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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

Guyanese Greenheart – Enduring Love

 

Follow my journey and download my new eBook

life and love

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

Believe in me

beachxxxxxx

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

Fiery Dance

“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

homes

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

speak

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

ken

 

Naked Summer – Promote Yourself

set

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

ha

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 🙂 

By a tree, one summer morning – Promote Yourself

willow

Spring is in the air


Songbirdwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

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

SPRING’S PROMISE – Promote Yourself

bare

Forsaken

rea

On a shelf I’ve been left
I feel forgotten and lost
Of dignity I was bereft
My pulchritude is at rest
Confined by a firm crust
Stifled by layers of dust
I still crave readers’ zest 
© Chaouki M’kaddem
September 24th, 2014


Chaouki M’kaddem
Senior EFL teacher
M’saken, Tunisia

The Feather – Promote Yourself

feather

A Halloween poem – de constructed – Promote Yourself

witch-mary

Trying to write a scary poem
For the Writers’ Chest.
So many ways to start,
I wonder which is best.

Do I go for ghoulish,
Or something more refined?
Do I make the horror clear,
Or leave it to the mind?

Then there comes the rhyming
Of all those scary creatures.
Zombie? Vampire? No rhymes.
Do I focus on their features?

And how to make things scary,
In the structure of the rhyme?
It’s hard to make the reader jump
When they can guess ahead in time.

Maybe I should back off
Leave this one to the writers.
Poets are tender lovers
But terrible monster fighters!

 Al LANE

https://altheauthor.wordpress.com/

Scary Mary’s Halloween Adventure

witch-mary

 

It was a dark night on Halloween

As a young man ventured down a lonely road

The owls were screeching and hooting

 In the hedgerow he came across a toad

 

Excuse me young man, “said the toad”

Will you please kiss me on my cheek?

The young man was quite willing

 He then kissed the toad that let out a screech

 

Then in a puff of smoke and fire

The toad turn into something hairy

The man then recognised that face

As the face of Scary Mary

 

She had been released from a goblins spell

 Thanked the young man as she mounted her broom

She set off with her cat like a rocket

As she headed straight for the moon

 

 Seen by all telescopes around the world

With her cat who sat at the rear

His eyes were now bulging

All his fur turn white with fear

 

Scary Mary was by now quite dizzy

As her broomstick was now in a dive

Boris her cat by now was apprehensive

As he prayed that he would survive

 

Scary Mary managed to control her decent

She guided her broomstick on to the road

Where the devious little Goblin was waiting

Who then turned Scary Mary back into a toad?

 

Malcolm Bradshaw

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