RSS Feed

Tag Archives: arts arts arts arts arts arts aviation beauty blogging books climate creative current-events Food free God health heart home human-rights life literature love mental arts arts arts arts arts arts arts

Tobermory Boy – Promote Yourself


White-tailed eagles and seagulls
Rose high above the clouded contours
I will depart these static shores
Closing all the doors
Scattering ancient skulls

A shaded eye cast out at sea
Was all that remained of me
And he, that boy of Tobermory
With broken bones, from clambered tree
Sang with outstretched family

Ships approach by sound alone
Church bells blindly toll
A funnel muffles an angry groan
The sea, the sea, let it roll
We all sell our youthful souls

I, not he, will leave these shores
Will take my dreams away
He, in lanes, behind closed doors
Can only weep and stay
Alone to silently pray

Alongside dunes – some swooping gulls
Their journey takes full flight
Unlit lamps obscure the path that dulls
Direction – to a boy with tears in evening light:
To Mull, to Mull.

And views escape my ageing sight
Cut coastline dragged and drowned
I remember the young eagle in flight
Amid the ruins and bog–laden ground
Listening for the homeward sound.

Stephen Holloway

Oblivion – Promote Yourself


Slowly I feel myself slipping away into oblivion. I feel my empty vessel of a soul start to crush my being.
I no longer feel any pleasure from deeds I have done. I only feel the slow erosion of my pathetic existence .
I stare into the darkness that is my body and brain, and see a swirling mass of confusion.
Nothing it seems will stop the darkness from being
I once saw hope I thought I was in control, but fool as I am I never had a clue.
Many emotions , thoughtless deeds could not prepare me for the void that I face.
I stand alone on the presipus  staring into the emptiness that my life has created
Through the hole in my soul I feel a clawing a ripping burning sensation that can only be m eased by the slow release of death.
Death, she stares at me and calls my life she beckons my soul, this feeling I know all to well
I wish I could stop hurting and end my wasted hurtful life. I see now that I have failed.
All I thought I was doing all I have done, was just empty gestures trying to ask for forgiveness.
So now i stand on the edge of the void looking back to see the wasted effort that was my being.
I ask her to please release me from this last step and let me go.
But she only looks at me and smiles and calls my name like whispers on the wind.
I feel her say to me just stand there and look what could have been look what wasn’t.
So I wait fir the final push the final curtain to say goodbye
Oblivion is nothingness empty wasted souls that have done nothing with their chance
I soon will be in my own death my own oblivion and the world will be better off
I had a chance and failed and all my thoughts have been curtailed
I can see her smile as she grabs my arm it is time to go now you no longer will do harm
Please take this lesson I am trying to give Oblivion will collect you and again you will no longer live
Not in good Not in bad just a lost emptiness where all are sad
Oblivion is my way out life please let me go I have had my chance and failed to show
I say good by , laugh if you will But be careful my friend your own Oblivion meet you will..

Sean P Warren

Tuckered out – Promote Yourself

Tuckered out
fell fast asleep with rose colored glasses on
awoke in an air-conditioned room feverishly trembling in fear
stumbled out into a hot and humid dawn
with clouded lenses saw silhouettes
wearing big silly hats
that didn’t seem to fit upon bloated heads
so preposterous had to laugh
where to, dressed like that?
Shadowy figures, ersatz, bizarre, elongated
compressed funhouse mirror images
struggled through a skewed vision arms akimbo
feigned resolve in a limbo of ambiguity
convex conclaved saddened and distraught
over the loss of so many once beautiful imaginary plants
that time and a diseased mind
had sown
along with all the thorns that also had grown
Such and such’s
so and so’s
neglected, taken for granted
often forgetting
how to pretend
to water them
Mourn the deaths of unbegotten substitutes
for sons and daughters
say a prayer just because it seems as though
an awkward silence needs to be filled
kinda’ seems like…
someone oughtta’Took the rose colored glasses off
to try to wipe the smudges away
with the hem of a filthy garment
it slipped from out of greasy hands
bounced and tumbled
deep down beyond reach
into a curbside storm drain
Terror of terror’s
contemplating what might or might not be seen
without them on
hands sweating nervously
but the shirt in the light of day
was not filthy at all
Peered around cautiously
and saw folks of every kind
just plain ole’ folks…
And the truly amazing thing was…
with the glasses off
we could see into each other’s eyes
Every single one of them that passed closeby
did not for a moment hesitate to smile and say:
“good morning”
where to now?
And what of this strange sensation
something warm and wet rolling down a cheek
from out of the deepest darkest corner
of a mind’s eye
and seeping silently into a heart
hurts in a good way
to relate this story
it’s a mystery for sure…
A Gomez

And here I am – Promote Yourself


Shall I will I ever have a chance to be freed
That’s, only when my wings I need to spread

You put me one day in a cage
Can’t you see me today that I age?
Can’t you see me that I am weeping?
Can’t you see me that I am bleeding?

That day going my way straight to my fate
That I used to be free before t’was too late
Then I was nattering in my joy and glee
With No motive for my killing spree
Spending my joy from tree to tree
Having no foe, nor a prey I was to be
Safe that my carol of joy betrayed me
I was caught In a dream-catcher net
It was a gloomy day, that’s Ô! My fate
Mother Nature comes to me, ready set to rejoice
Full of fun, laughing of plenty to hear my voice
For, You don’t know why I sing, ah! me
It was the first day of Spring, for me
It’s only now but a prayer, from the bottom of my heart I sing
but a plea wish you hear me, that upward to Heaven I fling
That one day  you may let me free, before it was too late
It’s only Poetry, a lady  she knows before me, that said:


I know why The Caged Birds sing, ah me,
when his wing is bruised and his bosom sore
when he hit the bars, and would be free;
it is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his hearth’s deep core,
but a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings
I know why the caged bird sings_Maya Angelou

The Hermit – Promote Yourself


The dream was simple

With a hint of something


A shaky apprehension

Threatening to shatter

The illusion.

In the summer sun, anything

Seemed possible;

Even the crazy – turning

From a hermit sheltering in

A secluded corner

Of an empty beach

To a fully-fledged adventurer

Going where? Leaving when?

Who could tell?

A loner in the wind.

The crab listened with interest

To suggestions,

Fired from all angles,

Took new ideas on board, however

Out of character they seemed.

A claw dug through the sand

That was its shelter

And with intention,

Slow but deliberate,

The hermit followed.

The world outside beckoned

To it, calling

Attention to future possibilities;

So it scuttled away to discover

What the shelter

Could not teach it

On that little beach where it hid;

Plunging into the ocean, it made

The first step out

To sea, to the world beyond

Its protective shelter,

Where brand new memories

Waited to be found.

© Laura Marie Clark

Laura is from England, UK. “The Hermit” is an excerpt from her first book of poems, “City of the World”.

Thank you for considering featuring my poetry,
Laura Marie Clark

One Road – Promote Yourself

On the coast
One main road
From somewhere
Up the East Bank Demerara
With a turn off to Timehri
(The Cheddi Jagan International Airport)
All the way to Georgetown.
After grid pattern capital
It picks up again
And three, may be four hours later
To Skeldon/Crabwood Creek.
And then it stops.
Just before Suriname.
And goes back again.
So Mahaica
(By passed)
(Market and stelling and car park
now some what retiring)
or Rosignal
which has a by pass too-
a floating pontoon bridge
-a toll bridge-
no longer at the whim of ferries,
weather and tide,
packed to the gills
tetris like,
buskers and hawkers
plying their wares,
by passed New Amsterdam
and Canje River,
huge high humped back bridge,
will the truck get over it,
Exciting places
That broke the journey,
By passed.
Cheryl Bhagwandin



Nottingham is a wonderful city

One in which I’m proud to live

There are so many things of interest to me

Things which keep me busy and alive

Inspired by the legend of Robin Hood

Nottinghamians are known for their generosity

Giving what they can to help other folk in need

Hospitable and willing to see other peoples views

And I am so impressed with my own city

Making me want to share my pleasure with you

Ron Martin

Let go and Let God – My Favourite Poem – by Lauretta P Burns


I am a poet and I love poetry. My favorite poem that I did not write is:

Let Go & Let God
By: Lauretta P. Burns

As children bring their broken toys with tears for us to mend,
I bought my broken dreams to God,
because He was my friend.
But then, instead of leaving Him at peace to work alone,
I hung around, and tried to help
with ways that were my own.
At last I snatched them back and cried,
“How can you be so slow?”
“My child, “He said, ” what could I do? You never did let go.”

Lunar, you are my reason. – Promote Yourself


A thousand words are whispered on the beauty of your form,
promises of devotion are created and sworn.
A million gazing souls look to your heart,
everyone seeing distance as being too far.

You are so much more than beauty so much more than light,
It is not your soul purpose to bring vision to the night.

They stop, they gaze and pause in time,
for the moons glorious shine.
They point and wonder where did she hide?
At this new beauty they suddenly find.

But you are so much more than light that illuminates our sky,
Your purpose makes the truest soul cry.

They lay in bed whilst days tick past
wondering how long this moon will last.
As waves crash upon the shore
and moon dust sprinkles to the floor.

And you are all and you are one
as is growth to the blazing sun.


Karen Hayward 2015 ©

Hello poetreecreations,

My name is Karen, I live in the UK with my husband, daughter and four black cats. I’ve been writing poetry for a few years now and still feel as though I am a newbie with so much to learn. 

JUMPERS – Promote Yourself



They were like birds flying,

Leaping from flaming windows,

No wings to purchase air,

No hope of flying home.


They were like birds flying,

Tumbling in twos, alone,

Flashing by in a smoke-filled sky

While crowds watched in horror.


They were like birds flying

Flights, imprinting the nation’s memory.

They were like omens flying,


It is estimated that between 50 and 200 people jumped from the World Trade Center towers on 9/11. Marked forever in our memory will be the vision of them falling. Who can imagine the thought process that went into that decision and the conditions under which it was made? They did not chose death. They were murdered.

This poem is dedicated to those poor souls and all lives claimed that fateful day.

The Train – Promote Yourself







No-one looks their neighbour in the eye

On the train.

What fearful things must lurk in the soul        of another human        being, caught with a glance

That we like sightless sentinels avoid all        eye contact

On the train.

We stare at our feet, we stare at the        phone, we stare at        the crappy public service announcement posters,

On the train

‘Next Stop Welshpool.’

Smart phones hypnotize the passengers like        spinning        mandalas

On the train.

They poke out arcane alphabets with their        finger-tips and        thumbs,

On the train.

But smart phones are not smart enough to        teach community,

On the train.

And only the old or sanity-impaired will        talk to you,

On the train.

The pretty girls seem to have some        profound and esoteric        secret that they will never share,

On the train.

We come to the next stop, some of people        get off, a some        get on

On the train.

The doors slide open as on star-trek with        barely a        whistle,

On the train.

And deep within I wish I had the courage        to speak some        overwhelming profundity about this sorry situation,

On the train.

To leave words hanging in judgement over        the hollow        loneliness in a carriage full of people,

On the train.

Jerimiah would have said something,

On the train.

 by Timothy John Parkin


%d bloggers like this: