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ALL ALONE… – Promote Yourself

 

I have been here all alone,
But look, how far you are gone,
Is it because what happened under the sun?
I can mend whatever had happened,
Give me chance to prove and make it right,
I am worth giving it a try

All those lame excuses you gave it to me,
While I am here trusting your innocence,
But now I realize, it was just some cloak to suppress your true nature,
I have been dying to know,
What had happened to our moments??
Which you had promised to be with me forever,
Yeah, I get it!!!
I was just your leisure,
And me taken for granted,
Not realizing all this being your cliché reason,
To stay away from me,
And look what have you done,
I am like a vagabond
with no goal or plan in this desert,
Trying to finish up what I have been through,

This could easily be ended,
Just a stroke of knife to the place which you have hurt,
Being the only place,
From where I won’t have to die with agonizing pain,
If you are far away, and get a chance to read this,
I am sorry for all those,
Even though you and I know its a lie…

On May Morning by John Milton – Famous poet

 

Life of John Milton (1608-1674)

 

John Milton was born on December 9, 1608, in London, as the second child of John and Sara (neé Jeffrey). The family lived on Bread Street in Cheapside, near St. Paul’s Cathedral. John Milton Sr. worked as a scrivener, a legal secretary whose duties included preparation and notarization of documents , as well as real estate transactions and moneylending. Milton’s father was also a composer of church music, and Milton himself experienced a lifelong delight in music. The family’s financial prosperity afforded Milton to be taught classical languages, first by private tutors at home, followed by entrance to St. Paul’s School at age twelve, in 1620. 

In 1625, Milton was admitted to Christ’s College, Cambridge. While Milton was a hardworking student, he was also argumentative to the extent that only a year later, in 1626, he got suspended after a dispute with his tutor, William Chappell.

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On May Morning

Now the bright morning Star, Day’s harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The Flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.
Hail bounteous May that dost inspire
Mirth and youth, and warm desire,
Woods and Groves, are of thy dressing,
Hill and Dale, doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early Song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

On May Morning


by John Milton

Death To Wiggly Red Lines – Promote Yourself

 

langages

There is nothing so oppressive to the spirit
Of the perennial utilizator of nonsense verbology
As the crinkled strip of death objecting
To our syncopating vocabulary.
Not content with voicing harrumphs at these
Gone too, must be academic jargonry
Lest we break the poor computer’s cranium.
And we know truly that the programmar (Of who I am SIC)
of your dictionary must definitely be
American.
For heaven forbid you durst use
French.
Cheese eating francophiles partez!
We have no Word for thee.
Good heavens, do you speak
Like the Queen, or the BBC?
Rather than like they do in the colonies?
The fruits of your labour shall be
Underlined in litres of red ink.

Leastways, it does not presume
To change it by itself – Oh wait
Autocorrect.
Which, interesting to note,
Is itself an “illegal word”
Proving that God
Or at least the programmer
(Who all have God complexes)
Has a sense of Irony.


– Ryan E. Martin

Can be found at http://ryanemartinang.wordpress.com

The passing of the year

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My glass is filled, my pipe is lit,
     My den is all a cosy glow;
And snug before the fire I sit,
     And wait to feel the old year go.
I dedicate to solemn thought
     Amid my too-unthinking days,
This sober moment, sadly fraught
     With much of blame, with little praise.

Old Year! upon the Stage of Time
     You stand to bow your last adieu;
A moment, and the prompter’s chime
     Will ring the curtain down on you.
Your mien is sad, your step is slow;
     You falter as a Sage in pain;
Yet turn, Old Year, before you go,
     And face your audience again.

That sphinx-like face, remote, austere,
     Let us all read, whate’er the cost:
O Maiden! why that bitter tear?
     Is it for dear one you have lost?
Is it for fond illusion gone?
     For trusted lover proved untrue?
O sweet girl-face, so sad, so wan
     What hath the Old Year meant to you?

And you, O neighbour on my right
     So sleek, so prosperously clad!
What see you in that aged wight
     That makes your smile so gay and glad?
What opportunity unmissed?
     What golden gain, what pride of place?
What splendid hope? O Optimist!
     What read you in that withered face?

And You, deep shrinking in the gloom,
     What find you in that filmy gaze?
What menace of a tragic doom?
     What dark, condemning yesterdays?
What urge to crime, what evil done?
     What cold, confronting shape of fear?
O haggard, haunted, hidden One
     What see you in the dying year?

And so from face to face I flit,
     The countless eyes that stare and stare;
Some are with approbation lit,
     And some are shadowed with despair.
Some show a smile and some a frown;
     Some joy and hope, some pain and woe:
Enough! Oh, ring the curtain down!
     Old weary year! it’s time to go.

My pipe is out, my glass is dry;
     My fire is almost ashes too;
But once again, before you go,
     And I prepare to meet the New:
Old Year! a parting word that’s true,
     For we’ve been comrades, you and I —
I thank God for each day of you;
     There! bless you now! Old Year, good-bye!

By Robert w Service

Twas the night before Christmas

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‘Twas the night before Christmas and in the White House,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that a tax plan soon would be there.

The holiday treats were stale and bland,
After Mrs. Obama had sugar plums banned.

The president was sleeping – for the hour was late,
He was tired and groggy, like the Denver debate.

He dreamed of the year and his bruising campaign,
Romney was tougher, it seems, than McCain.

With the economy weak and the jobless rate high,
Mitt made his case as the best fix-it guy.

Republicans eyed victory – there was change in the air,
In Tampa, Clint Eastwood conversed with a chair.

Romney rose in the polls and enjoyed his ascent,
But, oh, how he stumbled with “47 percent.”

Challenges abound in this new second term,
A Susan Rice pick could be tough to confirm.

Obamacare won with John Roberts at the wheel,
But the birth control mandate remains under appeal.

There’s John Boehner, of course, and their partisan tiff,
That threatens to drive us straight over the cliff!

With a Cabinet shuffle and more slots to fill,
He listed off changes, but held doubts for the Hill:

“It’s goodbye to Hillary, Panetta, and Tim;
And David Petraeus – now who’ll follow him?”

Suddenly, on the South Lawn, there arose such a clatter,
Obama looked up to see what was the matter.

Then what did appear, to wondering eyes?
But a man of great stature — and considerable size.

His eyes – how they twinkled!  His dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

Chubby and plump and his eyes a bit misty,
There stood New Jersey Governor Chris Christie.

He had come from the coast, badly battered by Sandy,
Seeking FEMA assistance and some holiday candy.

Christie praised POTUS for keeping Jersey afloat,
A far cry from his GOP convention keynote.

Riding high in the polls, Christie’s eyes held a gleam,
Was he thinking of running in 2016?

A White House bid comes at quite a high price,
So the president offered some political advice.

And I heard him exclaim, though it sounded absurd:
“Merry Christmas to all!  And don’t mess with Big Bird!”

The 2012 White House Press Basement Version
by Greg Clugston

*******

THE UNSUNG HEROES

 

unsung heroes 22222222222222222222222 

He was always at the forefront of the battle

That was where he chose to be

Directing his men hither and thither

Fighting hard to ensure a victory

His courage was something that could not be doubted

It was plain for all to see

To his men it was a source of inspiration

In return they repaid him with their loyalty

Who is the manof whom I speak today?

Just one of many who led their men in war

Who were prepared to give their lives to in conflict

So that we could live in peace for ever more

He was one of the unsung heroes of the war

Whose deeds are among those that never will be known

But who contributed to the final victory

By ensuring the seeds of victory were sown

Every year in November we celebrate the anniversary

When the great war came to an end

Let us never forget those who made the sacrifice

And what it was they were fighting to defend

Ron Martin

Constant Pain – Promote Yourself

 

pian life

 

 

 

 

 

which is always there with me

There is absolutely no gain

In pretending what others want you to be

May be the pain will fizzle out

but I will miss its presence

Among all these self doubts

Constant pain is my life’s essence

Gaurab   Country : India

Blog : http://processingthelife.com/about/

About : I like travelling and photography. I’m an avid reader, I also write,mostly about my experiences and journeys. 🙂

Walking by Landmarks

 

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~
I took a walk outside the other day
And realized the world has remained the same
The fields are changing as the
Clouds build their quiet momentum
But the stroll is a similar cadence
One can never be moving too soon
While in life missing steps
Would be
A bit nerve wracking
~
I took a walk outside the other day
Skies with their hue of golden blues
Will always brighten my day
Even as the wind’s ice take form
I seek a quiet comfort internally
Only to recognize again
The sudden calm’s change
Might be
A tad unrelenting
~
I took a walk outside the other day
And questioned what occurs
When my mind begins to sway
Off course into a never-land
Of energy no less endearing
Yet driven by our world’s demands.
Could be
A new awakening
~
I took a walk outside the other day
And when I listened to the sweet melody
Of simple pleasure in nature’s Grace
I could imagine a peace
A love of beauty and delight
Shed all aspects of the past
Only to relish a newer day again
Will we
Ever make allowances
~
I took a stroll while on a new avenue today
Noted the people’s intent to thrive in the gray
~
Thom Amundsen
http://thinkingoutloudagain.wordpress.com

A Western Australian Piano Graveyard

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The famer’s pressing oil, olives spread
on mashing mats. We talk of chooks
and foxes, irrigation and bush fires.

I’m here to see ruins in meadows,
on outcrops, brought from sheds
and yards, lashed to utes and trucks.

“All good things return to earth.”
She tells how a choral hum is raised
by strong wind, how possums nest in felt

and termites engineer collapse; how once
after rain, a derelict played like a pianola
as green tree frogs leapt in its heart.

I take her hand-drawn map, find
a Gold Rush era upright, laminate
blistered, keys jammed and gapped.

Despite its barroom look
a brass plaque by the keyboard
names an outback orphanage.

A Foley artist’s dream, felt-less hammers
conjure horror from bass notes, or tap
a level crossing where the hero speeds

to make the gate. Each instrument
decays uniquely; a baby grand is legless,
veneer turned peeled like cherry bark.

Under cracked coffin-gloss
a clutch of white eggs.

by Roy Marshall

Sea Fever – Your Favourite Poem

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I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking,

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

BY JOHN MASEFIELD

A PLACE WHERE LOVE BEGINS – Promote Yourself

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Not in the past where your tempests raged;
Or in the future, when unknown forces could shatter dreams;
Not in your soul, skewered by hatred and resentment;
Only in the present, as an open heart awaits.

Not by running from what is given;
Or hiding in bitterness and acrid thoughts;
Not in your head, where too many goals are left unfulfilled;
Only in hope, not beyond your reach.

Not in innocence lost or violence found;
Or misguided battles, conflicts unresolved;
Not in your body, ravaged with time and pain;
Only in forgiveness of yourself.

Not in others’ perceptions of who you are;
Or finding reasons to run from promise;
Not in your losses, though hard to bear;
Only in taking her hand; reaching for the sun.

Wendy Shreve

I still miss you – promote Yourself

 

trexxx

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are days,
When I miss you
With a sudden intensity
Which surprises me.

It aches, in a way I didn’t deem possible,
In a heart, I didn’t know I possessed.
And I lie in this room feigning sleep.
Pining away, struggling with my existence.
While I choke from these strange arms enveloping me.

Should I strive, in vain, for you, most divine?
Or should I instead, be miserably content with what’s mine?

– Sreshtha Sen
sreshthasen.wordpress.com

ALL FACETS – Promote Yourself

hugsxxxxxxxxxxxx

I’m trying to attach
Meaning to you like a door with no latch
Or me without you on my mind, how can I explain that

                                                                           I’ll

always love you no
matter your issues
I’ll hug & kiss you
comfort with soft tissues

What

Other words can I say or you to me
When you’re the epidemy
of where love should be
Cause there’s never any riddle to be solved
I know where my heart truly belongs

I

Smile out loud
How can that be…well you’ve shown me how
With all facets of your beauty that I want now
I write,you read as it all comes out
My pen turns us singular into a noun

One

picture & thought with no sound
With many years of internal feelings written down
just thinking about you on my sofa
typing away wishing that you were closer
written from my feelings for you in my mental folder
as i cater to your emotions till the night is over

Lino Robles

ART OF HUMAN NATURE – Promote Yourself

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Smooth surface;
Water-chiseled
Stone with curves of
Henry Moore,
In a stream.
 
Girl stricken,
Taking her legs
But not her heart;
Andrew Wyeth,
In the field.
 
Black & white figures;
Modern day
Rockwell;
Banksy.
On concrete canvases.

Chiseled names
In blackness;
Sunlight &shade
Reveal lives past;
Maya Lin,
On the grass.

Women of texture;
Ordinary scenes,
Superlative color;
Romare Bearden,
By a tree.
 
Mother, child; boat;
Strokes of light & shadow;
Mary Cassatt,
On the water.

Murals of
Bracing colors;
Struggles for dignity;
Diego Rivera
Beyond the breadth.

Palette stream
In cataclysmic ash;
Framing“Scream;”
Edvard Munch,
In the sky.

 Wendy Shreve

The Craft – Promote Yourself

 

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the poet’s craft-
to capture essence of a thing,
and cram it into sparing words.
even truer so, is the poet’s fate…
to burn with such intense, inescapable feeling,
that to put pen to paper is his only option.

baring this to all the world is the art.

-Nuella Onyilofor
nuellaswords.wordpress.com

 

Norman MacCaig – Born: 1910 in Edinburgh Died: 1996 in Edinburg – Famous Poet

 

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Born: 1910 in Edinburgh
Died: 1996 in Edinburgh
First Book: Far Cry (Routledge, 1943)
Awards: Awarded an OBE and the Queen’s Gold Medal for Poetry in 1986

Norman MacCaig was born in Edinburgh on 14 November 1910. His father was an Edinburgh chemist and his mother hailed from the island of Scalpay. The Highland background that he inherited from his mother and the Gaelic culture that he encountered during visits to her family had an enduring influence on MacCaig and his work.

He was educated at the Royal High School in Edinburgh before going on to study classics at the University of Edinburgh from 1928 until 1932. He then trained to be a teacher at Moray House in Edinburgh and spent a large part of his life as a primary-school teacher. During the Second World War he registered himself as a conscientious objector, refusing active service on humanitarian grounds. As a result of his beliefs he served time in various prisons and was forced into extensive labour programmes.

His first collection of poetry, Far Cry, was published in 1943. Both it and The Inward Eye (1946) belonged to the New Apocalypse movement, which pioneered a surrealist form of writing that he later disowned. It wasn’t until Riding Lightswas published in 1955 that his distinctive voice first became apparent. This collection was followed by The Sinai Sort (1957), A Common Grace (1960), A Round of Applause (1962), Measures (1965) and Surroundings (1966). Following his appointment as a fellow in creative writing at Edinburgh University in 1967, he became writer in residence at the University of Stirling from 1970 to 1977, before returning to Edinburgh to be writer in residence from 1977 to 1979. Over this time, he published further collections: Rings on a Tree (1968), A Man in My Position (1969), Selected Poems (1971),The White Bird (1973), The World’s Room (1974), Tree of Strings (1977), Old Maps and New: Selected Poems (1978), The Equal Skies (1980), A World of Difference (1983) and Voice Over (1988).

MacCaig’s life and poetry was principally divided into two parts, with his home city of Edinburgh providing a valuable contrast to his holiday home in Assynt, a remote area in the north-west of Scotland where he spent much of his time. The landscape of this area appeared as a recurring theme in much of his poetry.

His friendships with Hugh MacDiarmid, Sorley MacLean, Robert Garioch and Sydney Goodsir Smith bore a significant influence both on his work and in establishing him as a major force in twentieth-century Scottish poetry. In later years, he acted as mentor to Liz Lochhead, W. N. Herbert and Robert Crawford.

He never received much international attention despite being presented with numerous awards, including an OBE and the highly coveted poetry prize the Queen’s Gold Medal for Poetry, in 1986. In recent years, his writing has become a compulsory part of the literature syllabus in Scottish schools and universities. Norman MacCaig died in Edinburgh on 23 January 1996, aged eighty-five.

Anne Killigrew 1660–1685-FAMOUS FEMALE POET

Anne Killigrew
Anne Killigrew 1660–1685
British poet and painter Anne Killigrew was born in London in 1660. Her father was a clergyman with a position at Westminster Abbey, and she was a maid of honor to Mary of Modena, Duchess of York, in the court of Charles II. Exposed from an early age to life at court, she was also taken to the theater, and her uncles even wrote plays. Killigrew was the subject of an ode by the poet John Dryden. Anne Killigrew was the daughter of Henry Killigrew and was born in London in 1660. She was characterized by one of her admireres as “a Grace for beauty and a Muse for wit.” Her father was one of the prebendaries of Westminster some time before the restoration of Charles II.Anne showed indications of genius very early and her father made sure to carefully cultivate it. She became celebrated in the arts of poetry and painting. She painted a portrait of the Duke of York, who later became James II, and his duchess, to whom she was a maid of honor. She also painted some historical pictues and some pieces of still life, for her own pleasure.Anne was also known as a poet and was often comapred to Catharine Philips, the “Matchless Orinda”. Not only did she share in her artistic talent, but also in the similarities of their lives.Anne Killigrew was an exemplary woman of virtue and piety. Dryden speaks of her in the highest terms, and wrote a long ode to her memory, from which the following stanza is extracted:

“Now all those charms, that blooming grace,

The well-proportioned shape and beauteous face,

Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes:

In earth the much lamented virgin lies!

Nor was the cruel destiny content

to finish all the murder at a blow,

to snap at once her life and beauty too;

But, like a hardened felon, took a pride

to work more mischievously slow,

and plunder’s first, and then destroyed.

Oh! double sacrilege on things divine,

To rob the relique and deface the shrine!

But thus Orinda died:

Heaven by the same disease did both translate,

As equal were their souls, as equal was their fate.”

She died of smallpox in 1685 and was buried in the chapel of the Savoy hospital, on the north side of which is a plain monument of marble and freestone erected to her memory, and fixed in the wall, on which is a Latin inscription.

SHARING THE SAME SPACE

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Yesterday, our Fourth of July,
We watched parades and cheered the sky.
Freedom given by our past,
We now take for granted, will it last?

Today, they remembered those before we came;
Honored their ancestors and descendents who remain.
Freedom returned, once stolen from their past,
They won’t take for granted, will it last?

Dedicated to the Mashpee Wampanoag & their 92nd Annual Powwow (July 5-7, 2013)

Copyright 2013 Wendy Shreve

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