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Daily Archives: March 9, 2014

Insomnia – Promote Yourself


Midnight Silence.. 
covering dim table light 
Sour Cold February Night 
Sky Brust into Worries 
Tick Ticks of Clock Sticks 
Lightened my Eye blinks.. 
Lying on Bed 
Suffling myself around; 
under wrapped warm blanket 
I cannot avoid those sounds. 
Screams Of my Failures 
untamed voices of my Dreams 
Echo of these heart beats, 
Today , Everything .. 
Not letting me to sleep.. 
I Can feel the fear 
but dont want to express 
I am afraid of loosing myself.. 
My efforts are my hope 
nervousness of coming deeds 
making everything uncomfortable 
unresistable , unexplainable. 
nothing will change, 
untill I write my Success
 to overcome this age,
 with sunken eyes..
 Filled with Insomnia.. 
-Atul Shukla 
Fb page of blog

My First Kiss – Promote Yourself


  I  trust throughout the day and night
  I want to taste your tempting lips again
  Up to now that taste remains, on my lips in my breath
  Everyday I think about, when that day will come again
Shaik Mushtaq  
Hi this is Mushtaq Ahamed , chemical engineer . I am from india

writing poetrys is my passion, I am searching for the platform to
prove my skill in writing poetrys……..

Forgetting You – Promote Yourself


 It is just a shard of glass,
That’s all it is to me.
A pointed end of potential pain,
Clear obscurity.
It is just a splinter of wood,
That’s all it is to me.
A solid slice of prodding plunder,
Broken temerity.
It is just a slip of paper,
That’s all it is to me.
A written reminder of plotted plight,
Attached finality.
These shattered bits and busted tokens,
Are only those to me.
Not a burning pile of past,
Forgotten memories.
Aimee Wahl
Hi my name is Aimee Wahl  – I am a stay at home mom and a poet. I have one published work – Give Me a Moment, I’ll Give you a Life and am working on a second.  I love life and try each day to live it to the fullest! Here is a link to my blog,

*I currently reside in Texas!*
Thank you for taking the time to consider promoting my poem, I appreciate all of the work that you share for poets everywhere!

Recipe to make a poet




  • 1 part love of language
  • 2 parts observational skills
  • Equal parts clown, philosopher and quester
  • heaping scoops of curiosity
  • pinch of pain
  • dash of stuff that leaves scars
  • an ounce or ten of the stuff that ‘builds character’
  • level serving of courage

mix in tears and sweat until a soft dough forms

put dough under pressure until it is compact

roll out until thin enough to see the words through

Allow dough to rest and reform to an organic shape

Bake in real life, with variations of hot to warm, and

periodically freeze, thaw and toss around.

Leave it to rest and pull apart to reveal poetry.

And what is left is the poet. Put this in a warm place.

Let it rise again and create more poetry.


Poets are like grandma’s mystery dough.

Lots of cool stuff with no real measure

except to do it until it looks or feels

just about right. Then add a pinch for

luck. Good luck, bad luck or no luck.

Each scar says, “I survived”. Each tear

says, “the wound is washed clean” and

each word born into a poem is alive

and stays alive as long as the poetry

is read, even after the poet has gone

and returned to dust, their pages

brittle and their hard drives dated.


I remember typing on my mother’s old typewriter.

I remember typing in the dark, each word so formed.

Click, click, click, space, space – hard return. Space.

I remember hand written pages, bound with a red

ribbon. I remember a first professionally printed book.

Each book mark a hand placed ribbon. Each poem

a pedigree. A footnote. A place in my heart that never

seemed to get crowded with them, but grew and grew.

Now the poems come faster than I can catch them.

And some days they don’t come at all. Those days

are the most frightening – have I lost my senses?

Have I lost my words? Then I rub an aching scar.

Then I see an old photo. Or touch a page. Read a

blog of someone’s poetry. And the muse is back.


A photographer takes the photos, catches the moments.

A poet is the one who writes the story on the back of

those moments in time. For one to see, for many or

sometimes none. Each blink a snapshot, a 1000 words.

Each 1000 words boils down, breaks down into what?

Poetry! The words that fill the spaces between each

photo in the stack. The words that fill the spaces.

The Mass – Promote Yourself

doors doors candle 

The weight of the door, the solid swishhh as it shuts.

The faint residual smell of incense and historically extinguished candles.

Flickering candles, the Paschal ~  beautifully adorned and lofty, sporting it’s flame of Hope.

Neat rows of hymn books, piles of slightly dog-eared mass sheets and crispy-fresh weekly newsletters, free to a good home.

Soft greetings, muted voices, genuflecting and bowing indicating the direction of the tabernacle.

Seats chosen and filled. 

Silent anticipation, preparation, adoration.

“Ting” heralds the start.

The unified rising of the faithful.

Procession of robes filled with men that, for just a moment, are not just James and Klaus but Priest or Father and Deacon.

Familiar words delivered by a familiar voice.

The faithful rise and fall like a vertical Mexican wave.

Voices join as one ~ in song ~ in response.

Bells ring to indicate that special transubstantiated moment, rich smoke  mists the room and replenishes the smell for the next people through the door.


The whole room moves with fluid, well practised ease towards the altar.

Momentary hesitation, meet the Priest’s gaze, receive, gives thanks, move on.

Kneeling, reflecting, worshipping.

Replenished, renewed.


Thanks be to God.


DARK WATER – Promote Yourself

(In reference to my book, SHADOWWATER)
From a little girl fighting a raging undertow,
To a tween by a shaded stream where she’d “go with the flow,”
Or as she looked for tadpoles; Back Swimmers in the fens,
Water was not her enemy, but a wondrous friend.

Skating on forbidden ponds,
As a teenager who felt all sounds
She swam away from angry frowns,
And sought adventure in shadowy places,
Careless minds and unlit spaces.

Dimmed lights that spread across a city’s black sky;
Cavernous sewers; wet concrete walls.
Still no fear, no reason to ask why,
Until shadow figures’ final cries; towering falls.

Refuge found on sands of magic,
But never forgotten: victims, pasts tragic;
Nor all those who lost their lives,
Under an island’s blue and sunny skies.

Years along she swims in capricious seas,
Though dusted with strands of gray,
Saddled with weakened knees;
A lonely girl has found a lost friend,
The older woman can begin again.
And the poet who sees surface plums atop crystal alters,
Can now embrace the depths of shadow waters.

Wendy Shreve



unsung heroes 22222222222222222222222 

He was always at the forefront of the battle

That was where he chose to be

Directing his men hither and thither

Fighting hard to ensure a victory

His courage was something that could not be doubted

It was plain for all to see

To his men it was a source of inspiration

In return they repaid him with their loyalty

Who is the manof whom I speak today?

Just one of many who led their men in war

Who were prepared to give their lives to in conflict

So that we could live in peace for ever more

He was one of the unsung heroes of the war

Whose deeds are among those that never will be known

But who contributed to the final victory

By ensuring the seeds of victory were sown

Every year in November we celebrate the anniversary

When the great war came to an end

Let us never forget those who made the sacrifice

And what it was they were fighting to defend

Ron Martin

The prophet

Some kids were in the Holy Land ,

And one old prophet walking by

‘Baldy!’ they shouted, Baldy!’

He didn’t care for their rude cry.

Such insults to a man of God!

At once he laid a curse

Upon the jeering wretches there-

Which, as it happened, was the worst

Thing they could have dreamed of.

For, as the curse came from his lips,

Two mother bears came from the woods.

Those kids had had their chips.

The cheeky lads were torn apart

To bits and bones and blood.

So much for mocking righteous men:

A fate much worse than Noah’s flood

  Ron Gardner 

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