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Travel – Promote Yourself


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Out of windows overused
into the rounded distance
where time does not stand still
but swarms in coexistence
of all things past and present
of youthful thoughts –
forgotten knots
that never really come or go
relentlessly they slide on waves,
the memory’s tetchy ebb and flow.
And as the grown-up mind
flies dreams at half mast
you gently push away the veils
to see them come undone
into explosive streams of rust.
 
Hey, I have just read about you on the blog and I really liked your idea, although it is probably a lot of work for you:) Hopefully, you enjoy it and get all the beauty you can from it.
 
I’m sending one of the poems I wrote recently just in case you might be interested:) There are some more on http://memorybazaar.wordpress.com, some in English and some in Romanian. The verses I’m sending now refer to the feelings that travelling triggers, namely that purgatory or world of the inbetween, where people are no longer their usual, ordinary selves, where they reunite with all their former selves into a form of energy rather than anything else. This is not a concrete, terrestrial phase, it does not have a clearly defined body or face, it is a luminous place of memories, experiences and dreams. It feels like a personal mythical time capsule that spreads energy into the being and gives some sort of substance and sense to an otherwise fickle existence. And since it makes it easier to understand with the help of a picture, 
Hope you’ll enjoy it and best of luck with your project!
Adina Pop-Coman

Manners

For a Child of 1918

My grandfather said to me
as we sat on the wagon seat,
“Be sure to remember to always
speak to everyone you meet.”

We met a stranger on foot.
My grandfather’s whip tapped his hat.
“Good day, sir. Good day. A fine day.”
And I said it and bowed where I sat.

Then we overtook a boy we knew
with his big pet crow on his shoulder.
“Always offer everyone a ride;
don’t forget that when you get older,”

my grandfather said. So Willy
climbed up with us, but the crow
gave a “Caw!” and flew off. I was worried.
How would he know where to go?

But he flew a little way at a time
from fence post to fence post, ahead;
and when Willy whistled he answered.
“A fine bird,” my grandfather said,

“and he’s well brought up. See, he answers
nicely when he’s spoken to.
Man or beast, that’s good manners.
Be sure that you both always do.”

When automobiles went by,
the dust hid the people’s faces,
but we shouted “Good day! Good day!
Fine day!” at the top of our voices.

When we came to Hustler Hill,
he said that the mare was tired, 
so we all got down and walked,
as our good manners required. 

Elizabeth Bishop

What does Saturday mean to you?

LET US KNOW  AT:poetreecreations@yahoo.com

September

 

 

September is a month

When nature is slowing down

It is the onset of autumn

When the leaves are turning brown

 

Birds start their migration

In flocks of every kind

A majestic synchronization

A sight that will blow you mind

 

The hedgerows in all their glory

With spectacles of colour so bright

All the days getting shorter

As the days give into night

 

The squirrels scurrying around

Rummaging through the leaves

Collecting building material

For their nests up in the trees

 

The nights become colder

The frost will appear on the ground

Nature starts to go to sleep

Leaves fall silently without a sound

 

The harvest all been gathered in

The farmers ploughing their field

Sowing all their winter seed

For next years harvest yield

 

Autumn prepares for the winter

That will freeze all within

Keeping nature cosy and warm

Until the onset of spring

Malcolm Bradshaw

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