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Daily Archives: August 11, 2013

My Freedom – Promote Yourself

Hi to all…I would like to congratulate the poet tree creations for this wonderful service. Great going Team. The poem below is written in *Ghazal with featured in my blog .  I hope you guys find it worth publishing here.

My Freedom


I always  wanted to  fly high  with  my  fearless freedom,

Achieve the impossible and justifying the desirous freedom.


But, I have been caged by  several bars  of  constraints

Which is holding and obliterating my helpless freedom.


I want to be unique; Different;Stand out from the crowd

Which can be feasible, Only by my ambitious freedom.


Financial pressure, One of the bars of the cage, Diverts me

To an ordinary path and closes my path of  congruous freedom.


I can physically roam and wander in this wide world,

But, Only by deserting my choice of hapless freedom.


-Sudharsan Srinivasan


*A Ghazal is a poem that is made up like an odd numbered chain of couplets, where each couplet is an independent poem. It should be natural to put a comma at the end of the first line. The Ghazal has a refrain of one to three words that repeat, and an inline rhyme that preceedes the refrain. Lines 1 and 2, then every second line, has this refrain and inline rhyme, and the last couplet should refer to the authors pen-name… The rhyming scheme is AA bA cA dA eA etc.

Trapped – Promote Yourself



Banging on the walls, she screamed, she prayed
Begging for freedom to come each and every day.
Her prayers, though, fell on deaf ears
As her days grew to months, which spanned years
She was a captive, locked in the confines
Of his demented, tortured mind.
As the time wore on, she grew numb to the abuse
To this pathetic excuse
Of a man – a man she once loved
Back when she thought that was enough
Now, though, she simply longs to be free
Far away from his anger, his torture, his depravity.
As time wore on, her prayers for salvation
Took a morbid turn
As she, instead, begged for death to come
She could take no more, she was done.

Trysh L Thompson

India is her name – Promote Yourself

Hi guys.
Love the site. Not sure of protocol here, but below is a poem I have written about my love for India, recently featured on my travel blog:
I’d love to have my work featured on your cool site, with a cheeky request to link back to my blog…if that’s okay?
Thanks a lot.


India is her name

‘Evocative, repulsive, exotic, compulsive,

such a place I’ve traveled, to return much I’d give,

measures equal, serene beauty versus arduous pain,

against odds uneven, timeless dignity remains,


Amidst filth and squalor, death and anguish,

lies a peace and serenity, more respect I could not wish,

amazing grace in abundance, holy rivers and manners run deep,

a people so gracious, in shame did I weep,


In a land of plenty, yet a billion empty hands,

my own right to entitlement, I could no longer stand,

what one wants and one needs, in a moment becomes clear,

only sustenance to live, and warm hearts to hold dear,


Both her mountains and people, spectacular by birth,

I wager could not be found, a more honest place on earth,

despite her palaces and paupers, sacred cows, holy in vain,

cherished memories she gave me, and India is her name.’

By Steven Moore

Twenty First Century Nomad, Novelist & Freelance Writer.

The Man – Promote Yourself

I just began following you today, and I love  the idea of being included in someone else’s blog. Proves that I’m not the only one who thinks my stuff is decent. 🙂 (Okay, I admit, some times I don’t even think it’s decent.)

I’ve included a handful of poems in this email. All are written by me, Trysh L. Thompson. I live in Kentucky, USA. Nothing really exciting about my existence. Some of the poems included have been posted, or are in queue, at my blog

Most of my poems deal with death, and it’s because of the slap in the face I had with it when I was 26. It’s changed my life forever


“Have you nothing to spare
To show this shriveled, homeless vet you care?
Twice-over I risked my life for you,
A complete stranger, but that’s just what soldiers do.
I watched my friends suffer and die,
As I continued to battle for you and I.
My friends’ lives were not in vain,
Think of that when you vote again.
Don’t you think I’ve tried everything before resorting to this –
Cold, alone, hungry, and homeless?
You would think there would be more out there for me
But they tell me I’m just a washed up soldier with PTSD.
So I’m reduced to begging on the streets,
Relying on the kindness of strangers for the smallest morsel to eat.”

I emptied my wallet, giving it all to the man,
As he took it, his touch lingered on my hand.
“Thank you, from the bottom of my heart,” said he,
“May God bless you as much as he’s blessed me.”

I never saw the old man asking for money again,
He died the next day, a drunken driver ran over him.
I still pass by that corner and smile,
That man taught me the most important lesson I’d learned in a while.

Trysh  L Thompson

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