This is Prosperity Poem 88 at ProsperityPoems.com and you can see it displayed on a beautiful background (copy and paste the link below). https://prosperitypoems.com/delivery88NeverEnding.html You can sign up for free weekly delivery of poems at Prosperity Poems (.com)
My wife Kim and I were talking with our son Aaron the other night. He said that over the last eight years, his Mom and I have become more like each other. I asked whether she has become more like me, or I've become more like her. He replied that I have become more like her. This is good.
I've learned to flow more, and to bend more. Prosperity Poem 88 - Never Ending - explores this idea of being more bending and yielding, rather than rigid and fixed. Acting and thinking in a more dance-like way has brought me more happiness, increased wealth, and better relationships.
See a crystal blue stream Flowing through green trees And tumbling over mossy stones
See the bright sparkling gleam And hear the light breeze Blowing leaves in musical tones
In your mind Become the stream Yielding and bending Rhythm with no ending
Relax and breathe Let go and flow You are always giving Power to all living
This crystal blue stream Remains a symbol for you A stream of prosperity To last your life through
This is Prosperity Poem 60 at ProsperityPoems.com and you can see it displayed on a beautiful background here https://prosperitypoems.com/delivery60CrystalBlueStream.html You can sign up for free weekly delivery of poems at Prosperity Poems (.com)
I am not very good at saying no to people, or at being firm and direct with my patients at work. I am soft and mandible. I tend to let people take advantage of me.
My physical therapist says the people with the most problems with their hips and backs are the ones that can hardly bend at all or that can bend too much.
I am too flexible. So much so that it is hurting me. I fold and I fold and I fold in on myself like origami and I let people do whatever they want. I can't remember if I've always been this way or not.
Maybe it depends on how you look at it: The woman in the casket could either be sleeping or dead. She could either be a stranger or my mother. This could either be the bright, multi-color, kaleidoscopic shapes I see when I rub my eyes a bit too hard for a bit too long, or it could be the dull, grey morgue her body was wheeled down to after they tied the tag around her toe and zipped her into a white bag. This could either hurt a lot or a little. It depends on how much you let in. How willing you are to bend to the emotional blow. I could either stop writing about this or keep going, but it's been, what, nine years now, and I haven't been able to stop yet— only able to bend and bend and bend and
Some days the wind blows and bends yonder willow Its roots hold sway perched high upon steep sea cliff walls No gale could affix a bow to such a limber heartwood backbone Wind arched echoes undulate to and fro alike a gentle restoration; a resilience unrenowned
It looks as if it takes the skies weight so lightly, while the rising waves gather an unhallowed chill fomenting untamed at the heart of the prevailing westerly swell
A human tends to lean rigidity right up to the yonder most edge, a thin line threshold a step away ― pushed by a moment's gravity; a blind jump over a cliff into an unfathomable deep ocean far beyond a forgiving willow's bend