Ann Poronto's inspiring work is a blend of classical poetic style, and modern storytelling. It combines a poetic brilliance comparable to Emily Dickenson, with a heart-warming feel similar to Chicken Soup for the Soul; all of which is richly infused with a passionate love for Jesus Christ.
"Of Rocks and Roses" is an anthology containing over 300 of Ann Poronto's beloved poems and stories. As you turn the pages, you'll laugh, cry, and be inspired to go deeper with God.
Ann wrote her first poem in grade school. Her teacher sent it to the newspaper and it was published. Her mother, having grown up in abject poverty, saw no monetary value in the poem and threw it away.
When Ann was sixteen, her mother once again threw away all of her poetry while cleaning Ann's room. This was a deep wound that caused Ann to stop writing for many years, and when she started again, she kept most of it secretly hidden.
The result is a lifetime of beautiful writing that was seen by few people until now. It is an intimate journey into a life of pain and heartache, turned into a life of joy and hope by God's unfailing mercy and love. Fittingly, Ann's mother grew to love and appreciate her writing, and her dying wish was that Ann would write her a new poem, which she did.
While each piece provides a glimpse into Ann's personal relationship with God, they also open a window to the reader's soul, and you'll discover things about yourself as you read them.
"Of Rocks and Roses" takes its name from hard things, and beautiful things. Your trip through this book will be a journey with God that you will not soon forget.
|Product dimensions:||6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.74(d)|
About the Author
Born in the hills of Tennessee, she came to Michigan as a child and grew up in a small suburb on the outskirts of Detroit. It was a peaceful place. Ann says...
'My brother and I danced barefoot on crushed stone at the gas station at the corner while an old, one legged man played his fiddle for us.
There were potato roasts in the vacant lot, baseball games in the street, and bike rides down Caledonia avenue.
There were few books and no poetry, and yet my father had an artist's eye and a poet's heart. He would tell stories about the harshness of life, and the beauty that he saw in the midst of need and want.
When I write, I sometimes think, my father would have liked this.
I trust you will too.'
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