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Daily Archives: June 4, 2014

542 – Promote Yourself


Five hundred and forty two

Pop. Like a Jack-in-a-box

But why that number, I wonder?

It seems to be locked


I’m sure I don’t know

But I’m certain that I care

This mystery is mine

So I mull and I stare


No answer forthcoming

What shall I do?

I guess I’ll have to accept

Five hundred and forty two.


– CarlyLou

Insomnia – Promote Yourself


Night descended, following the usual course

Firmament’s dark for usual sleep dose

Approached with eyes dreamy

And fell on bed drowsy

Hoped to sleep this night tight

Would be sound asleep-thought struck her tonight

Minutes, Hours… they flew by

But, she gave sleep another try

Closed her eyes, yawning, shifting, turning

Terrible thoughts; nightmares creeping

A sound soon put a halt to things

It was the alarm clock-every morning that rings

Another night passed without any sleep

Another day started, she hoped to sleep deep

This night might bring her sleep

If what’s disturbing her every night won’t creep!

Marium Ghulam

-Grace Linton
Link of this poem on my blog:

About me: I’ve been writing since I was fifteen, about three years ago,  and I started a blog a few months ago so that more people would be able to read my work. I never really learned writing, so my poems might not be as good, but I still hope you’ll enjoy it- that is, if you do choose to check out my blog. 

Story of a Small Southern Valley Town – Promote Yourself



Here one doesn’t speak of irregularities in the valley

and so the river’s emerging underbelly isn’t addressed.

Its bedrock of bones stays whitewashed and hungry.


Behind the pulpit, there is a man speaking of

a coming and a going, how the unsaved will

soon be dropped liked dead persimmon


from the branches of a holy tree rooted

in homogenous soil, or spit out like

pokeweed, uncooked and pungent.


Enclosed between his upright mountains

is a belief in the throb of the tractor

linking his thighs, the groan of the engine


a crescendo in the serpent hiss music

of this fallen Eden. From the most righteous of their people

a call to prayer to bless this familiar

setting, with the dinner on the table


partially felled by a son’s rifle in a

rite of masculinity, mixing firepower

with absolution. Buried beneath


the floorboards of each home is a catacomb

of different tongues, a hundred years of

learning yoked to the wall, screaming for release


downwards into a hidden crawlspace where

someone’s forgotten son, a knees-to-chest

skeleton, a book still clutched in his


left hand, lays unresolved. Beneath him even deeper,

survived by a pocket of air, someone’s

hidden daughter can still see the minute


differences in the shades of the marigolds, can still

taste the immense sweetness in the fruit that has long since fallen,

who still holds a silent vigil for them all.


But then again, one doesn’t speak of irregularities in this valley.

Even the river knows that. 

Joshua Martin

She. Promote Yourself


She laughs.
She dances.
She believes.
She cries.

Rain washes it off.
Breeze tickles her feet.
Sun kisses her cheek.
She forgives.

Then she laughs.
She dances.
She believes.
She cries.

Rain washes it off.
Breeze tickles her feet.
Sun kisses her cheek.
She forgives.


My blog is:

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