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Goose Fair

gallopers24

Goose Fair has been celebrated from days of old

When geese were brought to Nottingham to be sold

Thousands would gather for the sale

While many others came just to drink the ale

With so many people gathered there

The sale gradually changed into a bustling fair

An annual celebration to be enjoyed by all

A time of entertainment when the autumn began to fall

Folk gathered to watch the wrestlers and performing bears

Feats of skill by jugglers they had practised down the years

There were side shows with freaks thought to be funny

And folk could have a laugh if they paid their entrance money

You could have your fortune told if you had a penny

The gypsies told their stories,but did not convince many

They took it in good humour,but some hoped it would come true

Especially when they were told ‘ good luck would come to you’

The barrel organ was invented,the music was loud and shrill

And this added to the pleasure of those looking for a thrill

The development of the steam engine led to the carousel

Which waits to join the action when the Lord Mayor rings the bell

At noon in the first Thursday of October in every year

The Lord Mayor gives a welcome to everybody there

They come from far and near,there is excitement in the air

The geese no longer come, but it’s still called Goose Fair

Ron Martin

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

Hands – villanelle – Promote Yourself

woman-walking-hand-in-hand-in-studio-silhouette-isolat

 

Holding hands with someone special
Such electricity flowing between both
Creating memories that last much longer.

 

We hold hands with many as we grow
There comes a time when we have more
Holding hands with someone special.

 

Thoughts return to bring us even closer
Remember a touch or a smell that excites
Creating memories that last much longer.

 

Feelings grow and we just seem to know
When fingers lace together without thought
Holding hands with someone special.

 

For some it is might last only a day

Occasionally we find someone special
Creating memories that last much longer.

 

A lifetime can seem to be summed up
Looking back at all those moments shared
Holding hands with someone special
Creating memories that last much longer.

 

by Gray Poet

Charles Townsend

Nature’s Mirrors – Promote Yourself


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Puddles on the pavement,
pools of light beneath brooding skies,
reservoirs of captured rain,
unique displays of movement,
as brilliant white swirls through oily black,
and the storm erases memories of the sun.

A flash of colour, of life, as I pass,
there a moment, but gone now, forever,
a puddle has no memory,
and life is brief in nature’s mirrors.

Next, I pause a while, transfixed,
staring into shallow depths,
imagination runs wild, searching,
knowing only tarmac resides,
yet seeing other rippled worlds,
over my distorted gargoyles face,
perhaps a warning, a guardian?
Fantasies, devoid of reality,
removed from my mind, as
only a mind’s eye has power here,
lost in the moment, drawn down,
lured into the murky lagoon,
where incubus and angels do battle.

Lightning flashes now,
breaks the spell, smashes melancholy,
I surface once more,
gasping for stifled air,
haunting images, crystal in clarity.

I am back, yet will I remember that,
which nature’s mirror will not?”

If you like my words, why not check out y travel blog? Twenty First Century Nomad,
Steve.
Twenty First Century Nomad, Novelist & Freelance Writer.
http://www.twentyfirstcenturynomad.com

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

Wanderlust of Rain – Promote Yourself

It was wonderful to come across your website and see a community of poetry lovers. I would like to take this opportunity to share one of my recent poetry on Rain. Would be delighted if this gets featured on your website 

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A wait of months,

A struggle of a year,

and I was transformed.

I teared the clouds,

I swayed in the arms of air,

I can see what lies beneath.

I touched the cheeks of trees,

Knocked the windowsill

and kissed the ground.

I am floating, to mix with the sea,

the skies await,

A mingled chain, wanderlust of Rain.

This poetry is also featured on my blog Camera Lore.

Thank You & Regards,

Reema Sathe

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

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

A New Beginning – Promote Yourself

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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

“Autumn” – Promote Yourself

autumn landscape
Autumn is like an old book:
Marred spines turn mean yellow,
staples rust red-orange.

Every stained page is stressed
by a splat of color. Rough-red,
like an old tavern,

we become hungry birds
and prepare for fall.
Shape and shadow are candied citron

as lanterns turn bitter yellow. Autumn
is a red fox, a goblet filled with dark wine,
a hot chilli pepper with smoky eyes.

Pressed leaves take in the colors
of seafood paella and saffron; these leaves
are like death, climaxing with a smile.

Autumn: Her dress is a net of mussels;
dark shelled, it covers up
summer’s weather-beaten body.

So pull out your boots
and stand on an aged, wood floor
like an evergreen.

Dear Gillian and Thomas Sims,

I was wondering if you would like to add the following short poem to your collection?

It was first published, Online (about.com), a few years ago.

Thank you,

Mary Hamrick
Tallahassee, Florida

Poems about Grandfathers

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One does not have to do anything to become a grandfather. It simply happens when your child has a child. It is up to you to decide how involved you will be in your grandchild’s life. There is an inherent biological relationship but the emotional bonding between grandfather and grandchild comes only with effort. It happens when the grandchild sees that you are open to forming a relationship. It happens when you get off your easy chair and make the effort to see what matters to your grandchild.

My Granddad

You are my Granddad

You are not just a fad

Like an x box, tablet or phone

I know you tend to groan

But you are my Granddad

Who makes me happy and sad

You can be very annoying

But when you’re in the bath

And I hear you sing

I am glad you are around

When I hear that sound

You are like a Victorian pear

You have always been there

Very mellow and soft to touch

Granddad I love you so much

Gillian Sims

My Dads Dad

My Granddad came to stay

My Dad bought him a card

I’m only four

And not sure

What this card was for

And this puzzled me

Was Granddad doing his family tour

I’m not sure

I’m only four

Was it Granddads birthday

So I asked my dad

To explain to me

What this card was for

He said it’s Fathers day

And your Granddad is daddy to me

THOMAS SIMS

Sou

We Are Not Alone

lovesssssssss
We are not alone
Although we might feel we are
Even in the midst of darkness
We all are observed from afar

For in that distance land of beauty
Where our spirit friends reside
Times when we feel vulnerable
When we have sat down and cried

For we all have a link of love
That is placed within each heart
It’s energy within our spirit
Knowing that we are never apart

Take from that energy of love
Where ever you may roam
Feel the love it contains
Knowing that you are not alone

Malcolm Bradshaw

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