When I see my reflection
I see chubby and ugly,
I see imperfection.
I need the affection
I have to be pretty
If I don’t look like “this”
They won’t bother with me.
So I get dolled
And caked up
Smothered in make up
Just to have some boy tell me
I need to be easy on the eyes,
To compete with the girls
And impress the guys.
To them I’m a prize
A challenge, a game,
Another pretty face
With a number and name.
And I’ll play along,
Pretending to be okay
Pretending I don’t know about
What they whisper in the hallway.
It’s just another day
I have to get through.
Why couldn’t my reflection
Be beautiful too.
Hey, it’s Marcus Roi again, hope you enjoyed the poem. This is one of the poems that will be featured in my book “Book of Mars.” You can find more from me at allpoetry.com/Marcus_Roi.
Tag Archives: 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 arts
My wife is pregnant
and the joy floods in.
Never expecting another life from mine
I stand amazed
and watch you grow
a love within my love.
I’ll tell you things,
I’ll teach you things,
I’ll show you the past
and stand amazed
as the future unfolds.
And I’ll hold you close
when life threatens.
These gifts of spirit I bring you,
Each one is wrapped up with care,
Each one is very precious,
A present for all to share,
My first gift is of happiness,
To bring laughter to those in need,
To fill their hearts with gladness,
And love on which to feed.
My second gift is thoughts,
To send to those alone,
To those that have no families,
To those that have no home.
My third gift is of understanding,
For those of different faiths,
To understand their fellow man,
No matter what colour or race.
My forth gift is of peace,
That the world should be as one,
Where all should work together,
For together we all are strong.
My final gift is from Spirit,
A message that is loud and clear,
That your spirit is eternal,
That death holds no fear.
Malcolm G Bradshaw
A Saturday morning,
an American coffee shop,
a normal milling of the usual,
latte, specialty drinks, fritters,
my black coffee,
and people scattered throughout the room
wearing their apple watches, laptops, fit-bits,
along with the regular crowd …
An iconic assortment defines who we are
as a society living within each other’s reach,
eye contact, thoughts, ability to dialogue,
all of our bodies sharing an energy far beyond our comprehension.
These are the moments when I wish I could
speak directly to the minds of everyone around me
without interrupting, without invading, without discouraging,
a happiness, a need to concentrate, a desire to have fantasy
take them away if just for the sip of their coffee drink,
away from the pain and suffering and confusion that does truly
intrude upon their daily lives.
I suppose most of the time when we think of others
we are certainly measuring our own,
so now is when I could acknowledge those fears
to be inside me,
that inner demon that allows me only certain moments
of quiet solace in the crowd.
I end up thinking though that if I am one,
suffice there are probably many.
where I stand to reflect upon my day,
another might bury themselves in their
quest to figure out why they are so consumed.
We all stand together separate, engaged, disjointed,
We all prefer standing room only to human interaction.
*photo found on rulesforhumans.wordpress.com
© Thom Amundsen 2015
Once deep thoughts ruled
Now the struggle
Is to stay awake.
Once creative labor
Ruled the day,
Now keeping house
Once the lives of loved ones
Ruled the day,
Now distant memories
Fill the void.
Once hope of things to come
Ruled the day,
Now the end
So it is
The cycle reaches conclusion,
So it is,
A live spent.
Thanks so much for keeping amateur poetry alive .
Not what it wants, or what it is or where it’s going,
only knowing the speech-impeding fear of…something. It’s
pathetic. I mean, it’s not even worth worrying about or
questioning, you know the answer.
Stupid, it’s right in front of you. I know Phaedrus, Hume and Locke taught
“things aren’t always what they seem” but this is not a wager it’s yes or it’s no.
Umm…but still…uncertainty can be the safest bet; Pascal told me so.
Variables are what’s complicated, the question is very simple:
Where are we going?
She walks where few dare to go,
searching for the lost, high and low;
Her lamplight shines among foggy grounds,
where wooded cliffs, hover round
A moonlit sky looks down,
upon this ominous scene- where
her steps tread cautiously, as
the night air blows gently,
crisp and inviting
A far away kingdom sits in the distance,
beckoning her return- but not
before she searches near and far,
for the secret, that mystery, she’s
so long known was hers for the taking
They’re not dirty,
A stain can be clean,
There’s a hole in the knee
But not in the seam,
If I’m good enough for you
They’re good enough for me
So please don’t throw out
My favourite jeans.
The washing machine – finishing needs emptying
Dishwasher – needs rinse aid
The bread machine – needs something added
The kettle – needs to be turned off
The computer – has frozen, needs rebooting
My phone – needs recharging
And I thought
Or am I just
Born: July 21, 1899 // Died: July 2, 1961
|Ernest Hemingway was born in Oak Park, Illinois on July 21, 1899. Working in a newspaper office in Kansas City at the age of seventeen, Hemingway started his career as a writer. Before the United States had entered the World War I, he joined a volunteer ambulance unit in the Italian army. Hemingway was wounded while serving at the front, and later decorated by the Italian Government. After his return to the United States, he became a reporter for Canadian and American newspapers. Later he was sent back to Europe to cover such events as the Greek Revolution. During the 1920’s, Hemingway became a member of the group of expatriate Americans in Paris, which he described in his first important work, The Sun Also Rises(1926). A Farewell to Arms (1929), the study of an American ambulance officer’s disillusionment in the war and his role as a deserter, was equally successful. Hemingway used his experiences as a reporter during the civil war in Spain as the background for his most ambitious novel, For Whom the Bell Tolls (1940). Among his later works, The Old Man and the Sea (1952), a short novel about an old fisherman’s journey, his long and lonely struggle with a fish and the sea, and his victory in defeat, was the most outstanding.
Hemingway’s straightforward prose, spare dialogue, and predilection for understatement are particularly effective in his short stories. Some of his short stories are collected in Men Without Women (1927), The Fifth Column, and The First Forty-Nine Stories (1938). Ernest Miller Hemingway died in Idaho on July 2, 1961.
* From Nobel Lectures, Literature 1901-1967.
Along with Youth A porcupine skin, Stiff with bad tanning, It must have ended somewhere. Stuffed horned owl Pompous Yellow eyed; Chuck-wills-widow on a biassed twig Sooted with dust. Piles of old magazines, Drawers of boy's letters And the line of love They must have ended somewhere. Yesterday's Tribune is gone Along with youth And the canoe that went to pieces on the beach The year of the big storm When the hotel burned down At Seney, Michigan.
Oh ne’er forgotten prince!
So strong yet meek-
rich in color and aroma
like the rose;
Your tender heart poured
itself out at such a
youthful age, yet far
advanced in passion and
Too sensitive for the
harshness of your era-
yet so full of life were
you; empathy brimming
over like a cup too small
to hold its contents and an
Your soul’s desires
flooded onto generations to
come; though your spirit be
passed on to heavenly places,
beyond the stars and up into
the night, your pure and
masculine aura lives on
You now walk and stroll
in delight, upon evening
skies and far away galaxies,
perhaps with your love- so
fair was she, as two are now
I sense a connection with
you across the span of life
and death, til’ one day we
may converse, as eyes meet eyes;
that I may caress the face
of this long vanished prince-
ne’er forgotten by me
In loving tribute to John Keats, Romantic Poet 1795-1821
Light leaks; layers the early eastern hills
Butter-yellow and fresh-squeezed tangerine.
Breakfast colours. The cold skinny breeze fills
The space between birdsong with wild green
Scents: Fynbos and firs, precocious perfumes
From hedgerows hued in blazing blue and red.
A premature promise of summer blooms
Before the last frost. When frozen and dead
These petals will carpet the trail toward home,
Marking the certain seasonal parade,
A farewell to cold, an end to the poem
That was winter. As dawn’s grey starts to fade
I stop to look back on the path I have trod
And offer myself to my Creator God.
I am a 40-something year old living in the tiny village of Bathurst in the Eastern Cape Province, South Africa. I grow flowers and vegetables and work in a local restaurant on weekends. I have spent most of my adult life travelling; I have an RYA Yachtmaster ticket and a lot of my journeys involved delivering sailing yachts. After a happy seven year relationship with an amazing women, author amongst other skills, who tragically, died in a airline crash in Tripoli in 2010, I decided to move back to the area of my childhood and put down roots. Living close to nature has inspired me to start writing again, hence my use of a WordPress blog to share my writing with others.
John Challis is a poet, producer and editor. He was born in London in 1984 and is currently working on a first collection of poetry. In 2010 he was gained an award to study for an MA in Creative Writing at Newcastle University. Since then John has started a PhD in Creative Writing at Newcastle University on contemporary poetry and Film Noir, and now works as a teaching associate. He was awarded a Northern Promise Award from New Writing North in 2012 to help develop his first collection.
I recently saw John read at Blackwells bookshop in Sheffield and was struck by the clarity and concision of his poetry. John kindly agreed to send some poems
and generously sent ‘Accident Hotspot’ which is previously unpublished.
John’s poems have appeared in The Rialto, Clinic II, Lung Jazz: Young British Poets For Oxfam (Cinnamon , 2012). John also edits NCLA’s online journal of Creative Writing, Friction Magazine, and is the director of the Newcastle based live literature, theatre and music events company, Trashed Organ
Our bodies, central to this evening’s action,
are lit by streaks of rain.
The radio strains to hear its voice
under this guttural chorus.
We brave the road the dark has taken,
whittle a lane with our headlights.
We yawn past sleepers on the shoulder,
having met their mile quotas,
and when the headlights appear
behind us, and use our mirrors
to blind us, the impatient will pass,
stretching the fabric of the dark;
the dark speaks back with sirens.
Everything slows to a curve of brake-
lights glowing beneath the flood.
In the window the phosphorus smudge
of a fluorescent accident worker
is mining a car from the water.by
That only you know.
I had to let you see it (free it) for us to grow.
And with that key
You ruptured what I kept sealed inside.
And with that key
Defaced what I kept disguised.
A reminder that I’m a survivor on death row.
(You’re spilling me)
And you’re the closest thing to a gun that I know.
(You’re killing me)
You broke open my flood gates
As a reminder to my heart
That it was broken long before
Your teeth tore it apart.
And so starts my great unraveling.
(As I trusted)
You chose your words wisely.
As you aim to disfigure and mis-trigger
My suicidal mind.
You’ve become the perfect kind
Of suicide weapon (I’m ready)
A clock ticking, talk…talking up my fears
Like a ringing locked (glocked) inside my ears.
Rearranging my secrets to fit your lies
As I scream, (SCREAM) trying to find (ME)
Inside that empty look in your eyes.