I have always thought of poems as stepping stones in one's own sense of oneself. Every now and again, you write a poem that gives you self-respect and steadies your going a little bit farther out in the stream. At the same time, you have to conjure the next stepping stone because the stream, we hope, keeps flowing.
He sees with amazement that our defeats are but the stepping stones to victory and that all his victories are stepping stones to ruin. It was apparent to me that this bad man saw quite clearly the shadow of slowly and remorselessly approaching doom, and he railed at fortune for mocking him with the glitter of fleeting success.
Writers are great lovers. They fall in love with other writers. That's how they learn to write. They take on a writer, read everything by him or her, read it over again until they understand how the writer moves, pauses, and sees. That's what being a lover is: stepping out of yourself, stepping into someone else's skin.
It doesn't matter where you are right now. No matter where you are, you're on the way to greatness If you desire that reality. Be present. Be grateful for the stepping stones that have you here today reflecting on your dreams. Stepping stones are a necessary part of the success process. Go into overdrive now. You can do this. No one ever made it in just one day. Each step is a part of the process. It doesn't matter what it takes! You're winning! Keep flowing all the way there. Stay up. You were born a winner!
Sereda Aleta Dailey
HE WILL ALWAYS ME MY MAN TO ME THAT IS WAY I NEVER LET IT BE YOU SEE I KNOW THE MAN LIKE THE BACK OF MY HAND GIRL IT'S JUST NOT WORTH IT BABY YOU ARE NOT DEFENCE AND YOU WON'T BE THE LAST IF YOU WANNA SKIPP AROUND I TELL YOU WHAT YOU NEVER FINISH WAHT YOU START IT YOU STEPPING ON MY GROUND YOU'LL ONLY LEAVE YOU WITH A BROKING HEART YOU NEVER LET HIM DOWN HE USE YOU UP LIKE I ALWAYS SAID HE WOULD THIS IS THE BALTTLE GROUND IF YOU WANT A WAY OF THE CROWN IT'S NOT JUST ABOUT ME SAY EVEN IN FACE IT'S ALL ABOUT YOUR DEGNITY AND YOU GRACE I KNOW YOU DON'T WANNA LISTEN AND YOU DON'T BELIEVE BUT I CAN SEE WHAT'S COMING OOH YOU NEVER UNDERSTAND SO YOU BETTER GET OUT WHILE YOU CAN IF YOU WANNA SKIPP AROUND I TELL YOU WHAT YOU NEVER FINISH WAHT YOU START IT YOU STEPPING ON MY GROUND YOU'LL ONLY LEAVE YOU WITH A BROKING HEART YOU NEVER LET HIM DOWN HE USE YOU UP LIKE I ALWAYS SAID HE WOULD THIS IS THE BALTTLE GROUND IF YOU WANT A WAY OF THE CROWN YOU NEVER LEAVE WITH TAHT IF YOU WANT A WAY OF THE CROWN DON'T BLOW YOUR YOUNG HEART TO THE LOINS YOU'LL ONLY END OF CRYING THEN YOU ONLY HAVE YOURSELF TO BLAME DON'T KEEP PRETENDING YOUR A WOMEN, LITTLE GIRL THIS JUST AIN'T YOUR WORLD AND YOU NEVER TAKE MY PLACE NO, IF YOU WANNA SKIPP AROUND I TELL YOU WHAT YOU NEVER FINISH WHAT YOU START IT YOU STEPPING ON MY GROUND YOU'LL ONLY LEAVE YOU WITH A BROKING HEART YOU NEVER LET HIM DOWN HE USE YOU UP LIKE I ALWAYS SAID HE WOULD IT'S A LESSON YOU SHOULD LEARN DON'T WANA GET YOUR FINGERS BURNED IF YOU WANNA SKIPP AROUND I TELL YOU WHAT YOU STEPPING ON MY GROUND YOU'LL ONLY LEAVE YOU WITH A BROKING HEART YOU NEVER LEAVE HIM DOWN HE USE YOU UP LIKE I ALWAYS SAID HE WOULD THIS IS THE BALTTLE GROUND GO HOME LITTLE GIRL
He didn't like to fly-the noise and vibration gave him a headache-but, as with anything new, he was excited by the strangeness of it. The disjuncture intrigued him: stepping through a door in one place, sitting still for a few hours, then stepping out a thousand miles away. It seemed to him a very American mode of travel, even more so than the car, not simply going farther faster, but eliminating any temporal experience of the journey, skipping over whole sections of the country, the sole focus on arriving, with the help of expensive and arcane technologies, at one's destination, except of course, when one didn't-a thought brought on by his own instinctive disbelief and the bumpiness of the flight.
The day I arrived in Yakutsk with my colleague Peter Osnos of The Washington Post, it was 46 below. When our plane landed, the door was frozen solidly shut, and it took about half an hour for a powerful hot-air blower- standard equipment at Siberian airports- to break the icy seal. Stepping outside was like stepping onto another planet, for at those low temperatures nothing seems quite normal. The air burns. Sounds are brittle. Every breath hovers in a strangle slow-motion cloud, adding to the mist of ice that pervades the city and blurs the sun. When the breath freezes into ice dust and falls almost silently to the ground, Siberians call it the whisper of stars.
David K. Shipler