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Monthly Archives: March 2014

On Reflection – Promote Yourself

SHIPPY
A full-length mirror in front of me
then suddenly I’m back at sea
Attack upon my mind it seems
yet more of those strange day-dreams
As memories then flood back in
I taste the smells and hear the din
Cold cutlass hilt I feel my fingers
the sound of frightened people lingers
I tread the deck of pirate ship
from one hand there trails a whip
I flick it hard a ‘crack’ the sound
control my charges I am bound
For many months we sailed seas bold
attacking ships of realm for gold
but next our vessel rides the waves
the hold is full of human slaves
From Africa’s most western coast
the Captain chose who’d gain us most
Woman man boy or girl
We’d sell them off then sails unfurl
A pirate’s life I lived I’m sure
the thought of wealth had been the lure
but very quickly on I’d found
a thrill and fear of death abound
For years I plied my trade so hated
and many times my thirst I slated
sometimes with a pint of mead
or in a slave I’d plant my seed
The vision of my age unclear
but at the end I realised fear
behind my back my fingers grope
then suddenly I hung from rope
                   *
Like a flash I’m back here now
see reflection of my brow
Some tiny beads of sweat appear
as to my neck my hands draw near
My throat and neck are clean in place
and then a smile plays on my face
My teeth are white and smile broad
my skin is smooth and isn’t flawed
My eyes are shining vivid green
my long black hair with healthy sheen
A handsome face and lovely figure
men don’t look at me and snigger
I stroll down to the stage all set
most contestants there I’ve met
Miss World I hope to be real soon
this life I’m black … Miss Cameroon
Tom Benson
                        ***
Following up on my initial comment at Peotreecreations, I’ve brought you one of the poems from ‘Thrills and Chills,’ which is Volume 5 of my poetry anthologies.

CONFUSED

 

confusion 

It is not so long ago,

When I was just like you,

Mind in a turmoil,

Not knowing what to do.

 

Pressure from every side,

Not knowing which way to turn,

Pushing you ever onwards,

Of knowledge you must learn.

 

When you have that feeling,

That your mind is going to blow,

That is the time to take stock,

To decide which way to go.

 

Do not worry about the future,

For that will take care of its self,

Live your life day by day,

Think only of yourself.

 

Flow with the stream of life,

Enjoy and you will see,

Do not think about tomorrow,

For what ever will be will be.

 

Malcolm G Bradshaw 

Inner Beauty – Promote Yourself


1292665978

She adorned the glass window display
Refracting the light falling on her
Such was her shine, passers by aspired
Such was her price, she set hearts on fire!

She was a beauty, a lovely creation
Made after all permutations and combinations
White pearls picked up from oysters on the blue ocean floor
You can’t find pearls that big anymore!

She commanded absolute respect for her elegance,
She had been created with diligence.
She was the prefect piece befitting a Princess,
Inside her benign polish resided a tempest

She would make her wearer proud
And help her stand out in the crowd
The style waited peacefully for her rightful owner
Little did he know it would be the gentleman standing in the corner

The gentleman bought the necklace for his daughters 21st birthday
And asked her to wear it to the ball the next day
She pondered as her father paved the necklace around on her
Her step sister noticed it while she was trying a coat of fur

She thought of the need to deck upto find a suitable match
For her the character was the main catch
As she lay on her bed wide awake, she wondered about the Prince
Whether he would fall for her rather than her neckpiece

Finally the day arrived when the Castle was decorated with lights
Women kept coming to the ball from places far out of sight.
The Prince welcomed them to Castle, it was a sight to behold
He was a man of honour, exactly as his stories were told.

They all looked pretty; decked up from head to toe,
His charisma won many hearts, much to the ire of his foes.
Surrounded by pretty women, he thought he had it all
Still he kept searching for something missing in the ball

She searched for the necklace bit out was nowhere to be found
She felt bad for letting he father down
Late as she was, she put on her evening dress
And started walking towards the Castle in distress

She arrived, with the fear of not being one among the others
And saw her step sister
with the necklace, taking to her step mother 
She felt relieved for her necklace was found, 
Her step sister saw her and got astound

Women looked down upon her for the sin of not getting decked
Their disapproval invoked her self confidence, now there was no way she was heading back
She tried appeasing them with her smile
It enlarged the friends more than the length of River Nile!

Fear and shame gripped her sister
She realized he mistake and apologized to her sister
She smiled and let it go
And her step sister to not let it bother her anymore

Finally she got to interact with the Prince
He had earlier caught her glimpse
They both got talking and liked each others company
He realized what was missing earlier – her symphony!

The Prince invited her to the cathedral,
Its magnanimity was no less than the carnival
He hoped his proposal wouldn’t turn out to be a catastrophe
For without her, his life would be without hope!

He bent down on his knee, swearing the old gods and the new
She stood still for the apocalypse, it helped that viewers were only few
He said he liked her simplicity and character
And would be obliged if she married him after!

She was glad and felt the ground beneath revolving
Joy played its own little game, tears of gained wouldn’t stop falling. 
She accepted his proposal with water filled eyes,
Rockets burst bright that night in the skies!

 
 

Sunday Afternoon by Gillian Sims

 

ANOTHER POEM TRANSFORMED INTO A VIDEO BY MALCOLM BRADSHAW ( VIDEO DIRECTOR)

WHY NOT HAVE YOUR POEM TURNED INTO A VIDEO JUST LIKE THIS ONE.

JUST ASK US AT:poetreecreations@yahoo.com

How I wish I could write well.- Promote Yourself

write

Were I to write words that would
move the oceans to the corners
of your eyes, that would
make your heart feel like glass,
shatterable, any second…

Were I to write poetry that could
pierce your mind, were I able
to use the word “piercing”
without sounding cliché or
simply typical…

 

Were I to write prose that you
would talk about forever,
tell your friends, were I a
John Green, or a Murakami…

 

…I’d be pretty damn pleased.”

-Alyssa Ollivier-Tabukashvili

I am Alyssa, a budding writer/journalist, 

I live in the UK, though I identify myself as French and Georgian because that is the blood that runs through my  my poem  some what expresses my frustration at not being able to write as well as I’d like to.

 

 

This is a poem based on a diary written by two women, Kathleen Church-Bliss and Elsie Whiteman. – Promote Yourself

working

They think us sisters

because we speak alike,

“the toffee nosed pair”.

They guard their seats,

‘het up’ terse, with no

time for double-barreled

names. K saws hers off.

No more of the hotel

we gave up or past lives,

only life in lodgings,

factory work to help

the war effort.

After packing and tea,

the fall of Singapore,

clocking on, one of many

women beating all hell

out of Spitfire, bomber.

All into noise caskets

are clasped, wed to

crisis, resounding tattoo

of spanners, animal

cries from the men

and the boys. Howls

from the jockey who

traversed five weeks,

the Channel, and the

fall of France, now

sailing, on the night

shift. At dawn, the lathe

is at sea, rocking and listing.

The Czech boy is silent, head

bowed, chubby hands

barely up to the metal,

all fifteen years of him.

K bends her back,

spinster to the lathe,

crick in her bones. Feels

she’s bent double in the slips

at the Oval for the King.

In command, she straightens

her back, relaxing, turns

the lathe slowly, one of

many rude mechanicals.

Her only trial, boredom,

she recalls five acts of

memory, A Midsummer

Night’s Dream, she learnt

when 16. Repeats scene

after scene. Sound

engineering practice

as looking around one

sees everyone’s mouth

is moving. E is in talks

with the bosses, talks

from which she always

emerges triumphant.

K intones lines aloud

to the lathe. ‘Now,

fair Hippolyta’. No

moonlight to be ill

met by but neon that

bathes each soul in

ghastly green, bleeds

all blue a violet hue.

No magic but the Lord

of Misrule at Yuletide,

mistletoe, kissing pecks,

lubadubs and bear hugs,

up behind the machines,

a swig of cocktail out

of a medicine bottle

to lay the love juice

on some worker’s sight.

Not a scrap of work done.

We got on with it,

rationing, browned

off, the smallest

double bed in our

second cell, composed

of bumps, a lumpy duvet

and a nice little fire

that toasts the legs,

a withering Geranium,

a portable wireless,

coffee in a flask.

Give me your hand

and Robin shall

restore amends.

.

Raoul Izzard is a 37-year-old English teacher, dog owner, and plasticine animator living in Barcelona with his wonderful wife, Susana. He moved to the city in 2007 to do a teaching course and decided to stay. He can be found at Inklings and Devlings on WordPress. 

E&K verse by Raoul Izzard

This is a poem based on a diary written by two women, Kathleen Church-Bliss and Elsie Whiteman. The full manuscript is available in the Imperial War Museum, but the version I used was published in the book, Working for Victory, edited by Sue Bruley. It’s a mixture of quotes, and my own words.

Photosynthesis for Everyone – Promote Yourself

scum

Daft pond-scum floating
on the crest, the phototrophs
consuming the light

depleting our shared
rays of nourishing thought, shone
for all but dispensed

by One, they* suck the
life-blood away from the shoal
below, plunging us

further into the
murky depths of extinction
hydrodynamics

block the flow of Life.
Until, the One above skims
away the algae…

SM Cadman

By Fist or By Fury – Promote Yourself

 

scars

The scars on my knuckles lie

Like her eyes when they pretend they’re not looking my way.

I sip on weak coffee—knuckles looking tough

like I’ve  fought for things I believed in

and whether or not I won or lost is no matter, because at least I got my shots in.

I see her look at me.

Then avert her gaze down to her papers or at her nails and

it makes me nervous so I fondle my cigarettes in my shirt’s pocket and

I try to sit up straight and look presentable and

not spill my coffee on my shirt and

try to pretend like I don’t notice her.

I try to play it cool.

I hardly know her but I want to show her everything:

the craggy shoreline on the coast of Maine where my spirit guide gave me everything we’ll ever need;

the god-saint willow tree in Amsterdam that I spoke to one twisted afternoon that told me the answer to every question she could ever ask me;

or the beaches of Borinquen, where the trades rustle the palms and the sun laps at your face and you can’t help but smile.

I don’t know if it’s her fem-me fa-tale bangs and bright red lipstick that drives me wild, or the way she pretends to look right through me . . .

But like my knuckles that lie, I’ve never fought for a single thing that I believe in—

love and lust and light included—

and I probably won’t fight for her.

Jared T. Hay

 

FORGIVE ME

freedom

Forgive me for what I have done,

My thoughts were only for me,

No thought of hurting others,

I just wanted to be free.

 

Free from all the confusion,

Free from all the pain,

For I went to the depths of despair,

Never to return again.

 

I tried all that was available,

But life was dragging me down,

In the depths of darkness,

No light for me was found.

 

I know friends and family,

Were always on my side,

I know all the worry that I caused,

And the things I used to hide.

 

Thank you for all the love and care,

I am sorry I caused you pain,

But now the clouds of confusion have lifted,

And I see more clearly again.

 

God bless all who love me,

For its that love that gave me hope,

I have found a new life,

In a world where I can cope.

 

Now is the time to study,

To search until I find,

The answers to my questions,

That gives me peace of mind.

 

I know that I have found it,

For my mind is now clear and bright,

Please to help me recover,

By sending all your prayers tonight.

 

Malcolm G Bradshaw 

Clump of pages

 
He missed a chapter in his book,
Like he missed the time before he took,
A lapse in time,
When eye lids shut;
In comfort ages,
That clump of pages.
Missing sand in seaside places,
And falling rain on sun burnt faces.
Eye lids open,
But nearly shut,
Back he turned,
In his clump of pages.
By John Fox
 

A Springtime Dandelion Daydream – Promote Yourself

 

dan the man

Dandelion daydreaming:

stretched out in the grass by the pavement,

surrounded by the ones that we love

while the sun goes down and

we’re still hell-bent on finding sunshine smiles

in black-top chalked illustrations and

cleverly phrased turns in neon… and the whole world is paisley!

As the sun falls and the moon rises, we swill cold quarts of ale by the ocean.

I sit by the fire, tiredly strumming my ukulele and singing in time with the ocean 

As it rushes up the beach before it rushes back out to sea as fast as it came in.

These are minimal times— nostalgia greeting reality, with reticent aplomb.

We take aggressive sips of well-appointed ale and

It tastes like hops and hopscotch.

Jared T. Hay

http:/papalpigeon.wordpress.com/

 

Time and Love – Promote Yourself

faceless

If I could use the day light savings

I have seen throughout my lifetime

I would spend each hour with you.

Time and love, juxtaposed eons,

Microseconds measured on the chronometer.

The clock face moves on,

Today, Tomorrow,

Minutes, Months,

The pendulum swings.

Eventually we will see our sunset,

Our moment will end,

Morning becomes noon

Noon Becomes twilight.

Old father time will sing for us

Eventually.

But all my time is yours,

Each synchronised sunrise,

From dawn to dusk.

Because when I revel in your present

Time is not linear,

Its spreads and shortens.

Minutes match hours

Hours hold seconds.

Time delays and dances with truth.

Yet you are my always,

The sands of my soul,

My meridian.

Phen Weston

 My blog is darknesswarmth.wordpress.com.

White Propaganda. – Promote Yourself

lies 
 
Lies…
What do we tell ourselves…?
When reading between the lines
Absent from our unconscious signs
But displayed across our faces
Revealing blatant microexperessions
Attempting to amuse and satisfy
Our inner brutish critics we secretly glorify
Just to deceive an equally flawed audienceLies.
What do we tell ourselves…?
To cover all of our bases
To reveal only our pleasant social graces
Pacifying inner silent fleshy rules
Our truths never barefaced among
Fettered pieces of our desperation
Collected only to placate cultural disambiguation
Parlaying pieces of tattered bluff

Lies.
What do we tell ourselves…?
That unawareness already made visible
A view from nowhere newly divisible
A confabulation created by a selected few
To confuse and censor an entire civilization
For an economy stitched together by debt
From wars between factions that pose no threat
A cohesive individual and collective indoctrination

Lies.

What do we really tell ourselves?

SM Cadman

 

 

A rainy night – Promote Yourself

windowxxxxxxxxxx

Staring out the window on a rainy night, seeking for a bit of light

But the darkness is thick and heavy

Desperately I turn my head, eyes burning from tears unshed

So many words unsaid, make my mind lost and blurry

I should lay down for a bit, maybe just briefly

Just for a moment, rest my weary head, to feel less empty

 

Closing my blood-red eyes, over thinking all untold lies

Lies of such unrivalled civil beauty

I want to believe in them, despite of the mayhem

Believing in them, would it set me free?

Take away this vicious anger, depriving the melancholy

Just for a moment, pretending it’s alright, to feel more calmly

 

Demons scratching at my door, like every night before

I want to cover my ears and scream loudly

They keep returning, creeping and crawling

While they start talking, I lay here silently

Listening to their disgusting thoughts, so damn filthy

Just for a moment, I want to forget,  feel warm and fuzzy

 

Sighing, aching, I stand up and ignore the whispering

Stumbling through my chamber blindly

Terror is driving me insane, the voices overrule the rain

The voices I have to restrain, am I crazy?

Smiling demons everywhere, their teeth look bloody

Just for a moment, losing my mind, to feel carefree

 

Staring at the dusty mirror, looking for a glimpse of power

But I only see a hollow face staring back at me

Nothing but an empty vessel, touched by the hands of evil

A fate so incredibly awful as it is inescapable deadly

Dying would be a blessing, I think hazy

Just for a moment, not having to breathe, to feel a bit of mercy

 

Death is knocking at my door, have to let him in, my savior

Instead I hesitate, fighting to think clearly

The voices sound persuasive, almost obsessive

I am impulsive, so I turn to the door suddenly

Let Death be my hero, set me free

Not for a moment, but forever, and I open the door bravely

 

– Just Patty –

My blog: http://petitemagique.wordpress.com/

My Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Just-Patty/1422852067952751?ref=hl

MAKING HISTORY – Promote Yourself


runner
Nobody has heard about the man
who came second last at
the last second. Can
you imagine that?
Halfway through the race, a cramp,
Pain searing through a broken bone,
Muscles and tissues, weak and damp,
Turned ambitions into stone.
A touching story. Some guy
who was crippled finished a race
slowly as the rest rushed right by.
He finished. At some snail’s pace
trying to reach some sort of goal.
Mary also had a little lamb
whose fleece was black as coal,
But nobody gives a damn.
He was one who lost the run,
But beat himself, some would say,
As a brave boy – the only won
to ever finish in such a way.
But winning isn’t everything is a lie:
A certificate, of appreciation, is a token
given to all the ones that try;
History is made ‘when records are broken’
and ‘when you try the best you can’,
And if the latter had been spoken,
You would surely remember the man
who ran. And ran.
Shubham Goenka
Shubham Goenka (poemiswheretheheartis.wordpress.com)

{salutations} – Promote Yourself


 skel

SLAUGHTERHOUSE SEVEN_TY

in Florida knits gullible old ladies
building igloos of orange peel,
art on sweaty woollen bedsides
pastel museums on windowsills,
while propped against walls
left to flatten and choke;
dead men prepare dead minds
for executions;
they cannot hope to survive.

unempath

rigor mortis

DIVERSITY – Promote Yourself

blank

exhausting questions
exhilarating answers
progressive failures
humble success
blank pages
well rehearsed lines
bright moonlight
breezy sunshine
all in one and,
all for one
we stand under the same sun
we are all the same
yet different is each one
Seize the day !
’cause you live only once .
Sanskriti Dixit

God’s Economy – Promote Yourself


food bank
Scandalous bankers –
Spend thousands on expenses,
Cash in on downturn
Morally bankrupt –
Gambling with people’s lives,
Short term gains that cost
The man on the street
Who can’t feed his family –
Relies on food banks
Shamed economy –
Which humbles working people,
While the rich walk by
God’s economy
Invests in life, flows with love –
Never running out
Never in the red –
Our debts paid by Jesus’ blood,
Freely shed for all
by @faithunlocked
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