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Tag Archives: human-rights

STOLEN HANDS – Promote Yourself

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Sunday Evening…
All ready I’ve
Suffered enough
Of this
Incurable
Hopeless rage.
I sit
To try and write it out
My feelings flowing
From blood
To words
On this unforgiving page.

See I once
Held hands
That i
Stole
While i plotted lives
With a cold hearted
Grace.
Now my hands
Lie
Only to my
Own skin
The punishment
I deserve
There is no longer
Solace in a
Beautiful face.

I betrayed
My own
Beating innocence
It is now
A cold dead tomb
In which i am burdened
By its weight
With dark skies
And overdue consequences
Time has finally caught on
The price of lies
I’ve discovered
Is beauty
Returning
As hate.

Gabriel Denver

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.

flower-1

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

Soldiers’ Christmas

soliders christmas

Soldiers’ Christmas

Creeping through the silent night,
Things that move are things of fright,
Sleighbells never ringing now
Angels seldom singing, now
Nothing comes to make their season bright.(Chorus)
Ring the bells and praise the Lord
For our soldiers’ love outpoured,
Post their names upon your tree
As they fight to keep us free,
Remember … their gift forevermore.Helicopters – guns and tanks
Moving now in guarded ranks,
Not a bit of Christmas cheer
That must wait ’til Home next year,
Since their only present is your “Thanks.”(Chorus)
Ring the bells and praise the Lord
For our soldiers’ love outpoured,
Post their names upon your tree
As they fight to keep us free,
Remember … their gift forevermore.

Now with many flags unfurled
Boys and girls from ’round the world
Lift their voices – battle cry
Bound to win or bound to die
Brave young heroes all – to chaos hurled.

(Chorus)
Ring the bells and praise the Lord
For our soldiers’ love outpoured,
Post their names upon your tree
As they fight to keep us free,
Remember … their gift forevermore.

Here at home with Christmas cheer
In this fun time of the year,
Let’s pause a bit from what we’ve planned,
Singing songs – with praises … and
Send a loving hug to soldiers dear.

(Chorus)
Ring the bells and praise the Lord
For our soldiers’ love outpoured,
Post their names upon your tree
As they fight to keep us free,
Remember … their gift forevermore.

Christmas Poem

Our soldiers know exactly what it is like to be serving so far away from home and thinking about you on Christmas Day (and every other day). Your letters and care packages mean so very much to them. Many of them are in Iraq and Afghanistan where life is waiting for the next gun shot or explosion. Many others are in support postings elsewhere. I have a friend serving in a German hospital where her patients are wounded soldiers from the war zones. She has a deep need to know that you care about her. They all do!

THE LITTLE THINGS

16639913-happy-smile-for-two-friends-as-they-greet-each-other-at-an-outdoor-train-station-platform

It is the little things in life which make the difference
When we are greeted by someone with a friendly smile
Who genuinely enquires about our well being
Or offers help in climbing over a stile

A stile is not just something we see in the country
It is any of the problems we meet on life’s way
To know that we have friends who will help us
Is something that brings happiness every day

For there is a lot of truth in the old saying
That a friend in need is a friend indeed
Someone who is willing to help us
And who is not afraid to intercede

Not one who always wants to interfere
Or to tell us things that we already know
Who can recognise the help that we are needing
And who will stay when all the others go

Who will do or say something that is helpful
It might only be a gesture or a friendly smile
But it can soothe or strengthen us for life’s battle
And make everything we do worthwhile

Ron Martin

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

A misleading innocence

 

Some nonentities were looking for solace

And found it in  pride -ing themselves on insolence 

Toward the Prophet and a massive populace

On the pretext of freedom and spontaneous innocence

Anyone with little discernment can detect their malice

 

In short order, they spread such contemptuous rudeness

And made it a new trend and of frequent occurrence

To inflame people’s emotions and increase their sufferance 

And push the credulous to revulsion and violence

Just to satisfy the interests of people of consequence

 

I wonder, how can a spiteful fiend preach tolerance?

I wonder, how to be caught red-handed and claim innocence?

I wonder, how to prick people and impose silence?

I wonder, how to be corrupt and have conscience?

I wonder, how to support flagrant miscarriage of justice?

 

Hey! None of your pictures, words or movies

Can diminish the Prophet’s brilliance

 Nor make anyone of you a genius

Refine your creativity for the sake of peace

And remember: buttocks never release a masterpiece.

 

© Chaouki MkaddemSeptember 22, 2012

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

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

Wrong – Promote Yourself

 

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Everything in this world is not color correspondent.
Like people.
Pink does not always mean female,
Blue does not always mean male.
Rainbows are not enslaved to queer folk.
This trinary only applies to things that are not complex enough for spectrums or intersectionalities.
Contrary to popular belief, gender is not pink or blue or vice versa.
Gender is a spectrum, mixed with complimentary colors.
Not a grey scale from light femininity to darkened masculinity.
New colors are made everyday by mixing, and extracting personal characteristics.
THE ARTIST IS THE ONLY ONE THAT CAN NAME THEIR COLOR.
Although too many people think they’ve discovered all of the colors, just because they’ve looked in their medicine cabinets.
Just because they’ve seen the outside world, they think they know the colors.

If I ever decided to have off-spring, their nursery will be painted in all custom colors:
To my queer child
Darling, do not allow your mind to dictate you.
Inside influences will tell you that you aren’t allow to exist.
Do not listen to them like I almost did.
Ignore the colors around you.
Instead of a gun, take a pen to your hand, and let your heart pour bullets to the page.
Write the synopia red-morbid things, write about the black olive world around you, write what goes through your minds.
Never conform to the point of dysphoria.
It only results in displaced self-loathing.
I feel that it’s only a matter of time before your Carolina-blue tears waterfall over your pillow.
Your rapids will sweep you away into a world of shades you’ve never seen before.
Don’t stop here, you will find your self stuck cycling somewhere that makes you feel like a stranger.
But just remember to find the colors that make you feel good.

______
Also, I have more poems at bucketsaurusrex.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

shadowglowxxxxxxx

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 Son Writes” – Promote Yourself

WHITE-ROSES

Death is blackened
by white roses orchestrating
the stage for grief.

My father wrote
those three lines,
before he died.
Now I hear them,
those lines, once more
as his fellows gather and muse
and drink about.

He was a good mentor,
a sensational man of letters–
his passing is felt.

But I’m the only one who manages to see
what my father wrote–lines
ready to be drowned by history’s waves.
I see through the mush,
and the things my father did
to achieve a pedestal amongst guardians
of the ivy halls. But, he remains
for now, while I am alive and trying to confine
my own place for when they look at me
they only see the son, the shadow
of his greatness.

 

Andrew Geary

andrewgearypoetry.wordpress.com

Truth or truth – Promote Yourself

 

pipesxxxxxx
Truth is truth, excepting the occasions when it is not.

My Truth is not my friend’s truth,

Not my father’s truth, my child’s.

 

Truth can only be expressed in words. Relative and poorly constructed.

And words are fallible, unstable, misused and abused.

 

Words are no more than signs and symbols,

Signifiers of a subjective existence.

 

A Childs’ game of categories, to compartmentalise a continuum.

Words change, expand and contract, as endlessly they shift

As grains of sand on a beach.

 

There is no truth in a dictionary, every word a lie.

Words cannot be what they seek to represent,

They cannot transcend.

 “Ceci n’est pas une pipe.”
Truth is the trick of a conjuror, the white rabbit

No longer in the hat. With Sleight of Hand our daylight truths

Become in darkness, our deepest fears.

 

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God,

And the Word was God”  but my God is not yours,

Real truth lies only with the Omnipotent.

 

And what treasons are committed in the treachery of a word.

Innocence slain, commands, orders, and just cause for the belligerent.

Give your life only for love.

“Verum esse ipsum factum” – All truth is a lie.
 
© John Bullock 2013

John Bullock

Journalist, Editor & Writer
07824 602520
john.bullock@live.co.uk
http://about.me/john_bullock17
http://johnbullock.wordpress.com
https://www.facebook.com/john.bullock17
https://twitter.com/John_Bullock17

On Race’s Ism

Malcolm_X
~

In Childhood
Stuck trying to find the right words
If something is wrong
Then an offense has occurred
And we each know the name of that song
~
We may not try
However simple the notion that crossed our mind
Whatever may have caused her to cry
Gives credence to this present bind
~
Look into the mirror each morning
And see a face that is ready to play
Calling all friends of all worlds abiding
Each other’s desires; each one’s way
~
We are a simple dream of childhood
Recognizing every person that crosses our path
Knowing our little neighbor, hood
Is really filled with love and knows no wrath
~
Child’s eyes watch the television
When a man named Malcolm X lost his life
He didn’t really understand that vision
Yet now innocence knew certain strife
~
His quiet world of matchbox cars
And riding a bicycle down rural roads
There were no Emmett Till moments; no steel bars
That suggested how a quiet world soon explodes
~
Coming of Age
~
Grandfather’s sun-porch on a late afternoon
It is April 4th and by evening
A world we knew that lived under the same moon
Now in a child’s eyes witnessed a blood-letting
~
Look into the mirror each morning
Recognize the horror that stands silent
Wash away the culling
Nature of this daily lament
~
Outside a world quietly anticipates
A brush of the shoulder
A passing glance that irritates
An individual mind’s moment of order
~
And in a flash the future is different
We look at each other with a certain fear
A society that seems no more reverent
Than a glance in the headlights by a passing deer
~
We are now afraid
Civil rights has become a long awaited
Long suggested sacrificial trade …
Years of intolerance; human tragedy abated
~
As decades pass we begin to recognize voices
Speaking of equality; shouting MLK Jr’s dream
A certain fog seems to embrace our choices
Is it a dream, or a fear now to actually scream
~
Present hypocrisy
~
A newscaster recently applauded
A verdict with biting analysis
A jury of peers apparently spoke and quietly lauded
A system of unequivocal legalese justice
~
In a classroom the teacher taught Langston Hughes
A poem about finding your heart
See there are many different, contrasting views
We just need sometimes a place to start
~
Hypocrisy exists if we design by our own will
Is it wrong to fight against the man?
When really it is the Man that speaks to fulfill
A spiritual reckoning; a delightful sermon
~
Might inspire our hearts to seek the soul
Of our existence; that human purposed
Together today teaching whole
Worlds might recognize each other as He proposed
~
Fight with a certain wrath the accusations
Plead for generalities to be ignored
And stand firm to agree with each other’s visions
To be explored, believe, lived, and favored
~
Common ground exists within our lives
To recognize each other’s eyes that shine above
The judgment and fury of angst, that deprives
Our elegant human hearts to share what is their love

                                                                 Thom Amundsen 2013

Please visit:
thinkingoutloudagain.wordpress.com

A Farewel (To Worldly Joys.)-by Anne Killigrew FAMOUS FEMALE POET

 

FEMALE................

Anne Killigrew (1660—1685) was an English poet. Born in London, Killigrew is perhaps best known as the subject of a famous elegy by the poet John Dryden entitled To The Pious Memory of the Accomplish’d Young Lady Mrs. Anne Killigrew (1686). She was however a skilful poet in her own right, and her Poems were published posthumously in 1686. Dryden compared her poetic abilities to the famous Greek poet of antiquity, Sappho. Killigrew died of smallpox aged 25.

 

A Farewel (To Worldly Joys.)

FArewel ye Unsubstantial Joyes,
Ye Gilded Nothings, Gaudy Toyes,
Too long ye have my Soul misled,
Too long with Aiery Diet fed:
But now my Heart ye shall no more
Deceive, as you have heretofore:
For when I hear such Sirens sing,
Like Ithaca’s fore-warned King,
With prudent Resolution I
Will so my Will and Fancy tye,
That stronger to the Mast not he,
Than I to Reason bound will be:
And though your Witchcrafts strike my Ear,
Unhurt, like him, your Charms I’ll hear.

by Anne Killigrew

A sonnet for St. Benedict

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On July the 11th the Church celebrates the feast of St. Benedict of Nursia, the gentle founder of the Benedictine order and by extension the father of Monasticism. A moderate and modest man he would have been astonished to learn that his ‘simple school for prayer’, his ‘modest rule for beginners’ led to the foundation of communities which kept the Christian flame alight through dark ages, preserved not only Christian faith, scripture, and culture,but also the best of Classical Pagan learning and culture, fed the poor, transformed societies, promoted learning and scholarship, and today provides solace, grounding, perspective and retreat not only to monks and nuns but to millions of lay people around the world.
Here is my sonnet for Benedict, drawing largely on phrases from the Rule, I dedicate it to the sisters at Turvey Abbey. It will appear in my next book with Canterbury PressThe Singing Bowl

As always you can hear the sonnet by clicking on the ‘play’ button or the title.

You sought to start a simple school of prayer,
A modest, gentle, moderate attempt,
With nothing made too harsh or hard to bear,
No treating or retreating with contempt,
A little rule, a small obedience
That sets aside, and tills the chosen ground,
Fruitful humility, chosen innocence,
A binding by which freedom might be found

You call us all to live, and see good days,
Centre in Christ and enter in his peace,
To seek his Way amidst our many ways,
Find blessedness in blessing, peace in praise,
To clear and keep for Love a sacred space
That we might be beginners in God’s grace.

Malcolm Guite

Lest We Forget

lest-we-forget.mmmmmmmm

Have we forgotten their ultimate sacrifice?
Of these men and women who died in their millions?
Brave and true, without question,
proud to be British, not ashamed to be Christian.

So many years have passed,
it seems our memory doesn’t last.
Forgetting these courageous people, to our shame.
Why can’t we remember their names?

How short is our memory?
That we have forgotten them already?
Died in their millions fighting for our freedom,
believing in our free democratic ideology. 

What does it take to wake up this country,
to rise once again from its complacency?
How much more do we take, before we decide to fight,
for our beliefs, our traditions and our liberty?

Armed Forces Day in the UK 
Lest We Forget
by Simon Icke UK

Remember The Fallen

 

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He was paid to accept the sovereigns shilling

Knowing exactly what it was for

He had volunteered to join the army

And knew that he would be sent to war

Like many other young men of his day

He knew exactly what he would be expected to do

To risk his life in war on foreign fields

To defend the homeland for me and you

He was prepared to lay down his life

To ensure the the price of freedom was paid

And that is something that we should remember

When the poppies on the Cenotaph are laid

For when we gather to remember the glorious dead

Each year on the second Sunday of November

That our freedom is their everlasting legacy

It is something that we should always remember

Ron Martin

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