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Garden Poems Wanted

purple

 

We would love to see your poetry about gardening

Please send them to: gillianandthomas@yahoo.com

Poems you sent to us about this picture, taken in our garden

DCIM100MEDIA

Here is my submission for the current picture of the Bird and the Snow

Copyright image taken by  Poetree Creations

All for Her

“It was all for her” the swallow said
As it swelled its breast with pride
Watching the man with black umbrella
Walk from side to side

“It was all for her” The man softly spoke
As he considered all he had
And kept his feet to shuffle between
The snows pile up ahead.

“It was all for her” The snow declared
As it whittled down its stock
Becoming just another pile
Of water among the rocks
 
“It was all for her” the rocks declared
As they mark the borders by
And so the sun may glisten upon
Their bumped backs, soft and dry

“It was all for me” the sun affirmed
As she raised her gentle head
And watched the people praise her warmth
Wishing for Summers heat  instead.

 

I am Philisapherhttp://lisainger.com/

Here is my submission for the current picture of the Bird and the Snow

robin
…and if this
       little bird
                               could share of what it’s
                                               mind conceives, would I even
                                               understand how simple life
                                                can be …
 
 
thanks for the opportunity.   Lita
 
 
   EstreLita Pondoc
How people treat you is their karma; how you react is yours.
~ Wayne Dyer

I’ve composed a poem for your contest with the chickadee in the snow picture.  

And then there was one…And so, here I am, upon the winter of my joie de vivre,
where once were perched two friendly birds; now rests thus only one.
A wooden cage erected hence, that I can never leave,
the snow the only thing that will remember when I’m done.
 
I cannot see the outside world as I once knew I could —
I gaze through disconnected visage, staring at the cold.
The bitter chill assaults me, and I’m left from what is good;
My breath hangs in the air, and with each second, I grow old.
 
The greens are grey around me; all the flowers?  Gone to sleep.
A broken tree breaks through the white of everpresent ice;
all around the wooden husk, the ivy starts to creep
and strangle out its life and each last wisely sage advice.
 
The earth’s adorned in frosted dew just as a christening gown.
There’s empty footprints in the snow aside my freezing feet,
At last I feel the slumber, and I lay my body down,
at the winter of my life, so maybe now, I’ll feel complete.
Brad Bricktower

My books have arrived in Waterstones book shop in Nottingham – Manners Bear And Friends by Gillian Sims

DCIM100MEDIA

Photo by kind permission of Katrina the book buyer in Waterston’s  Nottingham today

 Preparing  to put my  book on sale.

Manners Bear And Friends is a children’s poetry book based on manners. The book is £6.95 plus p&p

ISBN No: 9780956400628

If you would like to order the book you can buy at Waterstone’s Nottingham or online 

Or order direct  from us by email at:  gillianandthomas@yahoo.com

 

Battle of britain by Thomas Sims

Tomatoes – Promote Yourself

Image result for Gardeners Delight Tomato Plants

My peat-free Grow-in-the-Bag has three new plants –
or implants – wound-in green plugs tied to willow canes.
‘Grown from seed?’ my friend asks, and I nod.
Truth is they’re as alien to this soil as I am.
I imagine their threaded roots unwinding from the ball,
separating, trying to spread, and wonder if they’ll hit
the bottom quickly. Well, what do I know about tomato roots?
For now they are pretty things, my Moneymakers
and Gardeners’ Delight – like three Scarlet O’Hara’s
dressed in their emerald curtains determined to grow food.
Though a little voice inside me says: you wait and see,
with no glasshouse and nothing but that fly-about willow
to cling to, this soil could easily spit them out. And you.
Root by root, toe by reddening toe.

Jaki

Lupines’ – Promote Yourself

Lupinus
They have multiplied,
these Italians.
Last year orphans
and this a cold legion
colonising the border
with their spearmint-coloured array.

Early May and half-bloomed,
green from the top down
to a burst of botoxed pink:
ballast for the thin green spires.

Leaves, broad as hands.
And all those flower-bells,
compact as a hive.

Something small could ring them.
Something small could live inside, or hide.

A thought?
It could tremble them a while.
Become as mad as they,
as inevitable,
and otherworldly,
like moon-flowers.

Jaki

DRUM BEAT – Promote Yourself

hrt

A lovers heart beat ‘ can only beat once ‘ for the power of love ❤ ‘ will live on forever ‘ than a day .

I only saw her once ‘ and she stole my heart ‘ for I shall never love another ‘ as I do her ‘ for i shall marry her this night .🌃

Tis she is my angel ‘ she us my shining star 🌟 of my existence ‘ she is my love ‘ for my heart beat ‘ is for her alone ‘ as lovers at first sight .💏💘.

Patricia Bourne WordPress 2014.

The Garden Colours Tend To Fade – Promote Yourself

Image result for sun shaded garden 

This garden grows in a bed of shade

As the light is dim where the seeds were laid,

In places where the sun can only half invade…

So the flowers’ colors tend to fade.

From the rise of dawn till the start of night

There are  more shadows than there is of light,

Yet this garden wills itself in spite

In the speckled patches where the shade is bright.

“How odd,” they said, “that you planted there

You could have planted anywhere.”

And even though that space was bare,

“What a waste,” they said, of time and care.”

But how many other things of matter

Whose initial worth were left in tatters,

Surpassed the first from beyond the latter;

Are now fertile grounds for furnished flatter?

No, this garden grows just where it should

Its roots took hold because they could.

Through droughts and storms it still withstood

To quiver light through trembling wood.

So by and by from time to time

That garden lingers in my mind,

On what else remains and poised to find…

Or what was lost when I was blind.

Still, I have a garden that lives in shade.

And it’s something pretty that I made

And though its colors tend to fade

Not for a 1000 other gardens would I trade.

John Snowden

“Smell You Later.” – Promote Yourself

Fiery Dance

“There is a smell on you later, and silences and laughers that linger longer in the house and on things after she departed”_kalimelo

Conchita’s,

 With the image of a Flamenco dancer woman                                                                               on the cover of the pack of my first fine cigars                                                                                  I smoked, when I was fourteen, a teen,                                                                                             it’s like the first time you fall in love,                                                                                                you cough, and eye-watering,                                                                                                        you discover what are cigars and women like,                                                                               then you get the habits with them,                                                                                                 with time, the comfort, the company,                                                                                             and then suddenly, and as always,                                                                                           departing is such sweet sorrow.                                                                                                   She was a ballet-dancer, and I, a Fine-Arts  student in Paris,                                                         later on,  looking for a model, I discovered Degas,                                                                         and pastels so delicate, and volatile, as she was,                                                                     elegant and whimsical, that I spent hours and hours,                                                             watching her performing pirouettes,                                                                                                          pas-de-deux, and grand-equart,                                                                                                       so wide with your eyes opened                                                                                                                    that you can hung your Beret , and your hearth                                                                          pending to her movements, holding your breath,                                                                               a piece of chalk in one hand                                                                                                           and a cigarette-Gitannes on the other hand                                                                                    the smoke-filled the air, and laughers,                                                                                         trying to fix  that moment on paper, in despair,                                                                        drawing as she moved, before it disappears,                                                                             listening to Charles Aznavour_” La Boehme,”                                                                                once alone, at home.

 I had a tiny studio on La Butte-Montmartre,                                                                                then, we were  all time hungry, and broke,                                                                                     and  I more than ever waiting for her,                                                                                             one day she never came.                                                                                                             Tired, I went to Spain–Flamenco,                                                                                                Bulls-fighting, Frederico Garcia Lorca,                                                                                                     Manitas-De-Platas, Cervejas,                                                                                                        then from there, Barcelona, Maria Rodriguez,                                                                                 the Fado, and Porto on the Taj,                                                                                           transported by a bittersweet sorrow,                                                                                               but in fact it was her, a dream that I pursued                                                                                than, that It was a fascination by the quest.                                                                                   Like no tomorrow 

“There is a smell on you later,

 and laughers and silences, 

that lingers longer 

in the house and on things, 

after she departed”_Kalimelo

The other day, at a corner of  street,                                                                                                    a vanishing scent of musk, and tabaco in the air,                                                                transported me to Paris, to the clime of lilacs trees,                                                              balconies and wisteria of Montmartre,                                                                                              it has been longtime that I quitted smoking,                                                                                              Quartiers-Latins, and its bistros, and moved to New York.                                                          They say, you rediscovered the subtleties of smells, perfumes,                                                                                                                                          as you had lost your odorant sense while you’re smoking,                                                           they say, but what do they know about lost love?                                                                                 Othello , Shakespeare _”Depart  is such sweet sorrow,” perchance.

_kalimelo

The Butter Factory

butter

 

It was built of things that must not mix:
paint, cream, and water, fire and dusty oil.
You heard the water dreaming in its large
kneed pipes, up from the weir. And the cordwood
our fathers cut for the furnace stood in walls
like the sleeper-stacks of a continental railway.

The cream arrived in lorried tides; its procession
crossed a platform of workers' stagecraft: Come here
Friday-Legs! Or I'll feel your hernia--
Overalled in milk's colour, men moved the heart of milk,
separated into thousands, along a roller track--Trucks?
That one of mine, son, it pulls like a sixteen-year-old--
to the tester who broached the can lids, causing fat tears,
who tasted, dipped and did his thin stoppered chemistry
on our labour, as the empties chattered downstage and fumed.

Under the high roof, black-crusted and stainless steels
were walled apart: black romped with leather belts
but paddlewheels sailed the silvery vats where muscles
of the one deep cream were exercised to a bullion
to be blocked in paper. And between waves of delivery
the men trod on water, hosing the rainbows of a shift.

It was damp April even at Christmas round every
margin of the factory. Also it opened the mouth
to see tackles on glibbed gravel, and the mossed char louvres
of the ice-plant's timber tower streaming with
heavy rain all day, above the droughty paddocks
of the totem cows round whom our lives were dancing.


Written by: Les Murray

The impossible dream

a_million_penguins_1

I went to a place where penguins were sliding down a chocolate mountain

Where monkeys bathed in a marshmallow fountain,

Where sea – lions swam in an ice cream sea

At the side of a bench, lions were writing  poetry,

As I walked along the sands I found

A giraffe singing, it was the most beautiful sound,

A butterfly kissed my nose,

A lama handed me a red rose.

It was almost like they had been expecting me

Like they had invited me for tea,

When I looked up into the sky

I could not believe my eyes,

Angels flew beneath the clouds

I heard one shout out loud,

Although this is only a dream

Capture every moment and believe,

You can create what you want to achieve

That life is for living the impossible dream

By Gillian Sims

Falling

I am lost, I am falling, I am now living in a world with no sleep; The night has become an ocean and I am drowning in the deep

..

The moon has become my sun,  The stars bring light to my sky; Staring at a ceiling unable to sleep, no matter how hard I try

..

I am living in a silent world full of artificial light; Words fall from this pen, as pages are filled with these darks verses that I write

..

My eye lids are feeling heavy now, But are my eyes already closed? Or is this just a longer blink; My mattress is turning into quicksand, As I slowly begin to sink

..

Soft whispers start to tumble and fall down,  I wonder am I asleep or am I still awake; Maybe this is all a daydream, and I am laying here just waiting for yet another dawn to break

..

As I fall deeper I feel my body lifting up high, as soft voices whisper they have heard me calling; But just as the sun begins to rise I wake up screaming as I feel my body falling.

 ..

BARRY MOWLES ©2012

Where is home – Promote Yourself

homes

Your
eyes have stoned,
The tears have run out,
In the endless wait
To return
home…
You are lucky
You
have a dream
That you’ve
visualised…
Those brooks of fresh
water,
The apple orchards..

I, a cultural destitute
Don’t know what heaven on earth is,
It is a
  mere chapter in my history book,
Or a
family holiday that is being planned for years…

These four walls,
Manic, busy schedules
A place I
call home
It suffocates me

There is pain
That seethes within
Who am
I?
Where is home?

Warmest,

Lakshmi Kaul

   

Regrets

feather

A life is filled with things we might have done
Choices not taken that we later wish we’d picked
Other times there were things said or actions
In retrospect, our own behind we should have kicked.

Yet none of us are perfect so we do make mistakes
Too many times we overreact and have our minds set
Whether just a wrong course or feelings gets hurt
We can’t dwell, spending our days living with regret.

We must learn from the past and look to the future
Not everyone will accept that we can change course
Those are the ones that will never let go of doubt
All you can do is move on, not making things worse.

We look to ones that will accept us as we truly are
Realizing the person we are inside, offering a hand
Look through the windshield, not the rearview mirror
Find those that will, by your side, always stand.

 Charles Townsend

Tryst

Butterflies fly in my heart
And the sky smile casting light
When the thoughts take birth

Of you and feel immense mirth….

Dancing water of sea sings
On itself music and melody
And the birds on their wings
As amass make merry at our tryst…

Written by: Narendra Rai
Talhar Badin, Sindh…

 

Raising My Adrenaline

speak

When I see it happening around me, and I have to stop

take a breath, make a choice

do I respond, because when I do,

you know, they will retaliate, speak out loud

make a point that is that universal language 

that shouts with vengeance, screams a throttling,

angst.

When I feel,

it all unravels so quickly I can only sit back

and resign, let the wind hit me with stride

hope my balance, hope my center,

can withstand the scrutiny, piece of myself

that always believes there is something wrong

because the world around me constantly,

reminds me.

If when I respond to the circus that plays me,

I might not always feel a shelf below 

the polished instruments that eyes take notice,

letting those in the dust become a secondary after-thought.

Yet when sunlight strikes the silver lining,

that is the peace that drives me forward,

knows I can love with compassion,

knows there is truth and discovery,

allows change to become a practice,

a remarkable challenge toward realizing 

strength.

So when I cry,

please don’t ask me why,

just let me be there,

in the moment underneath all of my fear,

lies a vision, an honest reckoning,

perhaps a quiet travel through life’s intrigue,

while searching the endless avenues,

those difficult stumbling blocks

that when surpassed may speak …

Elegance.

~

© Thom Amundsen

http://thinkingoutloudagain.com

STOLEN HANDS – Promote Yourself

handsxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sunday Evening…
All ready I’ve
Suffered enough
Of this
Incurable
Hopeless rage.
I sit
To try and write it out
My feelings flowing
From blood
To words
On this unforgiving page.

See I once
Held hands
That i
Stole
While i plotted lives
With a cold hearted
Grace.
Now my hands
Lie
Only to my
Own skin
The punishment
I deserve
There is no longer
Solace in a
Beautiful face.

I betrayed
My own
Beating innocence
It is now
A cold dead tomb
In which i am burdened
By its weight
With dark skies
And overdue consequences
Time has finally caught on
The price of lies
I’ve discovered
Is beauty
Returning
As hate.

Gabriel Denver

HOME ALONE

I sit at home

So lonely,

No-one there but me,

The house is dark I’m frightened

There is no electricity.

Mum has not paid the bill

I wish my mum was here

I can’t stop these rolling tears,

All I can see is an empty bottle

On the table in front of me.

The clock strikes twelve

She must have lost track,

Because mum is not back.

Once again

Mum’s hitting the Gin.

It’s not fair life like this

Because I’m only six.

My father left some time ago

Because he didn’t wont to know,

I can’t really blame him

He tried but couldn’t stop mum from drinking,

So I’m home alone once again

Living the pain and loneliness.

Thomas Sims

A clouded Imagination

I lay and look into the sky
Watching all the clouds float by,
It’s strange the different shapes I see
Imagining what they could be,
Before they break and the rain falls
They move and mould and create more,
Shapes and things floating free
All the things I wish I could be,
All the animals I’ve never seen
Landmarks of places I’ve never been,
It’s strange to think they are more than just clouds
Imagination taking over the here and now.
Abbe Cutforth
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