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Daily Archives: March 31, 2014

On Reflection – Promote Yourself

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.




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


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





How I wish I could write well.- Promote Yourself


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


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.

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