RSS Feed

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

hello Pants” – Promote Yourself


From baby to toddler in the blink of an eye,

The last stage is hard I’m not gonna lie

The nappies need to go, say “hello pants”

Might be too soon but I’ll take the chance.

 A short time naked whilst watching cartoons,

I’ve shown you the potty at the side of the room

I keep on asking “do you need a wee?”

A minute later the floor’s covered in pee.

We try again every day,

But all you want to do is play

I encourage you as much as I can,

Pants with cars, and praise, “come on lil man”.

 So much pride I felt the first time I saw

You did a wee but this time not on the floor,

Such a big boy doing more and more

It won’t be long now, of that I’m sure.

 Months later you want the toilet instead

Still a few accidents as I’d expect,

But then comes the day you manage to stay dry

Even on a trip out with distractions close by.

The best day so far, I pray for many more

Days with no nappies and no wee on the floor,

Now you’re a big boy, my baby has gone

I couldn’t be more proud of how well you have done

Abbe Cutforth

Traiku (because there are three) – Promote Yourself

I wish one day that
You could stop and see yourself
The way I see you.
Not worthless, broken
Unlovable, but only
The wonder you are.
Because if you could
You would never hurt again
This I promise you.

Matthew Hodges, 17, England

Our Journey Together – Promote Yourself




Twenty-one years!  Where have they flown?

As I sit here remembering just how much you’ve grown.


That perfect pink baby with the cute button nose,

So safe in my arms with your pearly-tipped toes.


So quiet at three with a mind of your own,

Dressed up as ‘Mary’ in your blue home-made gown.


Your little hand in mine on that first walk to school.

I was so proud, and you were so small!


Netball team, choir, Nativity and ‘Grease’,

Such a good student, so willing to please.


Time raced on and secondary school came.

Once we’d moved to MK you were never the same.


Out of your shell, blossoming fast,

Determined and driven, not one to be last.


GCSE’s, ‘A’ levels, great results all.

So many proud moments, I felt six feet tall.


Prom. day, so gorgeous in your dress bought by Jim.

“You look beautiful Chuck!” that would have been him.


Straight into employment with barely a pause,

There was just no holding you back anymore.


NVQ, driving, the list carries on.

Woodlands has bagged themselves a good’un.


So here we are at twenty-one years,

They’ve filled me with happiness, laughter and tears.


Such a wonderful journey we’ve had you and I.

When I look at you now you make my heart fly.


A blessing to many with the love that you show,

A warm heart so giving, a pleasure to know.


I don’t hold your hand in the street anymore,

But my love’s always with you, be very sure.


And always remember if ever you falter,

Our hearts are entwined as Mother and Daughter.


14th September, 2013


With all my love


Mum xx

….I wrote this to commemorate my daughter’s 21st birthday last year

  Here is a link to this  poem on my blog: ~

The Waiting – Promote Yourself


images (12)
Breath cut short with every turn,
The blade’s relentless slither true.
Scarlet ooze trails through the furrow,
Shades of grey lie in the wake.
Heart once blushing, warm in love’s glow,
Cowers trembling, dreading the end.
Light fading, flickering, dimming,
As the blade’s path becomes clear.
Pleas for mercy muted by reason,
Fall like silent snow, melting.
The blade’s edge gains momentum,
As love releases its flailing grip.
Heart once proud, bursting with lust,
Sighs in defeat and lies down to rest.
Resigned to breathless waiting,
For love to come home.
poetry by Phil Benton
Please visit my site:

My First Kiss – Promote Yourself


  I  trust throughout the day and night
  I want to taste your tempting lips again
  Up to now that taste remains, on my lips in my breath
  Everyday I think about, when that day will come again
Shaik Mushtaq  
Hi this is Mushtaq Ahamed , chemical engineer . I am from india

writing poetrys is my passion, I am searching for the platform to
prove my skill in writing poetrys……..

Forgetting You – Promote Yourself


 It is just a shard of glass,
That’s all it is to me.
A pointed end of potential pain,
Clear obscurity.
It is just a splinter of wood,
That’s all it is to me.
A solid slice of prodding plunder,
Broken temerity.
It is just a slip of paper,
That’s all it is to me.
A written reminder of plotted plight,
Attached finality.
These shattered bits and busted tokens,
Are only those to me.
Not a burning pile of past,
Forgotten memories.
Aimee Wahl
Hi my name is Aimee Wahl  – I am a stay at home mom and a poet. I have one published work – Give Me a Moment, I’ll Give you a Life and am working on a second.  I love life and try each day to live it to the fullest! Here is a link to my blog,

*I currently reside in Texas!*
Thank you for taking the time to consider promoting my poem, I appreciate all of the work that you share for poets everywhere!

Recipe to make a poet




  • 1 part love of language
  • 2 parts observational skills
  • Equal parts clown, philosopher and quester
  • heaping scoops of curiosity
  • pinch of pain
  • dash of stuff that leaves scars
  • an ounce or ten of the stuff that ‘builds character’
  • level serving of courage

mix in tears and sweat until a soft dough forms

put dough under pressure until it is compact

roll out until thin enough to see the words through

Allow dough to rest and reform to an organic shape

Bake in real life, with variations of hot to warm, and

periodically freeze, thaw and toss around.

Leave it to rest and pull apart to reveal poetry.

And what is left is the poet. Put this in a warm place.

Let it rise again and create more poetry.


Poets are like grandma’s mystery dough.

Lots of cool stuff with no real measure

except to do it until it looks or feels

just about right. Then add a pinch for

luck. Good luck, bad luck or no luck.

Each scar says, “I survived”. Each tear

says, “the wound is washed clean” and

each word born into a poem is alive

and stays alive as long as the poetry

is read, even after the poet has gone

and returned to dust, their pages

brittle and their hard drives dated.


I remember typing on my mother’s old typewriter.

I remember typing in the dark, each word so formed.

Click, click, click, space, space – hard return. Space.

I remember hand written pages, bound with a red

ribbon. I remember a first professionally printed book.

Each book mark a hand placed ribbon. Each poem

a pedigree. A footnote. A place in my heart that never

seemed to get crowded with them, but grew and grew.

Now the poems come faster than I can catch them.

And some days they don’t come at all. Those days

are the most frightening – have I lost my senses?

Have I lost my words? Then I rub an aching scar.

Then I see an old photo. Or touch a page. Read a

blog of someone’s poetry. And the muse is back.


A photographer takes the photos, catches the moments.

A poet is the one who writes the story on the back of

those moments in time. For one to see, for many or

sometimes none. Each blink a snapshot, a 1000 words.

Each 1000 words boils down, breaks down into what?

Poetry! The words that fill the spaces between each

photo in the stack. The words that fill the spaces.

The Mass – Promote Yourself

doors doors candle 

The weight of the door, the solid swishhh as it shuts.

The faint residual smell of incense and historically extinguished candles.

Flickering candles, the Paschal ~  beautifully adorned and lofty, sporting it’s flame of Hope.

Neat rows of hymn books, piles of slightly dog-eared mass sheets and crispy-fresh weekly newsletters, free to a good home.

Soft greetings, muted voices, genuflecting and bowing indicating the direction of the tabernacle.

Seats chosen and filled. 

Silent anticipation, preparation, adoration.

“Ting” heralds the start.

The unified rising of the faithful.

Procession of robes filled with men that, for just a moment, are not just James and Klaus but Priest or Father and Deacon.

Familiar words delivered by a familiar voice.

The faithful rise and fall like a vertical Mexican wave.

Voices join as one ~ in song ~ in response.

Bells ring to indicate that special transubstantiated moment, rich smoke  mists the room and replenishes the smell for the next people through the door.


The whole room moves with fluid, well practised ease towards the altar.

Momentary hesitation, meet the Priest’s gaze, receive, gives thanks, move on.

Kneeling, reflecting, worshipping.

Replenished, renewed.


Thanks be to God.


Reflections – Promote Yourself


On colorful masses,
Blue full skies..
All colours became uselss on fading smile.
With drying colors tainting deserted thoughts..
Collecting my vision..
Over shattered glasses,
Reflections of what I came across.
Judging me and myself assumptions between right and wrong..
Losing sight of this world, on each of my steps.
Time of Hopes
Are now behind my scopes.
Mind is twisted fall in illusions,
Short of Panic ,
Short of Confusion..
Feeling this world is on trial ..
Shedding the eye imprints on scribbled life paths..
Its two and three feeling long tired 
I still am playing with colors . ,
kissing the canvas , scaling the brushes..
Creating Reflections of my heart ..
– Atul Shukla

Insidious and sly – Promote Yourself

 win or lose


Wrapped in your beguilement like a silk that was fine.

Still cold within something that was unsatisfyingly thin

But felt coarse like a sack, lying in a field of rye.

All your flaws,

So deceitfully concealed.

But mine of which I shared with you, I asked of you to forget with nonchalance

And most importantly, yield.

Ravenous for any form of affection,

But just pure passiveness was all I got, when I trace back to my recollections.

Establishment was a sensitive topic that we never dared to mention,

And I would have preferred to have been free,

But I never escaped the constraints of the tension.

Yourself, afar and distant,

Always vivid in the dark.

The pair of us,

Facets to the undefined.

Playing a game where the reward wasn’t something a little under a mil’,

A game of which,

Neither of us could ever win,

(Nil, Neil.)

But I wouldn’t know what consciousness was, if I were ripped by the hits of a bong,

And I still don’t know what selflessness is, even though I endured it so long

But yet, I still continue to wrestle with these unresolved feelings.
So here I write, with my racing, angry thoughts, all fucking lyrical and poetic

But the anger isn’t subdued when trying to think of cunning phonetics.


Insidious and sly.

That’s what you were,

And that’s what it was.


-Tatiana. 15. London.

Your Harbour Lights – Promote Yourself



Your harbour lights

Shine to light my way home,

Sailing to sure haven,

Sheltered safe from the storm;

Guiding true strait path,

Avoiding hidden danger,

Finding safe passage

Until I reach home.

Your harbour lights,

Shining beacon of hope,

Piercing dull evening

Cloaking over my boat.

Lighting Your gracious path,

Set out by my Saviour,

Assuring safe passage,

And carrying me home.

Your harbour lights

Mark family and a fireside,

Warmth and security,

Sitting there by my God’s side,

Preparing next voyage,

Planning our journey,

Back out to the wild seas,

To battle Earth’s raging tides.


by @faithunlocked

Rain – Promote Yourself


I can hear you making small holes in the silence.


If I were deaf the pores of my skin would open to you and shut,

And I should know you by the lick of you.

If I were blind the something special smell you make when the sun cakes the ground,

The steady drum roll sound you make when the wind drops,

But if I should not hear, smell or feel or see you,

You would still define me, disperse me,

Wash over me,


~Hone Tuwhare~

Helen Szafer  


Please visit my poetry  blog at 

March Snow” – Promote Yourself


 march snow


There is something hopeful about March,

something benevolent about the light,


and yet wherever I look snow

has fallen or is about to fall, and the cold


is so unexpected, so harsh,

that even the spider lily blooming


on the windowsill seems no more

than another promise, soon to be broken.


It is like a lover who speaks

the passionate language of fidelity, but


when you look for him, there he is

in the arms of winter.


— Linda Pastan

EMBITTERED – Promote Yourself

 lost kid



Like a child lost among many,

Panic has paralyzed your attempts to progress.

Refusing to accept help from any,

Loneliness has led to regress.


For the beginning never happened,

Only in your troubled mind.

And the end did happen,

As your love closed and left you blind.


Because your feet stay planted in concrete,

Her storm-swept heart has lost its purpose;

And as you run from all that’s sweet,

 Left remains: a leaky skiff; a withered rose.


Had you seen the truth, told no lies,

She may have fought to feed your guise;

A rescued stray whom you played,

But she was no child to your dismay.


Shatter into pieces your brutal past;

Reclaim that black pearl buried in the beach,

For once removed, your bitter cast,

You will find love within your reach.

Wendy Shreve

%d bloggers like this: