The Journey

“The Journey"

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.”
― Mary Oliver

Laugh, remember

“I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.”
― Charles Bukowski

The Power of Poetry

This article is copied from here.

There are those who are born with the gift for crafting words with power as part of their earthly mission providing great inspiration for our minds and our souls. Their works of art come down to us through history and their names are well known. Then there are those of us who, when our paths encounter immense pain, loss, or joy, find no greater comfort than attempting to put our words into verse. Some of these words may become known to a few others, while some remain locked in the pages of our personal journals. Yet they all have the power to heal and help us to grow.

Molly Harrower, author of “The Therapy of Poetry,” wrote, “Poetry is ‘therapy’ and is part and parcel of normal development…. Long before there were therapists there were poets and from time immemorial man has struggled to cope with his inevitable inner turmoil. One way of so coping has been the ballad, the song, the poem. Once crystallized into words, all-engulfing feelings become manageable, and once challenged into explicitness, the burden of the incommunicable becomes less heavy. The very act of creating is a self-sustaining experience, and in the poetic moment the self becomes both the ministering ‘therapist’ and the comforted ‘patient.’”

I wish I knew what passion felt like,
To wake up and feel the passion to be happy and to love.
Passion is the eagerness to wake up with the light.
And passion is what fights the dark every night.
I don’t think I have ever known true passion,
But that wont stop me from seeking it like an impossible mission.
To search for the one that will show me that,
True passion is what life’s really about.

Cristina Richardson

 

I think to live a life with passion, is to truly live life. I want to truly live my life.

Trials Turned to Gold

---

 I don't really like the song, but I love the lyrics!

He's brought me here, where things are clear
And trials turn to gold
He shared with me, His victory
He won in days of old

Oh Lord, I don't deserve
The riches of your word
But You've changed my filthy rags
To linen white as snow

The view from here is nothing near
To what it is for You
I tried to see Your plan for me
But I only acted like I knew

Oh Lord forgive the times
I tried to read your mind
Cause you said if I'd be still
Then I would hear your voice

My Lord, my King, my urge to sing
And praise the things above
No words can say the glorious way
You changed me with your love

He's brought me low, so I could know
The way to reach the heights
To forsake my dreams, my self esteem
And give up all my rights

With each one that I lay down
A jewel is placed in my crown
Cause His love, the things above
Is all we'll ever need

He's brought me here, where things are clear
And trials turn to gold

Keith Green - Trials Turned to Gold

Be Patient

It takes time to heal.

Build a bridge
from now to tomorrow.
Sink the piers
deep into the Earth.
Pour in concrete
day by day,
a little at a time,
and let it set.

It takes time to heal.

It may feel very awkward,
as if you're making empty promises,
as if you're simply spanning empty space.

But someday, somehow, somewhere,
you'll find yourself
upon a brand new shore,
glancing back at the bridge
which you alone have built.

It takes time to heal.

Fatigue

The End of the Day
To B. T.
Dead-tired, dog-tired, as the vivid day
Fails and slackens and fades away.
The sky that was so blue before
With sudden clouds is shrouded o'er.
Swiftly, stilly the mists uprise,
Till blurred and grey the landscape lies.

All day we have plied the oar; all day
Eager and keen have said our say
On life and death, on love and art,
On good or ill at Nature's heart.
Now, grown so tired, we scarce can lift
The lazy oars, but onward drift.A
nd the silence is only stirred
Here and there by a broken word.

O, sweeter far than strain and stress
Is the slow, creeping weariness.
And better far than thought I find
The drowsy blankness of the mind.
More than all joys of soul or sense
Is this divine indifference;
Where grief a shadow grows to be,
And peace a possibility.

Amy Levy

Be happy in the moment

No longer forward nor behind
I look in hope and fear;
But grateful take the good I find,
The best of now and here.

John G. Whittier

Sweet Kisses

Oh, that a joy so soon should waste,
Or so sweet a bliss as a kiss
Might not forever last!
So sugared, so melting, so delicious.
The dew that lies on roses,
When the morn herself discloses,
Is not so precious.
Oh, rather than I would it smother
Were I to taste such another.
It should be my wishing
That I might die kissing.

Ben Jonson
(Poetry of the English Renaissance 1509-1660)

Matt's poems

Two of the poems Matt wrote for an English assignment in November of 2006

My name is Matthew Wellborn
I love all 9 of my siblings
God is my Passion
Black is my favorite color
I love Anime
X-box is what I play
I draw all kinds of things
I like Classic rock, Alternive rock, Metal, Pop and Rap

My Dragon by Matt Wellborn
I found a oddly colored rock in the woods
When I was running from the men in the black hoods
The rock was actually a dragon egg
When he hatched I gave my dragon a chicken leg

The Invitation

Click here to read what motivated Oriah to write this poem. This is one of my favorite pieces of all time.

The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer


It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain!I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithlessand therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it's not pretty, every day,and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.