We live in a world that’s full of distrust and hate and worry that bound’s most of us,we share not! our feeling’s for fear of dispair we keep our secrets with none to share.
we have grown for century’s with out growing near pondering and wondering is this why they sell beer?
getting drunk can be some kind of fun ! but life isn’t that scarey if you live for fun! live for now and tomorrow and again live! life for you! and the fun! that’s within.
take time to slow down and follow your heart listening to other’s way’s will just break your heart, make your own choices and decide for yourself cause in the end your life is top shelf! follow your dream’s! and listen to your heart and when everyone else is gone you still have a part of thing’s that have come and thing;s that have went..but when true to your! heart then. your time was well spent let the little worrys just pass you on by, and watch in the heaven’s and the clouds that float by.
for love in your! heart can only save space for your true kindness and loving grace, never let’s others control your inner heart and then you will find peace and shall never part.
listen to that little child within and share your love from end to end for we only live once and that’s all we got! but how we live life is what were about.
live for thine self and life for the best! when you are tired take a nice long rest.
waking up to a new day is just devine… for who know’s what you may find?
look at that smiling face you have dear and hold onto love in your heart and the mirror. live out your life this is your quest! to love thy own self tis always the best.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Should we?.

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Have you ever looked
deep into a sad child’s eyes or
have you ever stopped to listen
the their sad and lonley cries.
Most people refuse to believe it
although it is quite true,
that many children need mercy today
as many also need you.
So many children are beaten
and living in despair,
cause we don’t ever realize that
they need someone to care.
So many families are starving,
and often wondering why
that we don’t stop to help them
and continue on with our own lives.
So many fatherless children
who will never understand
why they have no precious daddy
or the strength of a loving father’s hand.
So many homeless people
living on the street
while we’re kept warm and cozy
and have plenty to eat.
This world is very greedy
and we should all understand
that we could be a sad, beaten child,
homeless and hungry family,
or a child all grown up to be a fatherless man.
Today someone may be reaching
out to take your hand
hoping that you’ll care for them
and that you’ll understand.
Don’t ever pass up a moment
when you got a hand to lend,
because someone out there may need you
and later you may need them.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Why you should care….

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Underneath the pain
In a Country by your side
Underneath the suffering
That so many sleep to hide

Underneath the tremors
There’s no Mother for a child
Underneath the rubble
Is what’s left of broken smiles

Underneath the bridge
Is a man without a home
Underneath the moonlight
There’s a child who cries alone

Underneath the remnants
Children played without a fear
Underneath the blanket
An infant clings to life so dear

Underneath the tragedy
It’s up to us to make a start
Underneath the grief
A chance to unbreak someones heart

Underneath the dreams
That were shattered in a glance
Underneath the ruins
Is help to build a second chance

Underneath the sun
Where lovers long to sail away
Underneath the gray sky
A child survives another day

Underneath disaster
Is a longing to reach out
Underneath this calling
Desire burns through all self doubt

JCM 1/2010

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Tremors.

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Ready to start a brand new year
she makes her way to school,
with hopes that on the popularity list
she’d be with the cool.
She finds her class and walks inside
to wish she’d never came.
The way they talked and things they wore
made her feel ashamed.
She looked don at her tattered clothes,
(the ones she wore last year)
when she saw one of the poular kids
pointing at her and grinning from ear to ear.
She tried her hardest not to cry,
she didn’t want to make a scene.
She just couldn’t understand why
they had to be so mean.
The day seems long and endless
until the bell decides to ring,
she seems so relieved
by the simple little “Ding!”
What it’s like to be rejected,
is somthing many people know.
Knowing your not wanted somewhere
makes you not want to go.
Many children suffer year after year,
for stupid school board leaders
are too lazy to hear
about what other children
are always going through.
I know what it’s like to be rejected;
Do you?

Written by: Miranda Patterson, (A.KA. Heart 4 Poetry)

November 11, 2009

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at What it’s like to be rejected.

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(1)If you’d found a way to hold your own against the playground bully,

Would you go to school reunions now, and share old classroom tales?

If you’d opened up, so counselors could understand you fully,

Would the knowledge they’d acquired have taken more wind from your sales?

(2)If you’d stood up to your father, when he made you go to Uni,

Doing courses you detested, would you like your new career?

If you’d gone to the gymnasium, when ladies called you puny,

Would you soon have gotten married to the one you thought was dear?

(3)If you’d worked your own agenda, and then gone the extra distance,

Would that usage of your time have given you a just reward?

If you’d left the church’s leadership to other working Christians,

Could some social life nostalgia moments of those days be stored?

(4)If you’d tolerated evil, when the time had come for battle,

Would you now retain some friends, who then became the foes you fought?

If you’d been content participating in the pointless prattle,

Would you now feel more accepted, less alone and overwrought?

(5)If you’d pushed aside your limits, thinking they could be exceeded,

Would you make the roadways safer, as you struggled at the wheel?

If you’d gambled with your destiny, when hesitance was needed,

Would the period to follow have been less of an ordeal?

(6)If you’d listened to the voices, who determined what was trendy,

Would you know yourself today, while drowning in the status quo?

If you’d thrown out childhood literature, like Peter Pan and Wendy,

Would your adult way of life enable you to truly grow?

(7)Would attempts to make lasagna not be misconstrued as arson,

If you’d done a course that taught you how to imitate a chef?

Would these skills have brought you and your girlfriend closer to the parson,

If you’d settled down, before your time in nightclubs turned you deaf?

(8)Are you just the final product of the choices you decided,

Back when you were far too young to take your whole life by the reins?

Do you shoulder blame for errors made, when help was not provided,

When you found yourself depending on your instinct and your brains?

(9)If you had the chance to start again, and take the road not traveled,

Would the outcome take you closer or still further from your goals?

If the tapestry of threads that were your life became unraveled,

Could you sew them back together, without leaving any holes?

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at RIDES NOT TAKEN.

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(1)My first Blue Mountains journeys were on Sydney’s country trains,

With scenery improving, once I’d gone past Emu Plains.

I did not know the passengers around me, but perhaps one

Might care to play a card game, since we’d only come to Lapstone

(2)I closed my vintage fiction novel fast. So I could then look,

To see surrounding bushland, as the train pulled out of Glenbrook.

The concrete steps and walkway, over roads and rails and tracks stand

Beside the station fences, built more recently in Blaxland.

(3)Excited tourists took in views, and were not sorry too,

That urban redevelopment had not occurred in Warrimoo.

The summer sun that made them hot, and burnt their skin shall be

Forgotten now in Springwood, not too far from Winmalee.

(4)The clear far western air was like that from an open fridge:

And all the fruit was tasty at the shops in Falconbridge.

I underlined one station on timetables, with a thin pen.

You need to tell the guard if you intend to stop at Linden.

(5)My carriage weaving past the hills would often strike a good chord,

As I looked up at overpasses linking roads to Woodford.

My adult self did not forget the early childhood days he took

Excursions with school second class beyond the streets of Hazelbrook.

(6)The bushwalks were worth doing, and these verses should endorse one.

My ears repressurized, to suit the greater heights of Lawson.

The fields were green, and gumtree trunks a somewhat duller colour,

And horses drank fresh water from a pond in Bullaburra.

(7)A roundhouse in a paddock, with tall arches in its walls,

Preceded several pine trees that I passed in Wentworth Falls.

The suburbs further on provided still more atmosphere:

The highest peaks and widest views that came with that lost year.

(8)The weekend trips grew cooler, as the months became a memory:

February, March and April. Each of them was only temporary.

The further up I went each time, before I’d be alighting,

The more the sights I saw up there were ever more exciting.

(9)The red leaves looked as they did, in a 1900s autumn.

I needed winter gloves, and found a clothing shop, and bought some.

The flowers in the gardens of a holiday retreat

In bloom would make the image in my photograph complete

(10)In Medlow Bath, a friend and I went searching for an airstrip

Out somewhere in the bush. I asked a lady with a hairclip,

If she might know the route we’d need to find our destination.

The travel map I’d used had aged too much since publication.

(11)That 1997 afternoon in mid-July

We waited for our fellow mountain walker’s best reply:

“I haven’t come across that place in any of my walks,”

She said, as night began to fall on dandelion stalks.

(12)My friend and I discussed new ways to make the night go well,

And watched the lights go on outside that suburb’s grand hotel,

Enjoyed its lounge room fire, and then went home by heavy rail,

Imagining those three explorers charting out a trail.

(13)Thankfully, since they produced their maps on ancient parchments,

No-one found a way to bulldoze through those high escarpments.

Now, years later, still convinced that mountain life was best,

I relocated to this land beyond the city’s west.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at NIGHTFALL IN MEDLOW BATH.

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I’m now sworn against hypocrisy, which lets me poke and prod

All the minor faults of Christians, while I miss the love of God.

I defend my rights to swindle you, as long as I can pick

One cathedral in a hundred, where the dead have caught the quick.

So I shun the men, who promulgate and serve communion bread,

As I justify the heartless things I’ve done with life instead.

I’ll attack the credibility of all religious creeds,

To procrastinate the chances of the pastor sewing seeds.

I’ll ignore the fact that Jesus came to die upon the cross

To redeem the sins that brought my soul near such a tragic loss;

As I focus on the things that drag the Lord’s name through the mud,

Never mindful of the way He offered up his precious blood.

I’ll enjoy the jokes that paint the Bible’s narrative with smut,

While I overdose on drugs to dull the anguish in my gut.

I’ve no time for church on Sunday, since I’ll spend the day in bed,

With a hangover of damage to my liver, lungs and head.

But this doesn’t really matter, once my high tech microscope

Helps me spot the spec in your eye; so that I won’t need to cope

With the knowledge that my vision’s been distorted by a plank.

When I’m barred from Heaven later, I’ll just have myself to thank.

I will question those afflictions that a God of love permits,

While I bless the world with dodgy deals, to prove the slipper fits;

So that God becomes a scapegoat for discomforts men have made,

Like depletion of the ozone; though God’s trees have yielded shade.

I blame God for child abuse by men who infiltrated deep

Into youth groups; as it won’t occur to me that God will weep

So much harder than the rest of us, when children bear a scar

Put there by someone without the gospel in his repertoire.

I can take the wide and easy road, with words to please the crowd,

Who will never know the secrets I’m afraid to voice aloud,

Of my private insecurities, which God would love to heal,

If my sour grapes gave way to humble pie for my next meal.

I’ll forever point the finger at the preachers on TV

Taking tithes, because I’ve missed the point that my salvation’s free;

If I’d make a true repentance and accept God’s greatest gift

Of the sacrifice He made to fix a most expansive rift.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at My Oculist was a Carpenter.

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Professor Brint was 30, when he built his best invention:

The Chrono-Car, and used it to explore the fourth dimension.

He revved it up, and traveled back through 23 years’ history,

And then the engine used up all supplies of his magistery.

Now trapped back when his childhood self had only just turned seven,

And frequently thrown out those brown bread sandwiches with devon

His mother made; Brint chose to spare himself the wierdest meeting.
He steered clear of the school, where he’d endured a frequent beating.

He met a blond haired lady his own age, and slowly courted;

And then they got engaged, but his indulgences were thwarted.

She dyed her hair to brown, and now looked strangely too familiar.

Their three year romance took his thoughts to days of juvenilia.

For Tina now resembled all his deepest recollections:
The teacher in his sixth class year, for whom he held affections,

But couldn’t share, because of different ages and those fissures

Dividing them, because her only known first name was “Mrs.”

So “Tina Long,” her married name, before the timeline altered,

Confronted him with guilt; since he had well and truly faltered,

By stopping her from meeting Mr Long, when he had entered,

And tried to buy a life from her, which he had really rented.

Tormented by morality, he pondered all the choices,

Recalling all those recent dates in cheaply hired Rolls Royces.

Should he arrange for Mr Long and her to meet and marry,

And then seek someone single in the past, where he’d still Tarry?

Or should he marry Tina, and let Mr Long be cheated

Of destined love, if what had gone “before” was not repeated?

He thought that she should know the truth, and do her own deciding,

Confessed (except Long’s name), and hoped his teacher would start guiding.

She said, “I’ll marry you, and have no wish to still discover

Identities of might-have-beens,” which made Brent really love her,

“Why don’t you choose an alias, to safeguard your persona

From sharing names with your young self, who must remain a loner?”

Invent a name like Mr Long, and be my true intended.

Don’t worry how the broken threads of time will all be mended.”

“Did you say Long?” asked Brint, “That means the Mrs Long who taught me

Was married to my older self, while 6th class Brint was naughty.

My childhood self was jealous, while I was my greatest rival:

Your adult husband, while my younger self would seek survival

In mucking up at school. No wonder you gave much attention

To teaching him the right ways, and gave him an hour’s detention.”

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at LONG JOURNEY.

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He stood on the edge of a suburb, where house windows faced an expanse

Of bushes and forest and small hills; and readied himself, with a chance.

He stood on the edge of a sunset, with houses not far from his rocks,

And somehow the sunset was lengthened, slowed up through a trick of the clocks.

He harnessed the wings he had fashioned, aware they’d permit him to glide,

But never to fly any higher; and planned his penultimate ride.

The suburb he’d wandered for decades had come to its outermost edge.

He felt like a pioneer, waiting for strength to step out from the ledge.

Around him the movement of minutes had now (from his viewpoint) grown slow.

But night can’t be held back forever, since time need continue its flow.

The slowdown had only extended the best hour of one summer’s day,

With sunburn unlikely, and also an hourglass providing delay.

Recalling his visits to galleries, with sunsets of canvas and paint;

He’d never seen anything like this, as time showed its generous restraint.

The colours of twilight would summon orion to twinkle and shine.

For once that could wait until someone had soared over branches and vine.

He bent his legs quickly and kicked out, so eager to see so much more.

Beneath him were fresh summer breezes; and he took his first chance to soar.

He curved over treetops, and wondered if branches beneath them were sharp.

With everything else in slow motion, he somehow could still hear a harp.

He veered in another direction, to mansions built next to the fern;

And spied, on a balcony-courtyard, the one who had caused him to turn:

A feminine woman, whose music was flowing in relative synch

With time’s little gift for the glider, who knew he had no need to think.

He had enough height left, and reached her, as nightfall and real time were set

Concurrent with both of them, once more; its duty done once, they had met.

Like him she’d spent all those years waiting, unaltered by children or change;

So both could embrace their fulfilment, which destiny chose to arrange.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at HAVENFLIGHT.

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twas the day before christmas when all through the mall people were stiriing and some took a good fall they hustled and bustled through the lines at wal-mart on to j.c. penny’s they traveled into the dark spending and spending every last dime they saved away till after new years when they all kneeled down to pray my! rent is past due! oh! what bills i must pay! taxes are bearing and children are in a dismay why do we have christmas in december each year? why not May when the weather is clear why not in june ? when tax refunds come.. Boy i hate christmas with all it’s fuss.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at day before christmas.

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