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Can you live in a home of wretchedness? – Promote Yourself

hello, I have poem that I would like you to promote on your successful blog, if you wouldn’t mind doing so.

its called “can you?” by myself, Tatiana Agatha Ennin.

my friend, Dajon Hoyte-Bruce and I run the poetry blog known as “ourpoeticinsanity.wordpress.com” just for reference

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You could bathe in a tub of cloudy tears to keep your mind “clean”…

You could feed yourself false propositions to oppose the hunger in your heart…

You could keep yourself warm with the scalding words that his tongue produced…

You could dress yourself in an attire of which consisted of a burden balanced on your head,

A weakened covering to protect your chafed, run down, calloused feet,

An emotional scarf weaved from the fibres of hardship, guilt, confusion and doubt.

Wrapped chokingly tight

around your neck.

To protect yourself from the cold air striking and reaching your chest.

Your chapped mouth…

And

Your insensitive nose.

?

Can you ever die in a home of wretchedness?

 

You could strangle yourself with the ropes that restricted you from trusting and feeling emotion.

You could hang yourself with the words that lifelessly and meaninglessly dangled from your lip.…

 

You stand on the boulder of corruption.

Hoping to majestically land on the base of which an overabundance of reliability and

inhabitation existed on…

 

You jump,

And wonder if you’re committing one of society’s most conventional motives.

 

You took the leap of something that would offer you ‘faith’.

 

You gracefully took the leap of death.

-t.a.e

 

 

I would also appreciate it greatly if you gave me any personal feedback or response, via email. As I am a budding poet, aged 14 and I could definitely use some mature response.

thank you.
from Tatiana and Dajon :).

The News

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The rains came today
Amidst news of government shutdowns.
In a mid-town café
All the faces held practiced frowns,
Voices lingered,
High pitched with banters pledged
“Well I figured,”
Shouted a nearby man on the edge.

When the skies lit up
There wasn’t any discussion of reprieve.
I could reach for my cup
Of java while around the room a sieve,
A genuine distaste
Reactive politics by those thought elite.
Withheld ideals erased
While outside quiet rains began to isolate

See, there is beauty
When in and around me economics falter
Somehow I feel pity
A kind soul is caught in rains without shelter
In the morning
A burst of sunlight will endure the horizon
And while waking
Our society is left to once again find reason

Yet in the midst of cloudy judgment and scattered reigns
Might our heart and soul appreciate just the simple rains

Thom Amundsen
thinkingoutloudagain.wordpress.com

How Do We Read

writingxxxxxxx

When you look upon the written word
How do you read what thought was sent
It isn’t the type or print that can influence
It is our own emotion, times we spent.

 

For black and white, possibly color added
The pages cannot give us the intent of heart
So why do we feel the words deep within
Can we know the end, reading from the start.

 

As we read the words that another has shared
We feel with the thoughts that we put to word
Not like a recording where we feel their emotion
The words read give us any emotion that is stirred.

 

Each has a reason why we read someone’s word
And I’m thankful for those that return to read mine
If I could put my emotion clearly into each word I write
You’d understand the reason for each letter of a line.

Charles Townsend

The Biography Of An Ordinary Man – Promote Yourself

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The flame passes over,
It can light a cigarette
and also end a marriage
He smiles at the irony
And inhales
Holds it in for that second too long
Slow suicide some call it
Idiots
We are all dying slowly
Life is a lottery
Only this one your number
Is guaranteed to come up.
He is not usually a morose guy
Just practical
Sees life for what it is
The moment when dreams die
And reality takes over
At that point
When dreams become truth,
Disappointment
Also brings an understanding .
He blows the smoke into the air
And toasts the understanding with life
You ground me down
I’ll give you that
But at least now
You’ll leave me alone.
At least he has this place
Not much
But really what do you need
A bed
A nice shade on the walls
And a record player.
Life has taken my dreams
But not my LP; s
Not even the wife got them
Funny
That’s all I wanted from her
But when I’m gone
Those boxes
Will be placed in a charity shop
No clue to their importance
No way of telling
How many tears
Ran side by side with the needle
That’s life I guess
The biography of an ordinary man.

Gabriel Denver

The Taste of Sleep – Promote Yourself

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I awaken with a start from sleep that should be restful; repose and recuperation.

And yet my slumber brings no peace. I admit, no demons stalk the empty corridors of my sleep. No, they are not nocturnal. Every waking hour they roost upon my shoulder, nuzzle at my ear, and whisper torments of nothing and everything.

No monsters lurk in the empty rooms under dusty, unused beds, or in dark cupboards that creak under the weight of childish things. Of memories, of good times.

What pursue me in my dreams are lies. False memories. Reflections of what I fear and love the most, but what simply cannot hurt me now. Abandonment, and constant censure of my failures, mistakes and negligence.

But was this ever so ? I was never thus discouraged, and absence prevents them doing so now. Why then does it hurt ?

Larkin was right. “They f**k you up, your mum and dad, They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had. And add some extra, just for you.”

But knowing “This be the Verse” to be so redolently true, why do I still succumb to somnolent torment? When I close my eyes, to rest my body, soul, my brain, why does a battle rage in my subconscious. The dead and walking wounded loiter on the field to shape and influence my waking hours.

This taste of sleep that lingers like garlic or raw onion sets forth my outlook on the day. A Duvet shrouded, solitary indolence of reading and books. A manic striving to create what is ultimately, pointless and irreverent.

Or simply being a good dad, ignoring those whispers, entertaining the only truly ‘good’ thing I have ever achieved.

“Get out as early as you can, And don’t have any kids yourself” he concludes. But even the after-taste of night terror will never see me acquiesce. Surely I cannot be all bad, what I leave behind will be greater than the sum of my parts.

No, on days like this I rinse away the unpleasant tang and prefer to savour more pleasant dishes. Infused with hope and enriched with the zest of my child, who reminds me, who proves “our almost – instinct almost – true: What will survive of us is love.”

Copyright © John Bullock, 2013. All Rights Reserved

A Farewell to Winter – Promote Yourself

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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.

Christopher  Leach

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.
Christopher Leach

I Have Noticed You at Night. – Promote Yourself

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I have noticed you at night.
Your promise laden presence
Precedes you into every room
And I forget to breathe.
 
I have noticed you at night,
Floating in a cloud of faces
That fade to grey, pale to post scripts
In the light electric of your smile. 
 
I have noticed you at night,
Stolen glances, crowded rooms
And dreamt of drowning (once again)
In pools of cerulean blue. 
 
I have noticed you at night,
Veiled in an air of intimacy
And, if frank, rue the fact it’s worn
For someone else. Not me. 
 
I have noticed you at night,
And found, despite myself,
I celebrate your living,
And  am blessed  to see you loving.
 Christopher Leach

Stomach Tears – Promote Yourself

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Your touch deliquescing on my skin

I feel your kiss as a phantom limb

A tea to quiet stomach tears

And warm memory smiles within

Music held familiar

Close

And your voice

A thousand miles away

Arrin Chapman

FUTURE TREE – Promote Yourself

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Imagine a tree
That grew so high
If you climbed it you’d see
To a place beyond time

You’d see all the futures
The years up ahead
Then climb down with stories
Just filling your head

You’d tell all your friends
who’d laugh and say,
‘See into the future?’
‘You’re kidding!’, ‘No way!’

‘Ok then, I’ll prove it!
Wait here, I’ll be back’
Then off at a run
Down the future tree track.

You’d see even more
And remember it all
Then back on the ground
Feel a hundred feet tall

‘You’ll marry at twenty’
‘You’ll move house next week.’
‘You’ll pass all you math’s tests’
‘You’ll sing in your sleep.’

They’d stare at you, scared now
Believing they’d say,
‘How’d you know so much then?
Please tell us your way.’

‘I just climb this tree.
It’s so high I can see
Right into the future
And all that will be.’

‘Where is it? I’m coming!
No me next! Let me!’
And shaking and scrambling
You all climb the tree.

‘We’re too many. Get down!
You’ll break it! Please stop!’
But nobody’s listening
Their goal is the top.

The tree starts to bend
It creaks and it sways
‘What’s that? Why’s it moving?
Do something!’ They say

You scream and you shout
And hang on for dear life
‘The trees falling down!’
And again, you’re quite right.

It falls in slow motion
A million miles long
On its side it could stretch
From Madrid to Hong Kong

So be warned if you’re climbing
A special tree
Just keep it a secret
Between you and me!

Harula Ladd

A Rose

tea-rose-white-bud

Thoughts rush through my mind
As I stare intently at the rose
Such quiet beauty contained
With thorns waiting so close.

Clipping the bud to hold it
Careful of the delicate shape
Knowing that once picked
It’s life begins to escape.

Slowly I peel back petals
Their scent fills my nose
Laying them out flat to dry
A smile starts and grows.

I place an array of color
Arranged on your pillow
Hopeful when I find you
My love will also show.

Charles Townsend 

The Tramp

Cold as ice
there he sat

Dreaming about
this and that,

Of what could
have been

If  he’d stayed
within the social scene

Each night his
shadow lies under the lamp,

He is
identified as the local tramp

The park is his
home,

Nowhere else to
roam

No hidden
agenda

Or anyone to
care for,

No personal
appointments to keep

No people at all 
to  meet

No-one to
explain to when he isn’t there,

No sacrifice to
bare

The owls watch
over him at night

Under the lamp
in the moonlight,

Where empty
beer cans surround him

Next to the
rubbish in the bin

The tramp that
wants to be alone,

And to leave
his identity unknown

By Gillian Sims

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

Dance of The Winter Solstice

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Chilled air breaches my lungs.
The ground’s dead leaves lie under the frost.
Raindrops freeze before falling to the earth,
The frozen tears of the sky,
Each a unique and irreplaceable gem.

Strong cold winds make branches begin to shiver.
Old tattered gloves lay in the snow, discarded.
The divine moonlight reflects on each pristine snowflakes.
A Winter Solstice light show.

The cold turns my breath into frosty clouds.
My ears slip into numbness.
My lips begin to quiver.
I didn’t care,
The night was so peaceful.

Snowflakes danced down to the earth,
Twirling to show of their unique patterns.
Trying desperately to be remembered,
Before melting away.
I will remember you.
The dazzling confetti from the sky.
Frosted tears of a higher being.
Jack Frost’s own miraculous dancers.

Twirling, Falling, Gliding, Spinning.
It’s the dance of the Winter Solstice.
Your first and longest performance of the year.
And it’s your time to shine.

The winter sky will be your stage.
People, animals and trees your audience.
So, go on.
Dance.

Dyllan Brown – Bramble

 

more at: dwbb.wordpress.com

A New Beginning – Promote Yourself

babiesxxxxxx

The anticipation has come to an end,
It’s almost time to meet our new friend,
It’s 2 in the morning, the pain kicks in,
Here he comes, his life will soon begin,
I am scared stiff, what lies ahead?
Screaming out in the hospital bed,
The pain is so bad just want him here,
I have never felt so much fear,
25 hours later he’s in my arms
Hoping and praying he comes to no harm,
His big blue eyes and cute little face
Look up at me to say,
How did I get to this place?
I promise him right there and then,
I will love him forever, until the end.

Abbe Cutforth

IN MY HOUSE

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In my house there are many mansions,
Seek and you shall find,
Knock and the door will open,
For God will illuminate your mind.

Ask and it will be given,
The knowledge that you seek,
For the spirit world will open,
To bestow gifts around your feet.

Death does not destroy,
The spirit that lies within,
Only the mortal body dies,
For death can never win.

When the body is buried it is mortal,
When it is raised its pure delight,
When buried it is ugly,
When raised it is pure and bright.

Death where is your victory,
Death where is your pain,
For the spirit has embarked on journey,
To a sphere on the astral plane.

Death takes away the mortal,
The spirit continues to thrive,
For death cannot destroy,
A spirit that is very much alive.

Malcolm G Bradshaw

Would You Save My Soul Tonight?

SilhouetteManWomanEmbracing

Would you save my soul tonight
Would you hold me close and tight
Would you dream the dream I dream
Would you feel the same emotion
Would you still hold me tight
All through the night
Caress my nightmares
Share what I share
See what I see
Do you believe in me
Would you save my soul tonight
Until the morning light

Gillian and Thomas Sims

Bump – Promote Yourself

PREGNATXXXXXXXXXX

The shock when I saw two pink lines,
The tears of confusion, what to do now,
Am I happy or sad, am I ready for this?
Our lives will change, suddenly a future with kids,
There’s no choice the bond is already strong,
Now praying that nothing goes wrong,
Now it’s all exciting, is it a girl or boy?
I cannot wait to meet our little bundle of joy.

Abbe Cutforth

Sunrise

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I watched the sun arising
Within the morning sky
A chilly breeze caressed my face
As the shadows of the sun passed by

All was quiet and peaceful
As I felt the warmth upon my face
I was in oar at the reflections
As they danced all over the place

As the sun arose in all its glory
Clouds of fluffy white appeared
Drifting slowly across the sun
Not a sound could be heard

I found all this very relaxing
Because we take nature for granted
We can sometime forget
At the beauty she has planted

It instils the very soul with energy
It opens our very censors to see
With a sense of clear vision
Without nature it just would not be

Malcolm G Bradshaw

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