La Ninette @chamablr-blog - Tumblr Blog

Every women deserves to be a queen

A Women was born to live life A women was born to be beautiful and to wear her charming smile she was born to be spoiled she was born to get red roses she was born to love and to be loved she was born to be respected she was born to be a good and a great mother and simply she was born to be a queen which means being a women is being a Queen.

Forget about my illusions and fight for my dreams

There’s a dream over there , an ocean of dreams which i don’t know , if it’s going to be realised or it’s going to be reduced to ashes .such those dreams make me want to keep sleeping and drowning in my own fears . sometimes i think sleeping and dreaming are two actions which i should prevent anything from passing between them , two actions that should be sealed , so as to do not deceive myself in the end . In fact there are dreams and there are illusions , and the difference between them is Me , You … All of us , we are the ones who should make the difference , we either realise our dream or bury them underground and try to enjoy the consolations received because our dreams have passed away ,then that ocean of dreams will turn to a huge destructive waves , it will turn to an immense illusion instead . Our dreams have two sharp faces , just like a knife , we either work hard to realise and achieve them or they will slaughter us in the end .

Here comes the spring !

There goes the winter , There goes the damp foggy cold nights . Hello spring , are you coming again ? Hello bright mornings , Hello sunshine .Hello flying birds , Are you ready to jump from your nests ?Ready to tweet and remind me i’m not dead as well Come Beauty , Come !! i can not wait to be amazed by the redness of little roses opening smoothly i can not wait to be wowed by the wonderful Daisy , by its Yellow disk and its white rays Oh Spring ! when you’ll decide to come around You know it’s been a cold winter Come on Spring make us happy when you come .

#spring daisy #rays

amidst my sober thoughts

In a cold evening and raining almost cats and dogs, i've decided to bundle up myself to take a cozy break in my favorite and special recliner ,or i should say my one and only loveseat . relax, take a sip of the hot coffee ,holding a pen in my right hand , think of all the creepy things i may face , think of the scary moments when i have to sigh instead of wearing a smile ,when i chose to quit instead of taking rest , when life is odd and queer with its downs and ups , its twists and turns , when the road i trudge seems rugged and rough .

I turn my page and write down things i should believe in and stick to ,when things seem worst . i know that i should always remember that despite all the scary and creepy moments , i will succeed with another blow , i will climb all the hills and mountains . i believe that it may be near when it seems so far , and i can never know how close i am . so many defeats turn to triumph . thus the patience is my key , the faith is my force and the hard working is my weapons .

My Queen

At first Glance , her hands may seem quite weak but these hands are a good reflection of the great mother inside these tender hands have strength to wipe away every tear She kisses the pain , loves me , nurtures and keeps me forever safe and secure she sustained me through all these years Extinguish the pain burning up inside me , and they come together each day in prayer and shared sustenance with me through the umbilical cord which is never served in her heart . I could list endless things that she is to me, but suffice it to say My mother is My Queen.

By Chama Youjil

#mother hands queen love tender

poetryisanemotioninwords

I was visiting a school in Northern India when I heard it for the first time in ages. It was barely audible above the shouting of children- the squeals and laughter bubbling from the schoolyard through the classroom windows. But it was there: the swish of silk saris and the jingle jangle of bangles on thin wrists like wind chimes. This is what learning sounds like. I remember. When I was five years old, the principal of my Junior School was Mrs. Ribeiro. She was an Indian woman the size of a nightlight, and she glided like a sailboat through the hallways of my school. Once, when I got close enough to grab a fistful of her draping silk sari, I lifted it to try and see whether she had any feet at all. I thought she floated. We begged to be sent to her office: the hanging plants like a jungle above our heads, her quiet laughter. Adults needed appointments, but we did not. And even when she was in grown-up meeting, all it took was a gentle knock on the door, a peek around the corner, and she was off calling, Sorry dear. We’ll have to reschedule. I have to see someone else about a very important matter. It’s about a gold star. It’s about a new diorama. It’s about a finished read book one level higher than last time. She visited every classroom, knew every student by name. She spoke to us like we were scholars. Artists. Scientists. Athletes. Musicians. And we were My world was the size of a crayon box, and it took every color to draw her. Once, on a New York City sidewalk, a group of women in a brightly colored saris walked by and someone shouted, Look, Mom. Look at all those principals! My world was the size of a classroom. It was a tall as I could stretch my fingers, calling, Please! Let me be the one to read to Mrs. Ribeiro. Let me be the one to show her what I know. Clothes. Shirt. Pants. Socks. Shoes. Animals. Cat. Dog. Bird. Fish. Look how much I know. She brought us guests and artists and a petting zoo. They set up the cages in the parking lot while we were still tucked up in our classroom, unaware. Rabbits and guinea pigs poked out their noses, but Mrs. Ribeiro came to rest in front of the llama cage. She and the llama considered each other for a long time. She asked if he was tame enough to go inside. The trainers laughed and told her he was plenty tame, but he didn’t know how to go up stairs. So she led him to the elevator. And when the doors slid open on the second floor, these stood Mrs. Ribeiro in her bright pink sari, with gold bangles and a llama on a leash. She floated from class to class, and we stared, cheered, laughed, and shouted. We tugged at her sari calling, Miss, what is that? Where did it come from? She made us wonder. She made us question. She made us proud of what we had learned. Clothes. Shirt. Pants. Shoes. Socks. Saris. Animals. Cat. Dog. Bird. Fish. Llama. Look how much I’ve learned. She taught us to share. She taught us to listen when someone else is speaking. And then she let us go. We were dandelion seeds released to the wind, she asked for no return. We are sapling now With gentle hands. The girl with bright cheeks and messy hairpins now works at an orphanage in Cameroon. The with the color-ordered markers is now a graphic designer in Chicago. The one with the best diorama is now an animal activist in Argentina. The girl who loved to read out loud is now a poet in India. She let us fly. So I find myself at the front of a classroom. My students tug at my sleeves and ask me, Miss, do all poets have crazy hair and big black boots? I pray for patience. For wisdom. To find a way to tame all the peculiar animals of this world, to coax them enough to brave the elevator, to see the doors slide open to my student’s gaping mouths. All the wild wonder. They worry about everything. They worry about what to write. They worry about their grades. They worry about who likes whom. They talk over one another until I cannot hear them. I tell the, Listen. Listen to one another like you know you are scholars. Artists. Scientists. Athletes. Musicians. Like you know you will be the ones to shape this world. Show me how many colors you know how to draw with. Show me how proud you are of what you have learned. And I promise I will do the same.

Sarah Kay- Mrs. Ribeiro. (via poetryisanemotioninwords)