HAPPY NEW YEAR TO EVERYONE FROM ALL AT POETREE CREATIONS XXX

A Field of poppies

I walk through a field of poppies

They are spread as far as the eye can see

Like a deep crushed velvet carpet

Presented in front of me

Each poppy resembles a soldier

Who died a hundred years ago

I cannot name one of these soldiers

Not one I will ever know

But each one is a hero

So who is left to tell their story

Of the war one hundred years ago

By Thomas Sims

Salute The Hero’s

When our armed forces go to war

They leave their families behind

Knowing that they will face danger

These thoughts are on their mind

 

Soldiers have always done their duty

No matter where ever they are sent

They are dedicated personnel

  Giving one hundred per cent

 

No matter whatever the climate

 Stand together for what’s right

Even in the midsts of battle

Brothers in arms they will fight

 

To all those lost in conflict

To the families brings heartache and pain

Knowing their loved ones did their duty

Knowing they will not see them again

 

Our thoughts go out to all our armed forces

For their bravery against all foes

We should be very proud of each one

To stand up and salute all our hero’s

 

Malcolm Bradshaw

Bonfire Night

Now be careful on Bonfire Night

We all want you to be safe

We want all the children to enjoy themselves

We all want to see a smile on their face

 

Make sure you get an adult

Who will light the fire?

Stand well away from the flames

Or else consiquences will be dyer

 

Stand well back when lighting the fireworks

Then wonder at the wonderful delight

Of pyrotechnics that bust in the air

So remember keep safe on Bonfire Night

 

Malcolm Bradshaw

My books have arrived in Waterstones book shop in Nottingham – Manners Bear And Friends by Gillian Sims

Photo by kind permission of Katrina the book buyer in Waterston’s  Nottingham today

 Preparing  to put my  book on sale.

Manners Bear And Friends is a children’s poetry book based on manners. The book is £6.95 plus p&p

ISBN No: 9780956400628

If you would like to order the book you can buy at Waterstone’s Nottingham or online 

Or order direct  from us by email at:  gillianandthomas@yahoo.com

 

Mothers day

What is a mother?

What does she do?

What is so special?

A mother does for you

 

She is kind and loving

She is strict, but always fair

When you were afraid of the dark

For you she was always there

 

She shared all your emotions

Picked you up when life was tough

Smoothed things over for you

When your pathway in life was rough

 

There are many ways to say thank you

To a mother you love so dear

For a mother that is so loving

When she wipes away a tear

 

Do not take a mother for granted

In addition, do not forget to say

Mother I really do love you

Especially on this your special day

Malcolm G Bradshaw

Speak Softly For They Are Listening – Promote yourself

The butterflies have fled
Sparrows have flown away;
Never to return.
Living within the circle of smoke and fumes
that hovers above.
Arrogantly. Ravenously;
Fighting over pieces of the earth
As if driven by the devil.
We beasts; the humans,
Born from her;
Dependent on her,
Yet, we dishonor her creations.
 
Fully aware of our misdeeds
We pillaged.
Like pirates possessed by the evil
We pillaged.
Drilling into the heart of the oceans
We pillaged.
Burning the forests to create a concrete jungle
We pillaged.
Each hill, each valley;
We pillaged.
Wars; ruins and rubble; depressing debris, and
Ashes about everywhere. We pillaged.
 
When raping, killing, looting,
And pillaging is a punishable offence…
Why then is pillaging of nature justified…?
I speak softly for they, are listening
The assassins will be cornered,
The nemesis defeated
And the day of inevitable retribution will come.
— 

Ranjeeta N Ghai

https://poetreecreations.wordpress.com/?p=18595&preview=true

Guyanese Greenheart – Enduring Love

Your eyes
Liquid
Velvet brown
Pools of deep dark
Chocolate
I’m lost in
The swimming ofYour mouth
Strong and defined
Slight slip
(from Bell’s Palsy
and all the more dear)
From perfectionShoulders
Stereotyped broad
When sitting
Relaxed
Hand across
Your chest
Rests
On one
Under your shirt
I so want mine
To be there

Deft hands
Cooking and fixing

Brain sorting
Solving
Perceiving
Anticipating
Prophet
Perception

Daft nonsense
Jigging
Dancing
Face making
Giggle laugh
Surprising me
Still
After thirty years

Cheryl Bhagwandin
http://www.cheryl62blog.wordpress.com

 

Follow my journey and download my new eBook

http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=node%3D341689031&field-keywords=Love+and+life+by+Gillian+Sims

Believe in me

I’m that face you see strolling by you
In a sea of strangers every morning
I see your eyes shifting away at the right moment
Your affect sheds a little fear as we cross paths
And my eyes hit the ground again
Because you’re gone, rounded the corner
And my eyes search for the end result
While a memory moves through the space
~
I wonder again at lunch when across the room
Your friends are laughing while unnoticed
My eyes search for your connection
If only just a passing glance I am complete
Again for a couple of hours to relax and dream
That later in the day when our desks are rows apart
We can look across the room and indirectly interact
Quiet moods are real even I believe that can be true
~
Our lives exist by responding to a passing smile
An acknowledgement that feels real is the peace
That exists when from afar a person can connect
With another human being that gives them hope
Allows that instance to be enough inspiration
Intrigue, delight, fascination, to hold onto their memory
I will appear again in the morning ready for our routine
To cross paths early across the sea with an imagined wink
~
We are two souls that notice our lives are intertwined
Lacing the tangles that allow ourselves to really believe

Thom Amundsen 2013
Thinkingoutloudagain.wordpress.com

“Smell You Later.” – Promote Yourself

“There is a smell on you later, and silences and laughers that linger longer in the house and on things after she departed”_kalimelo

Conchita’s,

 With the image of a Flamenco dancer woman                                                                               on the cover of the pack of my first fine cigars                                                                                  I smoked, when I was fourteen, a teen,                                                                                             it’s like the first time you fall in love,                                                                                                you cough, and eye-watering,                                                                                                        you discover what are cigars and women like,                                                                               then you get the habits with them,                                                                                                 with time, the comfort, the company,                                                                                             and then suddenly, and as always,                                                                                           departing is such sweet sorrow.                                                                                                   She was a ballet-dancer, and I, a Fine-Arts  student in Paris,                                                         later on,  looking for a model, I discovered Degas,                                                                         and pastels so delicate, and volatile, as she was,                                                                     elegant and whimsical, that I spent hours and hours,                                                             watching her performing pirouettes,                                                                                                          pas-de-deux, and grand-equart,                                                                                                       so wide with your eyes opened                                                                                                                    that you can hung your Beret , and your hearth                                                                          pending to her movements, holding your breath,                                                                               a piece of chalk in one hand                                                                                                           and a cigarette-Gitannes on the other hand                                                                                    the smoke-filled the air, and laughers,                                                                                         trying to fix  that moment on paper, in despair,                                                                        drawing as she moved, before it disappears,                                                                             listening to Charles Aznavour_” La Boehme,”                                                                                once alone, at home.

 I had a tiny studio on La Butte-Montmartre,                                                                                then, we were  all time hungry, and broke,                                                                                     and  I more than ever waiting for her,                                                                                             one day she never came.                                                                                                             Tired, I went to Spain–Flamenco,                                                                                                Bulls-fighting, Frederico Garcia Lorca,                                                                                                     Manitas-De-Platas, Cervejas,                                                                                                        then from there, Barcelona, Maria Rodriguez,                                                                                 the Fado, and Porto on the Taj,                                                                                           transported by a bittersweet sorrow,                                                                                               but in fact it was her, a dream that I pursued                                                                                than, that It was a fascination by the quest.                                                                                   Like no tomorrow 

“There is a smell on you later,

 and laughers and silences, 

that lingers longer 

in the house and on things, 

after she departed”_Kalimelo

The other day, at a corner of  street,                                                                                                    a vanishing scent of musk, and tabaco in the air,                                                                transported me to Paris, to the clime of lilacs trees,                                                              balconies and wisteria of Montmartre,                                                                                              it has been longtime that I quitted smoking,                                                                                              Quartiers-Latins, and its bistros, and moved to New York.                                                          They say, you rediscovered the subtleties of smells, perfumes,                                                                                                                                          as you had lost your odorant sense while you’re smoking,                                                           they say, but what do they know about lost love?                                                                                 Othello , Shakespeare _”Depart  is such sweet sorrow,” perchance.

_kalimelo

Where is home – Promote Yourself

Your
eyes have stoned,
The tears have run out,
In the endless wait
To return
home…
You are lucky
You
have a dream
That you’ve
visualised…
Those brooks of fresh
water,
The apple orchards..

I, a cultural destitute
Don’t know what heaven on earth is,
It is a
  mere chapter in my history book,
Or a
family holiday that is being planned for years…

These four walls,
Manic, busy schedules
A place I
call home
It suffocates me

There is pain
That seethes within
Who am
I?
Where is home?

Warmest,

Lakshmi Kaul

   

Raising My Adrenaline

When I see it happening around me, and I have to stop

take a breath, make a choice

do I respond, because when I do,

you know, they will retaliate, speak out loud

make a point that is that universal language 

that shouts with vengeance, screams a throttling,

angst.

When I feel,

it all unravels so quickly I can only sit back

and resign, let the wind hit me with stride

hope my balance, hope my center,

can withstand the scrutiny, piece of myself

that always believes there is something wrong

because the world around me constantly,

reminds me.

If when I respond to the circus that plays me,

I might not always feel a shelf below 

the polished instruments that eyes take notice,

letting those in the dust become a secondary after-thought.

Yet when sunlight strikes the silver lining,

that is the peace that drives me forward,

knows I can love with compassion,

knows there is truth and discovery,

allows change to become a practice,

a remarkable challenge toward realizing 

strength.

So when I cry,

please don’t ask me why,

just let me be there,

in the moment underneath all of my fear,

lies a vision, an honest reckoning,

perhaps a quiet travel through life’s intrigue,

while searching the endless avenues,

those difficult stumbling blocks

that when surpassed may speak …

Elegance.

~

© Thom Amundsen

http://thinkingoutloudagain.com

When I was a Child in ‘68

I remember my mother’s tears,

In 1963 bullets flew,

JFK became a national figure 

who when his son saluted the world,

my mother held onto me,

in the den,  

our family room,

I was a four year old boy

~

I didn’t know that the President died

and an entire nation cried..

~

A couple of years later,

I was beginning to recognize words,

there were certain names scrolled

on the CBS news with Walter Cronkite,

signing off with ‘and that’s the way it is’ 

began to be familiar,

even when he reported that Malcolm X

had died.

~

I didn’t know that the color of your skin

had such a bearing on our peaceful lives

~

We were in elementary school when the war raged,

Vietnam became LBJ’s final words,

his soft heart could not fight the battle raged,

He couldn’t seek another term,

he felt so responsible for the wreckage.

But we had hope, another Kennedy,

Robert was charismatic, and looked sad,

laying helpless on the tiles of

the California convention hall.

~

I began to know that an iron lunge

meant one’s life was surely losing time.

~

I recall riding to school with my mom,

listening to the radio talk about Bobby’s 

grave injury. I knew he would be dead,

by the time we left school that day.

I was nine years old now,

and two months earlier 

stood in my grandfather’s sunroom,

and listened to a radio report,

MLK Jr had just been shot in Memphis.

~

I didn’t know at the time that a Black man,

with ‘a dream’ would have such an impact on me.

~

I ran into my grandmother’s living room to my mom,

and told her what had happened,

and her disbelief began to tell me a story,

that tragedy was the way our world would change.

I remember her tears were more formidable,

than any she’d shed for JFK and RFK.

I remember that day realizing that MLK

had a different message lost in a flay of bullets.

And, now at ten years old I began to think,

that Malcolm X was killed because he scared people.

~

I’ve always wondered why prominent figures

could have such an impact only days before they died.

~

We have a history of losing our dignity,

then spending months aferward repairing 

our fears, our anger, our difficult lives.

I would hope that today when we recognize

MLK and this legal holiday we gave this man,

that we privately take a moment to respect

teh beauty and passion of a non-violent world.

~

I hope we can try to be real human beings today,

I hope too we can delight in the artistry of MLK.

~

© Thom Amundsen 2015

http://thinkingoutloudagain.com

 

Naked Summer – Promote Yourself

Blue shimmering horizon
Skin cascading against the light

I am golden

I am floating deeper
Basking
Warmer than and
Stronger and
Breathing cleaner

Sun setting on our smiles

Lounging beyond the rocks
Beneath the heat
The cool depths
Kissing our toes
As we float on…

Emerald sparkle
To ride the waves
To the secret place
To take us all
Together
To that special space
To swim in the
Blue mirror
Beyond

The sun splashes
Across the surface
Exploding diamond ripple
From the sky
Washing our eyes
With fortune
And gorgeous motion
In the endless wake
Of the winds of change

Who could have known
That the cliffs of old stone
Would go beyond 
The surface

Who could have known
That the pain of tomorrow
Could be washed of its sorrow
With yesterday’s diamonds

Today is an island
We dive in the water
And swim for the high lands

John Thursday

johnthursday77.wordpress.com

Summer In The Square – Promote Yourself

Summer In The Square

I’m wondering with

Eyes itching with hayfever

Why we do all this

 

Maybe Beryl knows

Ice cold water bottle fun

And the sky shines on

 

Curious pigeon

Trace sharp tongues of grass to find

Us hugging the sun

 

A warmth not human

It’s the glow of our childhood

That’s not coming back

 

It’s everything we

Wish would stay the same, but it

Just shows the difference

 

Clouds kissing my skin

Cut grass and oily coconut cream

The smile of freedom

 

Emily Duke

I’ve added one of my poems I’d love for you to feature on your page, looks like you’re always posting a wide range of stuff! 

I’ve been writing poetry for quite a few years now and am currently in my third year of an English Degree in Brighton. I started my blog about six months ago and it’s got off to a really good start, so I’d love for you to add a link to it if you publish my poem too 🙂 

http://dukeyblog.wordpress.com/

By a tree, one summer morning – Promote Yourself

One summer morning, you sat by the willow.

A book, lazily draped over bare knees.

The meaning of time lost among branches.

Closed, your eyes were.

I watched you, intently from afar.

The dry summer breeze filtered by blonde strands.

One summer morning, you did not see me there.

Maybe you felt my presence.

I felt a flutter of the heart.

Time meant nothing to me.

Seconds, then minutes, passed by.

One summer morning, I sat by the willow.

Hoping, in futile earnest, for you to arrive.

You never came.

It was one morning.

Only one.

Name. V. Vicari

Country: US

About me: an aspiring poet inspired by pretty much everything. 

Spring is in the air

I feel a spring in my step

Are you feeling it yet?

The temperature is better

According to the weather

The brollies have gone

The blackbird is singing his song

I see more smiling faces

Amongst all the races

People have more energy

Or is this just positive me

The skies look very blue

Do you have a spring in your step too?

Gillian Sims