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Daily Archives: April 1, 2014

Secrets and Tears – Promote Yourself


secrets

There’s whispers between us like warm woollen strings,
That bind us together like feathers are to wings,
And though there are two in this smallest of spaces,
We’re one with this whisper and alone in these places.

You’ll find not a heart in my chest, now, my friend,
But a home for your whispers and you that I’ll lend,
It’s yours to confide in, to rip apart or seal.
And a place you can hide in to lock up and heal.

Friends, if nothing else, are there to keep you warm,
And protect you from all else and keep out the storm.
They can’t always help you, but give them a while,
They’ll find out somehow, how to go the extra mile.

When the silence has risen and the sun falls to ground,
And there’s nowhere to run through the darkness around,
We’ll fly to the heavens and bring back a star,
We’ll make a new morning in a world not too far.

We’ll talk for so long if we’re given our chances,
Over drinks of hot chocolate with short flicking glances.
No pressure, just speak from the heart and be true.
I’ll listen to you talk for as long as you need to.

Ravi Jayanti


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Both of the poems are by me, Ravi Jayanti, written on my blog: http://itmayormaynotrhyme.wordpress.com/

The person they were written for owns this blog:

The Cremation of Sam McGee – Your Favourite poem

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There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who Toil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.

Why he left his home in the South to roam ’round the Pole, God only knows.

He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;

Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.

Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.

If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;

It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,

And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,

He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;

And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:

“It’s the cursèd cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.

Yet ’tain’t being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;

So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;

And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.

He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;

And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,

With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;

It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,

But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.

In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.

In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,

Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;

And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;

The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;

And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;

It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”

And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;

Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;

Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;

The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;

And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;

And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.

It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;

And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;

But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;

I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.

I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked”; … then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;

And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.

It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—

Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee.

By Robert W. Service

There are so many! I chose this as my favorite because it was my fathers favorite. He is the person who introduced me to poetry. He loved anything by Robert W. Service. Although my father is long gone, his love of poetry endures with our family. Thanks, Dad. 

YOUR FAVOURITE POEM SENT IN BY YOU

WHAT’S YOURS

Then you stand – Promote Yourself


 
 image for poem

Stand when you feel the grass is green

Have you the guts, then you dream

Live in a moment more

than existing to get old.

Customs are the biggest slaves

blindly serve them the biggest lames.

Do not skulk, rather die

both might be unnoticed, but one is dignified.

 Aishwarya Pandey
Country- INDIA

Aishwarya is a 22 year old undergradute student in India, whose first book is going to be published in April 2014 (self publishing). She is currently working on her second book which she believes is going to be recognized as a really good one.

How To Get There: – Promote Yourself

alaska1

An old thought, home
Lost
Almost nine years
Never stops
My mind, wild
I’ve tried to make it go away
I’ve acted
Cried
Played out scenarios

My hopes up
Visited
Vacationed
Slept under the endless Birch
Trees singing in perfect harmony
Sun drenched midnight sky
Just to keep it at bay
Knowing full well
I wasn’t ready to stay

How to get there
It continues to play
Over again and again
So I listen
I scour possibilities
My husband too
Was offered a job or two
Too much to give up
Didn’t jump

Tried to stuff it
Bound my mouth, intentionally
The less I listen
The more I stumble around
Acting drunk
Flustered
Unsure of everything, real
At this point tangled up, unwound
It is comical
Why can’t I just give up
Realize it is not
My reality
I am grateful for what is

I’ve been told
It’s not my fault
No one is fit
To live in Fairbanks, Alaska
But once you do
you are unfit
to live anywhere else
Like an invisible curse
laughing at my anguish
the words
“I’ve got to get out of here, head back to Alaska”
On repeat

Why am I running
My life is so good
The grass
Not greener there
Actually, it is frozen
Eight months of the year
I feel like Alice
The Mad Hatter’s tea party
In full swing
Only circles always circles

Never forward, not a step
I am older
Dark shadows forming
Smudging those bright
Eyes dancing
The Last Frontier
Held in place
So many ties
Is it time, finally
Let go, settle in
Give up the yearning
The Northern Lights beckoning
The huge everything
Mountains
Vastness
Plummeting temperatures
Plentiful adventures

And yet
I know
I can’t
Let go
Ah, there it is again

Written By: Carrie Browne 
Thank you for the opportunity to share my work, I really enjoy reading so many talented bloggers words each day.

I am new to this beautiful outlet of poetry. I stay home with my two wild boys and enjoy spending time in the outdoors when ever I get the chance. You can view more of my writing and photographs at The Shady Tree http://theshadytree.wordpress.com/

Always Marry An April Girl

Praise the spells and bless the charms, 
I found April in my arms. 
April golden, April cloudy, 
Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy; 
April soft in flowered languor, 
April cold with sudden anger, 
Ever changing, ever true — 
I love April, I love you.

Ogden Nash :

            

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