Design is a place. Design is to say. Design is this beauty, one sees on its way. Design always tries; never disguise. Design can afford... wisdom it buys. Design is for you. Design is for me. Questions can lock; design is that key! Away from those lies; purpose it cries! Design is a thought... when feelings arise! Relish its truth and structure it brings. Value the songs of worth that it sings! A lily, a baby; the colors we see. Dreams that we have... for all we can be! Design is that light; design is so bright. Design loves its day and shines in that night. Design will hold hands with purpose to claim. Design is a picture that comes with a frame!
In " A Heavenly Woman's Imprisoned in the Palace ", Li Yu, a famous Chinese poet, and the last ruler, of the Southern Tang Kingdom --- writes, As a heavenly woman's imprisoned in the palace at Penglai Hill All are silent as she sleeps by day in the painted hall. And as her hair is spread like jade clouds ... upon a pillow Her embroidered clothes bear ... nothing but a wondrous scent. So as I secretly come and slide through a pearl lock gate ... From behind a silver screen, she is startled from a dream. But now her smiling face is overflowing with bliss. So we gaze at each other with unbridled love. Sexually repressed perhaps, --- Socially aware for sure Li Yu, also known as Li Houzhu, was born during the Southern Tang.
Here in front of Old Rice School (underneath arc lights) the boys (the Cayuga Street Gang) wait like candles on an alter- half lit. We are bending over looking down while Mike and his go-cart ready the world for light. None of us noticed it then, the boy, girls... boozed, that twilight had sit: how funny, it was like a festival- a square rigged cart of steel, with a motor on its back, made us hold our breath, hoping our turn would come next, to ride and drive this mad-mouse. And then your turn came-counting stopped, breathing regained- I mean, you were different now, you had the reins. I didn't care all that much to drive and ride, that mad-mouse around and around, the school-but more so to be present, and feel the world in light.
Seasons of suffering Dear God, will they ever end? Seasons of suffering Bringing me to my wits end Seasons of suffering Teaching me heartfelt obedience To live in the realm of the Spirit Seasons of suffering Until I embrace and hear it Seasons of suffering Grinding down my motives Seasons of suffering Persistent like a locomotive Seasons of suffering Continually coming Although I be running Sometimes in anger cursing Always hating and resisting Such perilous times and measures Yet within my heart is a treasure A far greater weight of God's glory Therefore He applies divine pressure To change my wayward character To rewrite my pitiful life story To add integrity when I don't care To give me peace deep within When I want to pull out my hair To calm my nerves, silence the storms Help a heart that is worn and forlorn To uplift my spirit when I feel like a worm To encourage my heart when I wish to depart To comfort my soul and make me whole To restore to me what the devil has stole Seasons of suffering not always as they seem For in actuality God is good when He seems mean Nevertheless when you learn the life lessons He's endeavoring to instruct and teach In the end you shall rejoice and be complete.
Grace a race; forgiveness first. Expects the best and not the worst. It makes a way among the lost. It gives regardless of the cost. Cannot be bought or sold for price. For all who seek; it's mighty nice! Overlooked and undeserved. The joys of freedom can be heard! Grace is freedom dipped in love. It's just a glimpse of up above! An unearned taste; a flavor filled! Not by man, but God be willed! Amazing... surely it must be! Grace my friend, for you and me! What can one say; what words may fit? That one could speak with God and sit! Where have you been? Alone within your snares of sin? Run from self and seek His face. Accept His gift He gives with Grace.
When we write words in an organized way, why do we call it a poem? What makes it different to any other written work? Poetry, like any work of art, requires emotion and creativity. It involves using the heart as much as the head. Many poets write about things that matter most in life, like love and heartache, life and death. But what really makes it poetry is that the writer is painting beautiful images and combining this with rhythm and meter. A poem is a story compressed into a few words. These words make an impact and leave a lasting impression. Poetry has rhythm and meter. The rise and fall of the sea with the ebb and flow of the tides is a good example of rhythm.
Though death separates us for now, I know we'll meet again. My tears will dry. No more I'll cry and a new life will begin. It's so hard to have to let you go and I still don't understand. It's so hard when memories start to flow of all the good times we had planned. Some days I sit upon the couch >br> and your memory lingers on. I hear your laugh. I see your face and it's here where you belong, but then I stop and ask myself, " Would it be the best for you?" It's not right to wish you back on earth, when I know what you went through. Our God is such a Gracious God and He give us each so much. He let me keep your memory near so we'd always be in touch. Be free, My Love, I'll let you go;
Why are you crying? Do you think I'm gone? I haven't left you. I'm where I belong. Anytime you are lonely... anytime you are sad... anytime that your heart breaks... anytime you are mad... all you have to do is close your eyes and I'll be there with you. You see the world may take my body but that's all that it can do. When Jesus died upon the cross, He took away our sins. in heaven where life begins. Don't stop the memory of the times we shared. It's God way to help you through. Take time to laugh when life gets hard the way we used to do! A smell? A touch? The morning sun? They all will help you see. I never left. I'm still there. Now smile once more for me.
In the name of true love which you truly are, You are in a journey that can never be lost. To pure light and truth, your original birth place you return. You believe or ignore, there is where you will go. Way back home can't be denied, it has it's purpose. The pure love that bind us to the divine infinite power, Is stronger and unimaginable than anyone can ever tell. Terming up with the spirit will make it even much easier. To Fill your being with the highest feelings of love is next. Imagining you are a pure, bright and beautiful light of joy, Illuminating an entire large beautiful and awesome room, Good enough you are in that same room. Would you turn off that pure bright light in you?
As I lay my head sideways upon his chest, nestled safely in the warmth and strength of his bosom, salty tears snake across my face -slithering, burning, searing my sensitive flesh. I sob, I dab, I wipe. My finger, the pillow case, the sheets. But my muffled sniffling is in vain! I don't want him to know I'm crying. Oh but he does know. He sees the dark cloud encircling me even in this darkness. He senses my sorrow in the air. He saw me pray. He feels it in the nonrhythmic rhythm of my breathing -and the uncontrolled twitching of my body. Thought I was being quiet, yet he hears me even in this silence. He holds me, caresses me. Not exactly sure what to do, but instinctively does what I need him to.