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GBWO – CALLING ALL POETS AND WRITERS

The Great British Write Off

Step Onto Our Stage – Let Your Poem Dance With Others

rit

Why not send us your poetry.We are gaining popularity daily.

We would love to hear from you.

Send your poems to:poetreecreations@yahoo.com

Follow my journey and download my new eBook

life and love

http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=node%3D341689031&field-keywords=Love+and+life+by+Gillian+Sims

“Smell You Later.” – Promote Yourself

Fiery Dance

“There is a smell on you later, and silences and laughers that linger longer in the house and on things after she departed”_kalimelo

Conchita’s,

 With the image of a Flamenco dancer woman                                                                               on the cover of the pack of my first fine cigars                                                                                  I smoked, when I was fourteen, a teen,                                                                                             it’s like the first time you fall in love,                                                                                                you cough, and eye-watering,                                                                                                        you discover what are cigars and women like,                                                                               then you get the habits with them,                                                                                                 with time, the comfort, the company,                                                                                             and then suddenly, and as always,                                                                                           departing is such sweet sorrow.                                                                                                   She was a ballet-dancer, and I, a Fine-Arts  student in Paris,                                                         later on,  looking for a model, I discovered Degas,                                                                         and pastels so delicate, and volatile, as she was,                                                                     elegant and whimsical, that I spent hours and hours,                                                             watching her performing pirouettes,                                                                                                          pas-de-deux, and grand-equart,                                                                                                       so wide with your eyes opened                                                                                                                    that you can hung your Beret , and your hearth                                                                          pending to her movements, holding your breath,                                                                               a piece of chalk in one hand                                                                                                           and a cigarette-Gitannes on the other hand                                                                                    the smoke-filled the air, and laughers,                                                                                         trying to fix  that moment on paper, in despair,                                                                        drawing as she moved, before it disappears,                                                                             listening to Charles Aznavour_” La Boehme,”                                                                                once alone, at home.

 I had a tiny studio on La Butte-Montmartre,                                                                                then, we were  all time hungry, and broke,                                                                                     and  I more than ever waiting for her,                                                                                             one day she never came.                                                                                                             Tired, I went to Spain–Flamenco,                                                                                                Bulls-fighting, Frederico Garcia Lorca,                                                                                                     Manitas-De-Platas, Cervejas,                                                                                                        then from there, Barcelona, Maria Rodriguez,                                                                                 the Fado, and Porto on the Taj,                                                                                           transported by a bittersweet sorrow,                                                                                               but in fact it was her, a dream that I pursued                                                                                than, that It was a fascination by the quest.                                                                                   Like no tomorrow 

“There is a smell on you later,

 and laughers and silences, 

that lingers longer 

in the house and on things, 

after she departed”_Kalimelo

The other day, at a corner of  street,                                                                                                    a vanishing scent of musk, and tabaco in the air,                                                                transported me to Paris, to the clime of lilacs trees,                                                              balconies and wisteria of Montmartre,                                                                                              it has been longtime that I quitted smoking,                                                                                              Quartiers-Latins, and its bistros, and moved to New York.                                                          They say, you rediscovered the subtleties of smells, perfumes,                                                                                                                                          as you had lost your odorant sense while you’re smoking,                                                           they say, but what do they know about lost love?                                                                                 Othello , Shakespeare _”Depart  is such sweet sorrow,” perchance.

_kalimelo

Standing Room Only

american

A Saturday morning,

an American coffee shop,

a normal milling of the usual,

latte, specialty drinks, fritters,

my black coffee,

and people scattered throughout the room

wearing their apple watches, laptops, fit-bits,

along with the regular crowd …

~

An iconic assortment defines who we are

as a society living within each other’s reach,

eye contact, thoughts, ability to dialogue,

all of our bodies sharing an energy far beyond our comprehension.

~

These are the moments when I wish I could

speak directly to the minds of everyone around me

without interrupting, without invading, without discouraging,

a happiness, a need to concentrate, a desire to have fantasy

take them away if just for the sip of their coffee drink,

away from the pain and suffering and confusion that does truly

intrude upon their daily lives.

~

I suppose most of the time when we think of others

we are certainly measuring our own,

so now is when I could acknowledge those fears

to be inside me,

that inner demon that allows me only certain moments

of quiet solace in the crowd.

I end up thinking though that if I am one,

suffice there are probably many.

where I stand to reflect upon my day,

another might bury themselves in their

quest to figure out why they are so consumed.

~

We all stand together separate, engaged, disjointed,

We all prefer standing room only to human interaction.

~

*photo found on rulesforhumans.wordpress.com

© Thom Amundsen 2015

http://thinkingoutloudagain.com

 

Yet another poem

💔 hearts of pain’ 💔. – Promote Yourself

pain

As you lay in your bed at night ‘ trying to sleep 💤 ‘ with the heat pouring down your face ‘ you turn over in despair ‘ as the memories comes flooding back ‘ to haunt you ‘ in the most fierce way.

as you try to sleep 💤 at night ‘ you turn your face ‘ to find a cool spot on your pillow ‘ yet there is none.

Your thoughts are flooding your mind ‘ as you try to keep them out ‘ memories which you try to hide ‘ in a moment of grief and despair ‘ you put a hand on your heart ♥ and move forward .

In the mist of the darkness of the night ‘ tears stream down your face ‘ you wonder when will it stop as your heart is being ripped out .

There’s nothing more painful ‘ than seeing the people you love ❤ feeling lost and alone ‘ knowing how life has been ‘ changed beyond belief.

In the mist of madness and despair ‘ you find the strength to carry on ‘ as you are nothing with out the strength you need ‘ as you put your life on hold ‘ and do what’s needs to be done ‘ life goes on ‘ as it must.

Patricia Bourne WordPress 2014

Fields of gold – Promote Yourself

gold Fields of gold’ shinny and new’ this wondrous land’ is just but a few.

Little children runing around ‘ happy smiling ‘ laughing out loud.

Little voices whispering as they play ‘ hiding in the grass ‘ from little sister may .

Buzzing and twittering all the way round ‘ tiny little insects ‘ laying on the ground.

Up in the distance far ahead ‘ the trees are whispering ‘ its time for bed.

Golden grass ‘ clouds of white ‘ sky of red ‘ is pure of delight.
Flowers of pink ‘ leaves of green ‘ this is nature ‘ best of ever I have seen.

Patricia Bourne WordPress 2014

Just Today

tech-60-seconds-infographic-sm
~

Only this moment,

all else matters little,

in your world, that one across

the street,

where the tracks can never meet.

Think about what happens in that world,

know it will happen again,

maybe the same way

or it could really be different again,

depends how far we want to take our

differences.

~

We can look at each other today,

just today,

realize all else matters little,

that’s a point so lost in the rhetoric,

the longing, lacking, little regard in mind,

beyond our own needs.

~

Do you realize just how easy it might be,

to laugh about the same events rather than

keep them safely tucked away in that place,

that shallow grave of repression

that allows no one else to dare cross into.

Perhaps if we let go of yesterday,

we might begin to see that notion of

just today,

just how easily we might move forward

together.

~

Perhaps that’s too easy,

we need that conflict to define ourselves.

Isn’t that what they teach us in the schools.

Or maybe they don’t – I cannot remember.

It is summertime,

when the sunlight is streaming such significance,

we all seem to want to forget about everything else,

just drop a line in the water,

take a hike,

yet remember we are all coming back again,

to that place

that notion

that suggestion.

~

Be ourselves,

so let’s do that. Together if

well, drop all the individuality jargon,

recognize what is real with each other,

just today.

~

© Thom Amundsen

http://thinkingoutloudagain.com 

GOD BELONGS TO EVERYONE – Malcolm Bradshaw

HEAD-HOLE -Promoting yourself

hole

Poets Unite Promoting yourself –

poetry

Emotional journey.- Promoting yourself

2a7dag0

As I’m sitting here in my minds eye ‘ not knowing what to do ‘ with my hands covering my face ‘ my thoughts are in a turmoil ‘ as I feel lost and alone.

Not knowing who to call ‘ or what to say ‘ wheather I should ask for help in anyway.

I look around and all  I see is confusion ‘ all around me ‘ do I go out or do I stay in ‘ my mind is in a mist of uncertainty’ as to do any thing .

As I feel so alone ‘ who would understand me .

I feel im being judged ‘ as the world around me ‘ becomes a strange place .

My world is in sorrow and pain ‘ im lost in my own despair ‘ never knowing if there is light at the end of the tunnel .

As I sit in silence ‘ through the eyes of pain ‘ I think about my life ‘ how all this became madness .

As a journey I must go though ‘ I must take charge ‘ and follow my path ‘ and see what or who I will become ‘ at the end of tunnel of life.

Patricia Bourne WordPress 2014

The Curious Minions, – Promote Yourself

SAPIENS? – Promote Yourself

sap
 
Have you heard the one about the jew, the Christian and the Muslim in holy Jerusalem?
It’s a riot. @HillaryClinton @BernieSanders @SenWarren
 
“So long as there is peace among nations, Armageddon cannot ever be,” the three in
unison, prayed. @SenWarren @BernieSanders @HillaryClinton
 
The three, in unison prayed on: “If peace comes, then by definition, Armageddon
cannot ever, be.” @SenWarren @BernieSanders @HillaryClinton
 
“Peace has never been but it may be if ever all commune as one unitary, human,
family.” @SenWarren @BernieSanders @HillaryClinton
 
“Peace has ne’er been but yet may be if ever humanity communes at once, in
nets … nonfictional.” @SenWarren @BernieSanders @HillaryClinton
 
“Hindsight’s 20-20; insight’s blind; but peace flows from timely, algorithmic action,
alchemical.” @SenWarren @BernieSanders @HillaryClinton
 
A word to the wise to an auto-denominated twice-wise homo sapiens sapiens;
Wise up @chachomanopapa @SenWarren @BernieSanders @HillaryClinton 

By Miguel Vera from Puerto Rico 

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1186999016/acculturation-via-capitalism-a-neuro-scientific- 

https://www.chachomanopapa.wordpress.com

https://www.facebook.com/chacho.manopapa

@chachomanopapa on Twitter
 

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

OLD FLAME – Promote Yourself

7792028-female-and-man-s-silhouettes-on-sunset-sit-at-table-with-two-glasses-and-olives-outdoor

Sitting across a table
From an old flame
Two glasses trying to close
A distance of
Guilt and blame.
His Head looks down at the floor
Instead of her eyes
He is trying to explain how he loved her
Despite all of the lies.
Small replaces pillow
In the conversation they now talk
Nothing there to keep them seated
Hands shake
And off they walk.

Gabriel Denver

The tangled web by Gillian Sims

PARTIERS-AMERICAN – Promote Yourself

pol

“This isn’t a poem it’s a rant” – Promote Yourself

 rant

Love – By Malcolm Bradshaw

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