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IN REMEMBRANCE – Promote Yourself

The GHOST OF WORLD WAR ONE By Thomas Sims

Battle Cry

bitter

The battle raged all around

Bullets and shrapnel lay strewn on the ground

The sky was grey

I hear solders cry

I feel their pain as a hand rose high

Then a rocket lands close by

Another crater appears before my eyes

For more soldiers to be devoured

And buried them alive

Will these wars ever end

Can we learn from battles won or lost

Will we keep paying the cost

Or will we still hear the battle cry

Can someone please tell me why?

Thomas Sims

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Bonfire Night By Malcolm Bradshaw

Poetree Creations would like to Thank everyone who has submitted Halloween poetry

thank all

Short Story for Halloween – The Scariest Halloween Ever – Promote Yourself

 sweets
 

The town had made a mistake. A HUGE mistake! When it was brought up a few months ago at the town meeting the whole committee agreed unanimously. How could they have been so wrong? How could it have went this far?

The streets were a war zone. The sidewalks were lined with debris and the destruction just continued. No one seemed to know what to do. No one had any idea how to stop it or even slow it down. Should they call the National Guard? It had been suggested but that seemed like an extreme reaction. Maybe it was time for an extreme reaction?

The police officers just stood back and watched. This was something they were not prepared for and no one had ever trained them on how to handle. The ideas were all there but no one wanted to act on them so on the destruction went. Riot gear, tear gas, beanbag guns and tazers were all at there disposal yet not one of these items was put to use.

Suddenly a young man emerged from the chaos and approached the line of officers.

“I have a way to stop this. I need to speak with the mayor.”

The officers looked at one another each waiting for the other to make a decision.

“Just tell me where to find him. I’m not out to hurt anyone. I want all this to stop as much as you do but that won’t happen until I get to speak with someone who has a little authority.”

Finally one of the officers spoke up. “I’ll take him.”

“You sure it’s a good idea.” Another asked.

“No but it’s the first time anyone has offered any idea and I’m not losing the chance to stop this.”

The officer led the young man into the court house. Mayor Thomas and his staff were inside discussing their options when the two entered.

“This man says he has a way to stop this sir.”

“Well by all means let’s hear it. No one here has come up with anything yet.” as Mayor Thomas spoke you could hear the fear and frustration in his voice.

“Mr. Mayor. We need to have …..” the young man continued for only a minute with his plan.

It was so simple yet brilliant. The Mayor stood up from his seat yelling “Well you heard him. Let’s get on this ASAP and turn this thing around. I want that truck here yesterday.”

He looked back at the young man. “Son, if this works you got a hero’s celebration coming to you and a key to the city.”

“Only if the key is made of chocolate sir.” The young man said grinning.

It wasn’t long before a large dump truck was barreling through the streets headed toward the center of town. The driver was warned the trip might be hazardous and he needed to be on watch for anything. Just get to the courthouse as quick as you can without hurting anyone he was told. Why he was here and hauling this cargo he might not understand, but he was determined to do his job especially with the bonus this one was going to get him.

The closer he came to his destination the more uncomfortable he felt. It was unbelievable, unimaginable and just downright shocking. Streetlights were torn down, mailboxes had been tipped over and destroyed and the windows in nearly every car, home, and business were busted. “What had happened here, what was still happening here and what am I doing here?” he couldn’t help but think to himself.

He pulled onto Main Street and couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Right in front of him the chaos was happening and the culprits could be seen. Was it even possible and if so why? Why would they all go crazy at the same time and start tearing apart a town? Suddenly the cargo made sense and he knew he needed to get it in place quickly.

He pulled around and backed up to the sidewalk as close as he could get without hitting or hurting anything. He didn’t feel safe getting out of the truck but he had no choice. It had to be done. As he was selecting the lever to dump his cargo he overheard a young man hollering above the noise.

“Everyone, it’s here. Come on and take what you want. It’s time to fill your bags and go home. Halloween is over.”

The cargo slid from the truck landing onto the sidewalk. Bags of candy bars, lollipops, bubble gum and gummy bears steadily flowed from the truck bed piling into a mountain then very quickly began to vanish. The kids all gathered around scooping up candy and laughing happily. It was over. It was finally over.

The next day Mayor Thomas honored the young man at a press conference. He spoke a bit about the mistakes made and the cleanup that was needed. He asked for the parents to have lenience on those involved. He apologized and vowed that during his tenure “Candy free” Halloween would never again be attempted, no matter how overweight the children became.

Short Story by The Notorious JED and originally posted at www.jedsplayhouse.com 

Halloween Poetry: the best Dark, Eerie, Haunting and Scary poems …

Some of the best poems of all time are dark, eerie, haunting, scary poemsthe perfect poems for Halloween! Here you will find the great medieval ballad about madness, “Tom O’Bedlam,” Alfred Noyes’s bleakly romantic ghost story “The Highwayman,” Ernest Dowson’s haunting “A Last Word,” Walter De La Mare’s enigmatic “The Listeners,” and a terrifying poem about the specter of hell terrorizing Christian children, Robert Frost’s magnificent “Directive.” I chose the first two poems to complement the ghoulish picture above. (In fact, I wrote the first poem specifically to go with the picture.) The poems that follow include some of the very best dark, haunting poems in the English language, by masters of horror and the supernatural like William Shakespeare, Edgar Allan Poe, John Keats and Edward Arlington Robinson.

Thin Kin
by Michael R. Burch

Skeleton!
Tell us what you lack …
the ability to love,
your flesh so slack?

Will we frighten you,
equally pale & unsound …
when we also haunt
the unhallowed ground?

The Skeleton’s Defense of Carnality
by Jack Foley

Truly I have lost weight, I have lost weight,
grown lean in love’s defense,
in love’s defense grown grave.
It was concupiscence that brought me to the state:
all bone and a bit of skin
to keep the bone within.
Flesh is no heavy burden for one possessed of little
and accustomed to its loss.
I lean to love, which leaves me lean, till lean turn into lack.
A wanton bone, I sing my song
and travel where the bone is blown
and extricate true love from lust
as any man of wisdom must.
Then wherefore should I rage
against this pilgrimage
from gravel unto gravel?
Circuitous I travel
from love to lack / and lack to lack,
from lean to lack
and back.

A Last Word
by Ernest Dowson

Let us go hence: the night is now at hand;
The day is overworn, the birds all flown;
And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown;
Despair and death; deep darkness o’er the land,
Broods like an owl; we cannot understand
Laughter or tears, for we have only known
Surpassing vanity: vain things alone
Have driven our perverse and aimless band.
Let us go hence, somewhither strange and cold,
To Hollow Lands where just men and unjust
Find end of labour, where’s rest for the old,
Freedom to all from love and fear and lust.
Twine our torn hands! O pray the earth enfold
Our life-sick hearts and turn them into dust.

Ulalume [an excerpt]
by Edgar Allan Poe

The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere—
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year:
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir—
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir …

Ghost
by Michael R. Burch

White in the shadows
I see your face,
unbidden. Go, tell

Love it is commonplace;
tell Regret it is not so rare.

Our love is not here
though you smile,
full of sedulous grace.

Lost in darkness, I fear
the past is our resting place.

Luke Havergal
by Edward Arlington Robinson

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,
There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,
And in the twilight wait for what will come.
The leaves will whisper there of her, and some,
Like flying words, will strike you as they fall;
But go, and if you listen, she will call.
Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal—
Luke Havergal.

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies
To rift the fiery night that’s in your eyes;
But there, where western glooms are gathering
The dark will end the dark, if anything:
God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,
And hell is more than half of paradise.
No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies—
In eastern skies.

Out of a grave I come to tell you this,
Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss
That flames upon your forehead with a glow
That blinds you to the way that you must go.
Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,
Bitter, but one that faith may never miss.
Out of a grave I come to tell you this—
To tell you this.

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal,
There are the crimson leaves upon the wall,
Go, for the winds are tearing them away,—
Nor think to riddle the dead words they say,
Nor any more to feel them as they fall;
But go, and if you trust her she will call.
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal—
Luke Havergal.

Sea Fevers
by Agnes Wathall

No ancient mariner I,
  Hawker of public crosses,
Snaring the passersby
  With my necklace of albatrosses.

I blink no glittering eye
  Between tufts of gray sea mosses
Nor in the high road ply
  My trade of guilts and glosses.

But a dark and inward sky
   Tracks the flotsam of my losses.
No more becalmed to lie,
  The skeleton ship tosses.

The Listeners
by Walter De La Mare

‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
‘Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:—
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

Macbeth, Act IV, Scene I
by William Shakespeare

Three witches, casting a spell …

Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison’d entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights hast thirty one
Swelter’d venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

YOUR FAVOURITE POEM  WHAT’S YOUR’S

WHY NOT SEND YOUR POETRY IN AND CELEBRATE  HALLOWEEN

Scary Mary and Johnny By MALCOLM Bradshaw

Mr. Macklin’s Jack O’Lantern -YOUR FAVOURITE POEM

FIREEEEEEEEEEE
Mr. Macklin takes his knife 
And carves the yellow pumpkin face: 
Three holes bring eyes and nose to life, 
The mouth has thirteen teeth in place. 
Then Mr. Macklin just for fun 
Transfers the corn-cob pipe from his 
Wry mouth to Jack’s, and everyone 
Dies laughing! O what fun it is 
Till Mr. Macklin draws the shade 
And lights the candle in Jack’s skull. 
Then all the inside dark is made 
As spooky and as horrorful 
As Halloween, and creepy crawl 
The shadows on the tool-house floor, 
With Jack’s face dancing on the wall. 
O Mr. Macklin! where’s the door?

David McCord

YOUR FAVOURITE POEM SENT IN BY YOU WHAT'S YOUR'S

“Caught in a Summer Downpour” – Promote Yourself

Your lovely little post entitled ‘Step Onto Our Stage – Let Your Poem Dance With Others’ was inspiration tonight. Here’s one of mine – just a short one, entitled “Caught in a Summer Downpour”, which makes me smile in remembering the moment it captures:

Mothers Special Day

mummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

 

Mothers Day will be upon us soon

How are we going to celebrate this event?

Shall we buy her chocolates and flowers?

Or buy her an expensive bottle of scent

 

We all take mothers for granted

Expecting she will always be there

She is always a good listener

And all your problems she will share

 

She sometimes becomes a nurse and a doctor

When you have hurt yourself at play

She will sit you upon her lap

Until the pain goes away

 

She will do these things all of your life

In sickness and in health

She will never give up on you

For a mother never thinks of her self 

 

A champion to all of the family

At times she will have her say

For a mother is the kingpin of the family

So show your appreciation on this her special day

 

Malcolm Bradshaw

Mothers Day will be upon us soon

How are we going to celebrate this event?

Why not dedicate a poem to your Mother 

This Sunday

SEND YOUR DEDICATIONS OR POEMS

TO

poetreecreations@yahoo.com

A Mother’s Love Is Forever – Promote Yourself

mumm

I‘ve been with you
since before your birth.
I’ll stand by your side,
as long as I’m on this earth.

A mother’s love is special,
a never-ending gift.
A love that’s always there
if you ever need a lift.

I think of you often,
never missing a day.
My love is forever,
and always sent your way.

You’re never far from the caring
thoughts in my heart.
No matter how many miles
ever try to keep us apart.

A mother’s love, your gift,
the gift I’ll always give to you.
As we watch our lives go by,
no matter what you say or do.

© Alan Royer

 

Dinasaur dave

MRS. PANKHURST

pank
 
Women owe a lot to Mrs. Emily Pankhurst,
Who was the first militant suffragette,
She suffered many trials and tribulations,
Which those who have followed should not forget.
 
She founded the Woman’s Social and Political Union,
This was in Manchester in the year nineteen hundred and three,
She was supported by her two daughters Christabel and Sylvia,
With votes for women as their first priority.
 
They moved to London to lobby the Liberal Government,
And set about heckling leading politicians of the day,
They performed attention seeking stunts at processions,
Anything to allow women to have their say.
 
At first their actions were quite peaceful,
But in Nineteen twelve they became more militant,
They were directed by Christabel from Paris,
To where she had fled, but where she became more dominant.
 
Mrs. Pankhurst spent several spells in prison,
She went on hunger strike and was subject to force feeding,
She was so intent on getting votes for women,
Nothing could diminish her enthusiasm for the campaign she was leading.
 
When the First World War started she called off her campaign,
Realising that there were more important things to do,
She concentrated her efforts organising National Service,
But about votes for women she never changed her point of view.
 
When the war ended the politicians modified their opinions,
They had been influenced by the Campaign for Women’s Suffrage,
But Mrs. Pankhurst’s ambitions were only partly satisfied,
When votes were only given to married women over thirty years of age.
 
So Mrs. Pankhurst continued with her campaign,
And eventually her aspirations were satisfied,
All women over twenty one were given the vote
In nineteen twenty eight, a few weeks before Mrs. Pankhurst died.
 
Mrs. Pankhurst’s campaign lasted five and twenty years,
Her name is now part of our country’s history,
What she did will never be forgotten,
For she has left women a valuable legacy.
Ron Martin

The June Garden

foxglove

The Foxgloves now have risen to five feet or more
Attracting buzzing visitors from far and wide
And watching them, a sight I watch from grassy floor
It gives me a warm feeling deep inside

As Roses open blooms of radiant colours
And speak of further beauty yet to come
I make my pilgrimage to watch them flourish
In warm and humid days of summer sun

Summer Holiday

Summer Holiday

Summer the season of the sun

Holidays breaks on your mind
All the kids having lots of fun
Parents walking on the warm sand

Ice cream melting down your arm
Cold drinks taken by the bottle
Sun cream protect you from harm
While kids build a sandcastle

Walking round the resort at night
Enjoying the cool evening breeze
Taking in all the local sights
Temperatures still twenty degrees

The beach is the plan for the day
Getting the sand between your toes
Looking out across the bay
Spots a dolphin there she blows

The summer holiday is at it’s end
Bags packed reluctantly ready for home
All postcards have been written and sent
Roll on for next summer to come

Unknown Author

“The Forgotten Soldier” – Promote Yourself

forgot

You gave your all, your time, your life

Set apart, you felt the call to defend against strife

Expendable to the powers that be, but for us, a hero that leads

Selfless, brave, even against the feeling of fear

 

Much you have seen, sacrificed, and lost

Much you have gained, received, and felt

The bothered mind returns home, hoping to feel the security of embrace

Needful of care, love, and understanding

 

We salute you, as ordinary people of ordinary minds

We could never comprehend but we lend a helping hand

We bow down, as the masses do before their king

To show our gratitude and devotion to your service

 

Forgotten? No, not by us

Maybe by them, but not by your people

For we belong to you, and you to us… So,

In remembrance we hail you and embrace you in love,

 

Thank you for your sacrifice

Although not a proponent of war, I support our troops, as many in my own family have served. I wish all troops peace and blessings.

Dara Reidyr

Friday The 13th

13

To many the number thirteen 

is a number to avoid and beware of,
add Friday in front of the number,
and you have a very scary day.

To me the number thirteen,
has always been always been a lucky one,
and Friday the thirteenth,
even luckier still

Then again, if you are superstitious
any number can be unlucky.
If you want to think it so,
it just depends on how positive you are.

Now if you think negative,
you will be that way to,
so in your thinking,
just be like me.

Positive is lucky, negative is unlucky,
so train you mind,
to think positive
all the time.

13 July 2007

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