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Daily Archives: March 20, 2014

Daffodils: A poem by William Wordsworth – Your favourite poem


I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

Cadaverous-funfair – Promote Yourself




All the words fade

And life’s an arcade.

Neon lights glare.

Auditory nuisance

Flood the senses,

Masking defences.

Cadaverous funfair

Of decrepit destruction.

I try to find the place

Hidden for me,

Clandestine as it maybe.

Radical reconstruction

Of soul sums up

This charlatans only hope.

Will I succeed?

Will sanity recede?

Only living holds the key.

But who will hold


Phen Weston

My blog is I live in the UK. The poems link is

Less laundry to do – Promote Yourself


Less laundry to do, now that you’re gone;
And the food and the booze last a bit longer, too.
Don’t have to get your permission to do
what I want to do,now that you
Have gone your separate way.
There’s lots to say ’bout the convenience of this,
Less to remark on the things that I miss
Because so many things are really not missed —
Well, perhaps some of the hugs
And some of the kisses.
But there is so much more than hugs and kisses —
There’s a storehouse of things that I had been missing
Before the door slammed on your angry way out
And I stammeredamazed, then finally shouted
“Good riddance!”which hung in the air there a very long time.
So now I’m beginning to build a new life
That’s no longer impeded by anger and strife
And it should feel incredibly freeing,and yet
I’m the victim of mem’ries so hard to forget
That I grew so accustomed to which you left in the wake
Of your stormy departure, and yet I am sure you
Have hidden,most nefariously,
Things to remind of the times you and I shared,
When we laughed and we cried and when we both cared
Beyond the bad times, you and me.
So those are the stains that will never come clean
That hang in the air and to the hallways still cling,
However sublime, and bring back to mind,
A time we both thrived, me and you,
but now? there’s definitely less laundry to do.
Copyright ©
by L. Stewart Marsden, 20 March, 2014

When her heart sprouted wings – Promote Yourself





If hearts were like feathers,
Hers was the lightest,
it caught the vividest
she roamed
in a  world,
made of  those
She reached for love,
She reached for colour…
In a bed of thorns
She was the only flower…
She danced with death,
her laughter;her power…
LIFE became her lover
when her heart sprouted wings.
By: Phusathi Liyanaarachchi, Sri Lanka

Media – Promote Yourself



Confound it.
The grandeur
of exposure,
from a hidden place.
I watched videos online,
people Dying.
They were 

from a circular

A land mine There,
a fiery explosion
nearly fifty times 
their own size
The rattle and tattle
of gunfire.

aesthetic and pompous

Confound it.

By Micah Lilley


My name is Micah Lilley. I reside in Oregon, United States. I am 21 years of age, and have yet to have anything published aside from a poem here and there on various blogs around the web. I have spent the last year and a half working on a novel attempt that explores the familiar edge of the coming of age tale, in which three strangers living in the same city find their paths crossing unwittingly, sometimes dangerously–leaving each of them to accept the truth and expectation of age, and the probable tragedy that comes with it. 

I confess that my inspiration reveals itself as poetry more often than prose, and if any readers are interested, more of work can be found at   

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