One Flaw in Women by Paul Jenkins

One Flaw in Women

Women have strengths that amaze men.

They bear hardships and they carry burdens,

but they hold happiness, love and joy.

They smile when they want to scream

They sing when they want to cry.

They cry when they are happy

and laugh when they are nervous.

They fight for what they believe in.

They stand up to injustice.

They don't take "no" for an answer

when they believe there is a better solution.

They go without so their family can have.

They go to the doctor with a frightened friend.

They love unconditionally.

They cry when their children excel

and cheer when their friends get awards.

They are happy when they hear about

a birth or a wedding.

Their hearts break when a friend dies.

They grieve at the loss of a family member,

yet they are strong when they

think there is no strength left.

They know that a hug and a kiss

can heal a broken heart.

Women come in all shapes, sizes and colors.

They'll drive, fly, walk, run or e-mail you

to show how much they care about you.

The heart of a woman is what

makes the world keep turning.

They bring joy, hope and love.

They have compassion and ideas.

They give moral support to their

family and friends.

Women have vital things to say

and everything to give.

HOWEVER, IF THERE IS ONE FLAW IN WOMEN,

IT IS THAT THEY FORGET THEIR WORTH.

Paul Jenkins

Poetry Wednesday

The Good Night and Good Morning 

He knew he was asleep and was dreaming   

      Of a beautiful poem. It seemed to be singing   

            Itself in the night, and he woke   

In a bed in a room in an old hotel   

      And lay there, hearing the song go on   

            Though he could see the shape   

Of his empty shirt on the straight chair   

      And his empty shoes on the patch of carpet   

            Made light, half by the moon   

And half by the gray beginning   

      Of dawn. He could see the silhouette   

            Of his own hand against the window shade   

Like a flower, open and waiting. He smiled   

      At the foolishness of loving his own poem   

            In his own dream, of accepting praise   

From his own shadow. But his mind's eye   

      Kept seeing that poem and his real ear   

            Kept hearing that same song. It came from the street   

Under his window, and before he knew why,   

      He was out of bed and shivering his way   

            Into what were some of his clothes   

And one of his shoes and stumbling   

      Into the hall and down the unlighted stairs   

            And through the lobby (where the clerk was dreaming

Something else), through the stubbornly locked door   

      And along the sidewalk to the curb where the singer   

            Was sweeping trash and leaves along the gutter   

With his slow broom, who now stopped, his mouth   

      Open to gape at an apparition   

            Holding a scrap of paper up to his face   

And begging him to read aloud. The sweeper whispered   

      He couldn't read. And Lorca took him   

            Into his arms and kissed him and kissed   

The morning air, now stirring what was left   

      Of the leaves overhead, and went limping back   

            Through a door that stood wide open   

And a grand lobby and up the stairs into bed   

      To lie there stark awake as sleeplessly   

            As a poet who'd been told he was immortal.

Federico Garcia Lorca

 

Poetry Wednesday

“Thank You, God...”

Thank you, God: I dream of him more seldom,
And don’t see him now in every place,
The white path with clouds has been laden,
Easy shadows o’er the waters raced.
And all day the chime of bells arose
O’er the ocean of the ploughed soil;
Here the toll is best-heard from Saint John’s 
Belfries which are seen afar, the tall.
I am cutting off the lilac fashioned 
For the brunches that have lost their bloom;
Two black monks passed by in conversation
On the ramparts to the aging doomed. 
Let, for blind me, the plain, dear and earthly
World again be turned into alive.
Our Lord has made my soul healthy
With the icy calm of the non-love. 

Anna Akhmatova

Poetry Wednesday

"Hope" is the thing with feathers

254

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.

Emily Dickinson

Poetry Wednesday

A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

William Blake

 

 

Wisdom of the Lord

Psalm 111:10 “The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom: a good understanding have all they that do his commandments: his praise endureth  forever.”

Proverbs 1:7 “The fear of the LORD is the beginning of knowledge: but fools despise wisdom and instruction.”

Proverbs 9:10 “The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom: and the knowledge of the holy is understanding.”

James 3:17 “But the wisdom that is from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, and easy to be intreated, full of mercy and good fruits, without partiality, and without hypocrisy.”

Let me be pure and fear you,

let me be filled with your wisdom.

My feet want to follow you,

my eyes long to gaze into you.

I have no knowledge,

nothing of my own.

No understanding of the world,

that can measure to your ways.

I am just begining,

the road to holiness is so long.

I know I will tire,

I will cry for you.

Please, hear my cries,

do not leave me alone.

Let your wisdom be gentle,

full of mercy and kindness towards me.