Yes, poetry is very hard to find where I live. And sometimes I see a strong woman. Each new hour holds new chancesFor new beginnings. Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs The Creator gave to me when I And the tree and stone were one. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. To think the difference will still continue to others, yet we lie beyond the difference.
She makes many posts and is quite active on social media. A strong woman wears the look of confidence on her face, Always doing whatever it takes to finish, seeking only first place, The woman of strength competes with an emotional sense of grace, Understanding it's more important to run a Holy Spirit filled race. Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow And when you yet knew you still knew nothing. Strong women won't let anyone get the best of them, So skilled in defenses even if they have to pretend, Yet a woman of strength gives her best to everyone, And even on a cloud filled day still bright as the sun. Especially anyone who has issues with confidence. The horizon leans forward, Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Each of you a bordered country,Delicate and strangely made proud,Yet thrusting perpetually under siege. I had a decision to make, go use or go to a meeting. They are right about this. I embraced that stufflike the hottest number,like high heels,breasts,singing,theworks. Oh, no… They do it… to admire their heels!. It has opened up more opportunities than I could have ever imagined.
She is smart, funny and thoroughly charming. And you create and train your flowers still. If every woman believed this and lived this Phenomenal Woman, what a powerful force we would be. We are forged through the challenges of life. Written by Smith, great writer of stories, drank; found it immortalized his pen;Fused in his brain-pan, else a blank, heavens of glory now and then;Gave him the magical genius touch; God-given power to gouge out, flingFlat in your face a soul-thought -- Bing! I pray it will know truth,if truth catches in its cupand yet I pray, as a child would,that the surgery take.
You, created only a little lower thanThe angels, have crouched too long inThe bruising darkness,Have lain too longFace down in ignorance. You, who gave me my first name,You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,Then forced on bloody feet,Left me to the employment of other seekers--Desperate for gain, starving for gold. God bless xox Dear Ms Pale… I love love your poem- — it is so inspirational. They celebrate women with a majesty that has inspired and touched the hearts of millions. Train your will power as early as you can! To think that you and I did not see, feel, think, nor bear our part! Have you dreaded these earth-beetles? The dinosaur, who left dry tokens Of their sojourn here On our planet floor, Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages. The fearful are caught as often as the bold. Ash, ash— You poke and stir.
Origin More mid 19th cent. Here, root yourselves beside me. We would of course print your name as the author. I even looked intothe mirroronce having thoughtmyself to beugly,I now liked whatI saw,almosthandsome,yes,a bit ripped andragged,scares,lumps,odd turns,but all in all,not too bad,almost handsome,better at least thansome of those moviestar faceslike the cheeks ofa babysbutt. It is an ever-evolving pattern of skills, talents, and ideas that grow and change and you do.
I am the Tree planted by the River, Which will not be moved. Through this masterpiece, Maya brings out to us the torturous path which her grandmothers, unmoved, apparently took to unlatching the doors of freedom, while helplessly sending her ignorant and shoe-less children away. Thanks for your great poem, Luke! It was the most positive encouragement I could have hoped for. The process never ends until we die. Now you understand Just why my head's not bowed.
There is strength, power, vitality, knowledge and wry humour. Yet they wait,in their short time,like little utero half-borns,half killed, thin and bone soft. Her poetry exposes both the dazzle and the darkness of the decadent 1920s and 1930s in New York. I do it exceptionally well. She hears the wind rustling through the trees; beckoning her to live the dreams she holds so dearly.
She stands, and she deals. The voice of the women in the poem is so strong. Thanks Sonja, this is such a beautiful gift. Written by A Rock, A River, A Tree Hosts to species long since departed, Marked the mastodon. Four fabulous poems celebrating women in their extraordinariness! Bowed head and lowered eyes? But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully, Come, you may stand upon my Back and face your distant destiny, But seek no haven in my shadow.
Let one be forgotten--Bury it! It is a vital necessity of our existence. Quietly, yet firmly, she speaks her truth without doubt or hesitation and the life she leads is of her own creation. If I tell them the facts They will feel it is all an act I say, It is so true that I attract, It is the artist in me As I try to capture the world It is the splendor of my words, It is the energy of my sparks, It is in the smile with my tears, It is in not feeling any pride, It is in not being lured by power, It is the beauty that I see, It is the hearts that I touch, It is the power of my will, It is the way I believe We people all are one Non-violence is the path, Non-judgmental be the attitude. I will give you no hiding place down here. Yet this year,yanking off all past years,I took the baitand was pulled upward, upward,into the sky and was held by the sun--the quick wonder of its yellow lap--and became a woman who learned her own shinand dug into her soul and found it full,and you became a man who learned his won skinand dug into his manhood, his humanhoodand found you were as real as a bakeror a seerand we became a home,up into the elbows of each other's soul,without knowing--an invisible purchase--that inhabits our house forever.