if there were two debts
One greater, one lesser and both forgiven.
Who would feel greater love and gratitude?
Simon replied, "The one whose debt was greater"
"Correct" said the One who would pay all debts.
Those who know their debt to God is great.
Are filled with greater love toward the Savior.
Simon showed he had little need for the Christ.
But to the woman. Jesus said, "You sins are forgiven."
"Go and sin no more." She stood free and esteemed
Precious are those who come humbly to the Lord
He will forgive and welcome them to His Family forever.
Humility. Pride. Contrast. Mixed in all of us.
People who come to God feeling worthless, Christ lifts up.
People striding in proudly, Jesus humbles to allow entry.
For the Lord's Kingdom's door is incredibly low.
So low that we enter only through true confession
From the heart to Jesus as Savior who humbled Himself
Coming down from glory to earth's mess to make a Way.
By humbling Himself on a Cross – Universe's God tortured.
Jesus contrast makes ours seem small – so why wait?
May we take the humble road to Life, risen Christ made.
Joining God's family of forgiven, freed, joyful sinners.
New life's contrast with old will grow as we follow Him.
By a thankful sinner now saint by Jesus' grace
Since eternity past God the Father Son & Holy Spirit dwelled in unity and sweet fellowship.
Then Three-In-One decided to make a marvelous universe with an earth for life to dwell.
Creating an amazing array of creatures was the easy part – the risk was on the last made.
For unlike other creatures, man & woman were made in God's likeness with a Spirit.
That Spirit communicated with God, and harmony reigned as earth was well cared for.
Freedom to do was great – limited by but one tree that the humans were not to ear from.
At that tree, Satan disguised himself as an innocent snake and asked the woman questions.
Did God really say don't eat from this tree? Well, that's to keep you from becoming like Him.
Look its fruit is beautiful and one bite and you'll know what God does and be Jehovah's equal.
Eve was confused, for this didn't sound like what Adam said God told her, but wouldn't it be grand.
If God is so good, why would he keep this secret from us of being able to be like Him – is He jealous?
The firm, juicy fruit was indeed delicious, and she quickly called Adam to taste, which soon he did.
A small act? Every war, family problem, anger, hatred, lie, killing, stealing, rape, abuse came herefrom.
The beauty of God's creation was now marred with sin that affected every part with death and decay.
God graciously gave Adam & Eve animal skins for no longer would they live in Eden's perfect climate.
From now on there would be sweat for the food they ate and exceedingly great pain during childbirth.
Even their firstborn would murder their second, starting the cycle of revenge and killing that's ongoing.
Yet God also made a promise that one would come who would crush Satan's head while being bruised.
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God" clues us in to who.
For God's Son Himself would come to teach, heal and offer His life on a Cross to destroy our death curse.
Our sins He would bear and in rising He's seal the promise of eternal life, so great we Jesus' love for us.
For Jesus the cost was unbelievably high, and for us the reward is incredibly great – if we but accept.
Accept that I am a sinner, I've done wrong and need God's forgiveness to live with His perfection.
Accept that Jesus can do what I cannot – change my heart, make my Spirit alive to forever live with God.
This being GOD, the promise of heaven and new earth is sure, though pain lies in between. Choose now.
For GOD and all creation cry out – this is what life is meant for – to know and love One's Maker.
As humans we live eternally with or apart from God, and His great desire is that we choose with.
But just as an earthly Father cannot force true love, nor does our Heavenly Father – He waits.
Though He made all and knows beginning from end, he waits and yearns that we receive His love.
Then love and be loved by Jesus in life's harshness & delight, sharing that love with other lost children
To work in harmony with the One who made us, makes life new again as our spirit is filled with new life.
There can be dry days when we don't feel His presence, and others so full that we want to shout for joy.
The fact is Our Father GOD, our Savior Jesus, the Holy Spirit, are always with us and never will leave us. Amen.
I saw a little bird sitting in a tree,
I could see him he could see me,
He pecked at an apple and sang,
And through woods his song rang,
Happy he had anther little peck,
I smiled as the apple went down his neck,
It flapped its wings but did not fly,
He watched another bird float by,
He turned around and did a dance,
So I did the same just by chance,
We both waltzed around the tree,
I flapped my arms he laughed at me,
A man was watching close by
He asked if he could join in and try,
So two men and a bird wriggled,
A woman joined in and she jiggled,
Another woman and her pet,
She was good the best yet,
Then everyone in the park,
Strutted their stuff until dark,
As each left they gave a wave,
It's my first time at a rave.
You where the breath of my joy and heaven,
now you are my curse, blotch, and you delete the rainbow of my smile
Why so, woman of mud?
You where the fountain and rose of my heart,
now you’re the thrones that grow on the hills of my rose
and make my rose look like a mountain of pain.
Why so, woman of mud?
You where the highly skilled love miracle maker that turned my tears to wine
and give my cry special effects,
because when I am crying and I think of you, I suddenly start laughing.
But now, you turn my smile to clay and my tears to a red river of agony, and you roll my cry with your temper of hate down the mountain of darkness.
Why so, woman of mud?
You where the pure guide that guided all our belongings with your cloud of kindness,
and you never did without showering your waters of affection on me.
But now, you scatter all that belongs to us in the deepest pit of unkindness, and you bleed away what we felt for each other through your rain of anguish.
You always said to me,
that theirs no such thing as heartbreak,
because you will never ever leave the path of our purple love, and you shall always be there for me like the stars that set on the eyes of skies.
But now, you boldly crush and pond my heart in your mortar of anguish and walk away leaving my skies blind.
Why so, woman of mud?
You where the light that lighted up the candle of my soul when I was damp and hollow and this made me glow intensively. You also always told me the darkest secrets I could not even tell you.
But now you blow so hard to wind away the light of my soul, flushing me dip down into the land of isolated slaves, where I hear your gossips about me.
Why so, woman of mud?
You were my brightest sunset and you never did without hugging and holding my hands, for you always saw me as your palace of refuge in times of traffic danger.
But now, you’ll rather become hell, just to see me cry and burn, and you’ll rather also just walk gently into death, so as not to call me your hero.
Why so, woman of mud?
You where my law of pleasant admiration and I could never carry on without you by my life, because you where my dramatic wonder of love.
But now, you are my flaws of unpleasant admiration and I have no choice nor muddle but to move on in my soberest mood, without you woman of mud, because you are now my thunder of hate,
Woman of mud!
Trapped in her beauty-
oh such beauty so uncommon in this world,
such beauty she possesses like a jewel in a dust cloud
of destruction, greed, violence, and death;
her beauty is such a thing that possesses my heart
and entangles my soul;
for trapped in her beauty is beauty in itself.
She is lovely,
like no other before,
and she knows something
that none have known before.
She is beautiful,
and she is kind;
love conjured me and her beauty
locked me away from society;
I lost my mind when she'd gone away a year ago today;
now I see she is no where to be found-
still I am still trapped in her luxurious beauty-
On a raft in the river tied to a tree, lived in an old woman of whom most folks made fun. She didn't talk much, most thought she was dumb. Kids being curious, and the summer being hot, the cool of the river drew our disobedient lot. We kids soon discovered the crude raft and the tent. We oddly made friends with its strange occupant. Tried as we might to find out her name. All we got was a smile from the toothless old dame. One thing for certain we kids soon found out. Social graces she lacked, but her kindness made up for that fact. Times being tough and money being tight, often we kids confided our plight. She didn't care if we were dirty or poor. She loved her little friends all the more. We didn't mind her fashion was lack. She wore a dress made from and old "tater sack." What troubled us was she didn't have a name. We didn't care from where she came. One day as we sat on the bank, a thought came to mind. We were disgusted with folks being unkind. "Everybody's got a name," said one. "Let's call her 'Tater Sack Annie'", said another, so it was done. Annie smiled at us. She liked her new name. She didn't say much, just smiled again. She motioned for us kids to her camp for lunch. She always fed our whole bunch. Fried taters, catfish and greens. All of us believed she was a woman of means. Several summers went by. One year the fall came. A saturday night, folks out for a lark. Didn't see Annie walking home in the dark. Somebody sent, and a somber Sherriff came, "Anybody her know her name?" He spoke to the group. Two boys stepped forward, both knelt to a stoop. "That's our 'Tater Sack Annie'", they spoke in a low tone. Both their faces ashen and as white as bone. Today in a churchyard no monument gleams. Only a simple stone reads, "Annie a lady of means."
Written by my grandmother Sandra Burch
This is what eye remember about the MOVIE of course eye never knoe her. She
was moving constantly moving at least the actress who was portraying her but to
a boy it WAS her it seemed so heart wrenching a thing to just be blind there is a
SCHOOL for THEM they do not function in the real world and there she was big
as life the boy in my had that CRUSH upon her from the instant eye saw her it
was strang puppy love. Winner of the 1960 Tony Award for Best Play, “The Miracle
Worker” tells the incredible story of Helen Keller, a young woman trapped in a
world of silence and darkness. Deaf, blind, and mute, with no way to
communicate, she fought anyone who tried to help her with an intense, furious
desperation. Then Annie Sullivan came. A strong, determined, half-blind woman
fueled by her troubled past, she began the daunting struggle to reach Helen and
bring her into the world at last. She was so pretty in an odd sort of way swaying to
the tune of musick only she could see and hear the idea that she tried to
overcome her handicap and live was so nice to this little undergod. YThis semi-
sequel to William Gibson's The Miracle Worker recounts the early adult years of
the profoundly handicapped but brilliant Helen Keller. Helen, played by Mare
Winningham, enters college, with her friend and mentor Annie Sullivan Macy
(Blythe Danner) by her side. As Helen's international fame grows, she must
withstand the pressures of those who'd treat her as a freak rather than a human
being as well as Annie's near-strident demands that she excel at everything. The
multi-faceted Ms. Keller lived too much of a life to be squeezed into a mere two-
hour running time; the script betrays the strain of trying to show us more than it's
able by wrapping up everything in a hurried, unsatisfying conclusion. see part two
Families are the most important social unit in existence on earth today. For it is out of the
family that every worker, teacher, preacher, agnostic, librarian, construction worker, mason,
mayor, Senator, Congressman, President, World Leader, mothers, fathers, and yes, every
man and woman who fills an occupation (or not) grow to be the individual that they are.
Families are important because the beginning of all feelings originate right there in the
home. A newborn child may feel the love and affection of adorning parents. Or, if the
parent is a drug addict or mentally challenged, the child will have a different experience, an
unpleasant one that no child deserves. We are what we choose. And our choices teach the
There are a myriad of variables that influence an individuals feelings of self-worth, good or
bad. The family is the place where love and care are learned and shared. Anger
management, good or bad, is taught by example. Manners, good or bad are taught or not…it
depends. Everything that a man or woman becomes has its roots in the family.
So, given this, let us all work together as parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, grandparents,
nieces, nephews, cousins, and even friends to become the best possible individuals within our
families that we can. Let each of us strive for peace in the heart, the home, the city, the
nations, the world. Because we are all God’s children. And we deserve the best possible
life. A little bit of heaven on earth can happen if everyone does their part to live, love,
forgive, and enjoy what God has given them.
Written for the Rambling Poet's Narrative Contest.
Copyright 2-8-10 © Dane Smith-Johnsen
of my fantasy
from my dreams
bring your self
in my arms
and bless my body
with your touch
touch me here
kiss me there
like a sweet sin
of my fantasy
Nursery rhymes in today’s times....
As seen through my eyes....
Go something like this...
With a brand new twist....
Little Jack Horner sat on a street corner....
Drinking from a paper bag....
And when he returned home from Viet-Nam....
All the government did was give him a Flag....
Old Mother Hubbard....
Went to the cupboard....
To fetch her kids some food..
When she got there....
The cupboards were bare....
So she had to go on Welfare....
Jack and Jill went to the top of a hill....
To fetch themselves some bottled water....
Jack tripped over some tools of Tom Sawyer....
And now Jill is looking for a good lawsuit Lawyer....
Jack Spratt could eat no fat....
His wife could eat no lean....
And now they too will sue....
A company called “ Lean Cuisine “....
Now I could go on...
But with this I will close....
Just thought I would share....
It’s a totally different world out there....
What, but in this dismal life should appear
My hopes, my dreams, true love
All seem to fade
Into the distance I reach
My eyes begin to tear
My heart pierced through with loves wounding blade!
I sought the shelter of loves sweet embraces
In a woman who's heart was filled with vengeful maces
Evil all around!
My body, heart and soul abused
Pain and hurt consume me!
My heart and mind bemused
My love, like a glass house she shattered!
Sharing herself with so many mates
Male and female indiscriminate
Her sexual desire insatiates
My loins burned for her in heated passion
I hoped at once she'd share
My fantasies brought bare!
In her, delectable delights and fatuations
But only in monogamy -
My passionate energies ignite
With her, my love lives alone
She doesn't know my heart
She fails to listen
Her own, with walls all around a'glisten
Her mind imprisoned
From many years of
Giving into lust and depravity!
No matter how strong my love for her
There seems to be no relenting
She's given into such disbelief
As cannot be imagined
Her mind's eye blinded by words,
She deemed dissenting
If only she knew how to open up
To love and meaningful discussion
Could she see the errors
In her cruel interpretations?
Alas! Consumed by hurtful vengeance be
"God he will suffer for those words he said to me"
In silence she makes me suffer
For wrongs I'm not guilty of
Her judgements of my actions
So obediently; innocently intended
Convicted by her own guilt, she pretended!
Her cruelty knows no bounds
While she rips, tears, cuts and destroys
The fabric of our "True Love"
Such ignorance! My soul screams out!
Oh! The sadness of it!
A travesty of two hearts
That were once united!
How do I get through to her
There is so much more to love
Than what just meets the eye!
"Whatever happened to communication?"
I cry! Its the only way to dissuade
The problems of the heart
Open hearts and open minds,
Forgiveness, faithfulness, and Trust
These are some ingredients
For a deep and lasting love
Why does she persist
In her cruel, vengeful ways?
To cause pain, not deserved
Oh! It truly hurts and dismays!
With patience, love, and forbearing kindness
I seek to go, where no man ponders -
For fear of weakness and humility of soul.
For my one, my true cherished woman -
God and Angels, made!
For her, I would cast, myself down -
Onto Loves Wounding Blade!
When a woman first meets a man,
He thinks she's the greatest invention
since sliced ham,
He adores her physical appearance,
The way she talks, laughs and giggles,
He even savors her fragrance,
There is never any talk of space or
room to wiggle,
Once the relationship becomes consummated,
her faults suddenly become illuminated,
The idiosyncracies he used to find charming,
become uncouth and alarming,
He repels her like a magnet,
and ignores her as if she were
an antiquated kitchen cabinet,
After the lust is gone,
a woman becomes an unnecessary
The man no longer feels obligated
to be respectful,
All his negative ways get displayed,
He renounces being bashful,
The man picks the woman apart,
like a bird pecking his food,
Then it becomes clear,
his intentions were not good from the start,
He was just toying with her heart.......
Never, ever have I needed a woman so much. My raging passions need your calming
touch. You have me possessed princess. I yearn for fragrant, balmy nights and your sweet
caress! You have me emotionally high. Love is the ultimate truth, all else is a lie!
Woman you better believe I know your value! I am driven by an uncontrollable urge to
love you. Through my letters and poems you feel my appreciation. I will love you with
enthusiasm and dedication. I will give you my all til' the day I die. Love is the ultimate truth,
all else is a lie!
Our love is so pure. The heartache of our separation can be hard to endure. But I feel
our spiritual connection wherever I may be. That alone gives me inner strength which fuels
me constantly. Our names together are forever written in the clouds in the sky. Love is the
ultimate truth, all else is a lie!
I asked Sheila one day
"Why do you love me?"
She said,"I do not know?"
"You dazzle me, brilliant
You love me, but why
You do not know, a poet hmm?"
"I am not a poet, I am a woman"
"Woman loves because she loves"
"And no mathematics"
She crossed the street
And went to a kiosk
She came back with candies
APROPOS THE WORD
(FOR MAYA ANGELOU, 2001)
There is something about the word
You give life to; a sense of
Urgency flowing from the womb
There is something about the way
You gather the word
Into full bosoms, nourishing legacies
Of well traveled dirt roads
Often paved with blood debts to be paid.
There is something about the way
You carry the word up and deep
Peeking through shades of his story;
Imaging life on the canvas of time
Traveling over and back across tracks;
Down to the Quarters
Where Sons and Daughters can dig deep
While they weep: filling holes in their souls.
There is something about the way
You form the word into a quick pregnancy;
Birthing life over steady black bridges;
Teaching prayers in dances of dreams;
Revealing profound simplicity only God can bestow:
That the word should be heard in ebony visions
Of timely decisions of Queen Mother Maya Angelou!
And that’s word!