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A Tribute to the Persecuted and Slain – Promote Yourself

You told the Father you would follow His will.
You accepted His Son without hesitancy.
You carried your cross even unto the gates of hell,
but the enemy did not prevail.
Tortured, battered, beheaded
for the sake of His name,
you have stood for righteousness
in a world where evil reigns.
You have demonstrated the cost of discipleship
by laying down your life.
Death was more honorable than saying,
“I forsake Jesus Christ.”
I hear your stories, and I weep for you.
How can humanity be so cruel?
Yet even with such malicious intent,
your sacrifice is beautiful.
It is beautiful to the One who welcomes you home,
to Him who says, “I will avenge!”
It is beautiful to the Son who understands your pain,
to Him who calls you servant, child, and friend.
You have placed your feet on the Solid Rock
when all around you is quicksand.
Your resilience in the midst of adversity
has challenged the Body to stand.
We will remember you
and your commitment to the King.
May we be willing to live like you,
giving up everything.
This world is not our home.
It only reaps anger, hatred, and fear.
Our destination is eternity
where the Lord heals every pain, wipes every tear.
To all of God’s people, stand firm and be ready
for the enemy shows no restraint.
But whatever the cost may be,
let us stand strong with the persecuted and slain.
Lauren Heiligenthal

The Water of My Soul – Promote Yourself


Teardrops, words of silence

Expressing the air of thine heart


Cleansing, emotion-fill’d deluge

Droplets of love’s interpretation


Leaving thou spent at a time well lent;

to the need to declare thy longing


Rain from the eye’s of the poor in spirit

Endue life to the needy and meek


Mine crying eyes are in need of peace

Globules of sorrow, giveth me an escape from the noise


Thou renew my sense of well-being

And maketh me whole and new again


Thanks be to the Creator for the water of mine soul

Its strength is need’d during times of toil

lDara Reidyr 

Proof Positive of an Almighty Sense of Humour

Allah/God/Jehovah/Yahweh’s people are all of us notwithstanding that some of us
haughtily consider that they … and they only, enjoy a ‘most favoured’ … status.
The rise to notoriety of Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, the Islamic State and the Caliphate
via a magnetic attraction for disaffected … misogynists … takes the cake.
Ever more disagreeably disagreeing in this tragic-comic ‘reality’, The Big Three,
Muslims, Christians and Jews … may yet reconsider … albeit … belatedly. 
By Miguel Vera from Puerto Rico

@chachomanopapa on Twitter

” A Moment in Miracle”:- Promote Yourself

The first
miraculous moment
occurred at
the age of forty-four,
sitting across
a table
shared by you.
Your green eyes
extending the beauty
of contours eclipsed
by the curve of
high cheeks
…or perhaps
freckles pinpointing
the precipice of thin
deliberate lips
…or was it
an entire therapy
of love’s
coveting years
where you sat.
I remember
a marvel
that is you.
I love you.
Nathan Lindsay

The mask you wear


You wear the bluest summer in your eyes

You are like a raging river when you cry

You wear the sunset in your smile

You have the emotions of a child

You become the mask that you always wear

You build a wall when I try to care

I hear your laughter on a summers morn

Like the sweet sound of birds at dawn

As the daylight illuminates your face

Your sweetness I capture and embrace

Like marshmallows in your arms

I caress your magnetic charm

I steel your emotions one by one

I slowly peel away your mask

To expose the true you at last

Gillian Jane Sims

Bubblews; GREAT EXPECTATIONS … Popped -Promote Yourself


Mere months ago many wrote giddily (I, amongst them) of the great expectations
of a business model … that threatened … social media institutions.
Written then: “Between posts, tweets and bubbles, in a jungle that is [media] only
the latter of book, bird and bubble … shares … its money.
Between book, bluebird and bubble, only the latter is the innovatively pioneering,
first, FAIR ecosystem of the internet … truly … sharing.
Chachomanopapa is a poster, a tweeter and a bubbler too, decidedly unhappy
that Zuckerberger’s Facebook book be such … a common … bully.
Chachomanopapa is a poster, a tweeter and a bubbler too, but Twitter offers
little more than shout-outs and sales pitches from … 140 characters. is the new kid on a block populated by bigger and tougher boys;
but this boy is his own man … a man-boy committed to sharing … his toys.
The new kid on the block is a visionary willing to rock this bubble of a boat. We
bubblers too must share its vision … and rock this boat … visionarily.
The new kid is a rock and roller … rocking and rolling … the powers that be;
for … far more important than money … is community.”
Alas, Bubblews is but a mere bubble. And, as we all know all too well, it is not
in the nature of a bubble … not … to pop. 

By Miguel Vera from Puerto Rico

@chachomanopapa on Twitter

[ THE AIR OF SILENCE ] – Promote Yourself

                                               Silence is golden not a sound you make, not even a whisper make no mistake,          all is quiet peace at last, have a glass of wine, a meal to last.                                    –                                                                  Silence of the night, quiet and calm, look out side and hear a alarm, you hear them whisper and say, oh no not really not today.                                                          Silence is what we need, we listen to sounds as we read, quietness and peaceful all night long, we breath with relife an sing a song.                                    As we rest,as we sleep, silence is golden in that we keep.   
  { Patricia bourne}

“Reflect” – Promote Yourself


Mirror, mirror on the wall -

Show me how and when I will fall.
To my dismay, find my demise -
As quickly as I shut my eyes.

Stumbling through this life -
Failing once more to end my strife.
As wonderful I thought I was -
It’s hard to like this body still.
It’s hell to keep on thinking still.
For every motion and every memory -
One more mistake I cannot bury.

As Hippocrates once had spoken -
“Primum non nocerae”
A verse I wish had been known to me -
And long ago.
How awful has this thing become?

Mirror, mirror on the wall -
Show me where and when I had gone wrong.
People, people that I love -
Apologies for my misuse.
Of terrible likeness I’ve wandered still.
No healing found in depths of heart.
I’ve faltered, fumbled yet again.
But still, oh still -
I strive to mend.
And fail I do -
In every measure.
What good in me is still found?

Constantly soliloquizing -
And of my falters, so done trying.
Giving up is just so easy -
Yet letting go is still so hard.

Mirror, mirror on the wall -
Show me God and let me fall.
People, people here around me -
Come close here, and please surround me.
Throw your stones and curse my name.
Perhaps I will begin again.

My heart, my heart!
Oh blackened, bruised -
A soul come tattered and abused.
Coming to be, and changing still -
The same I am not, and never will.
Who I become, I may not love -
Though life too precious to be given up.
As much as I would like to cease -
Something here, still me -
It keeps.

Mirror, mirror on the wall -
Show me hell and watch me burn.
Demons, demons here around -
Come surround and tear me down.

Of loving and confusion kind -
And of the hurt I’ve left behind -
Apologies do not suffice.
Of this world, which I survive -
I’m finding myself unpleasantly surprised.

As saddened as I have become -
I seek out wonders to the tongue.
I search for goodness in the world -
And empty handed I become.
Of all the things that I have done -
Of all the things that I may do -
I doubt that they will be enough.

In realizing myself true -
I fear, a fire does indeed brew.
Of wishing I could kill this here -
To set anew a person, clear.
Of wanting all the world to see -
Yet hiding face, berating still.

Mirror, mirror on the wall -

Show me my face and let me die.”
Evan martinez

Hello there, my name is Evan J. Martinez, I live in the U.S, I’m only in my sophomore year of high school and I’m learning to become an electrician, and I am the owner of the blog “” (wolfpacey’s blog)

I would like to thank you for liking my poem “Fin” and I wanted to submit a poem that I am especially proud of.

“A Different Moon” – Promote Yourself


Last year, under
a different moon,
with rays beaming
through the leaves
of pepper trees,
I stood…far from here…
on lonely porch.
Lost in the succulent spells
…of discovery.
The song of her voice,
caroling enchanting stories
of trials
and triumphs.
My heart…stirred
with sensational
of excitement,
…in reverie…
worshiping each…
in admiration of
…of her…
Absorbing the notes
…of her life…
A fantasy became palpable,
as if sipping love
spun from
…the dreams of angels.
A beauty divine…
…and lost…
a different moon…
…last year…
…that’s her…
Nathan Lindsay


Endearment – Promote Yourself


Divine is your smile
and sweet is your gaze
I pray we’re together
for all of our days

For all of my time
here on this earth
only your charms
gives my life worth

All the world’s rubies,
emeralds and such
to me are worthless
compared to your touch

Even the stars,
set like diamonds above
will not endure
as long as our loveby

Don Wells



Tom was a young lad
From where I grew up
We went to the same school
Then both joined up
We became Commandos together
And never looked back
We met again in the desert
Had a laugh and a chat
I heard it over the radio
Surely it wasn’t him
I chose to deny
Until we got back in
After an hour back on base
Drapes asked for a private word
With a tear in his eye
It all seemed so absurd
I’ll remember Tom forever
And raise a glass in his name
A soldier to the death
We cry and cry again

Alex Cockers,



gypsy 3

She found herself quite lost

All memories a misty haze

Was last night a reality?

Or had she just slept for days?


Forwards confused, backwards perplexed

The most complex addition

Clutter and vacuum intertwined

A misfit of every definition


Nomad Gypsy Hippy Punk

One of all and yet one of none

Wandering day long night longer

Her thoughts became shattered undone


Not clear why she continued to creep

Perhaps feeling an incongruous force

But the story did continue on

Let me reveal it to you in due course


She stumbled across a gloomy track

A path somewhat untamed

It pulled her closer like a magnet

As if it already knew her name


And so her journey did embark

Down that path untraveled

She felt the cold prickle her skin

And mysterious beginnings unravelled


- CarlyLou


England is said to be a good place to be
Where everyone can escape from the chains of poverty
By claiming the available means tested benefits
Or being fortunate enough to win the National Lottery
All they have to do is pick six lucky numbers
And riches beyond their wildest dreams will be theirs
An opportunity given twice a week to everyone
To allow them to join the evergrowing band of millionaires
Unfortunately the chances of winning are very slim
And the result is that there are many losers in the game
This means that the poor become even poorer
And there is less advantage from the benefits they claim
Is the lottery a symptom of the nation’s greed?
It is a sad reflection if this is true
Are the proposed new casinos to satisfy a real need
Or is it just another means of raising revenue?
The lottery and casinos are means of taking money from the punters
There are some winners, but more losers I am sad to say
The same applies to betting on the horses
In the long run many gamblers will rue the day 
Ron Martin

THE SECOND COMING- William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) -YOUR FAVOURITE POEM


    Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.

    Surely some revelation is at hand;
    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
    Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
    Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

    The darkness drops again but now I know
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?


The Second Coming was written in 1919 in the aftermath
of the first World War. The above version of the poem is
as it was published in the edition of Michael Robartes and
the Dancer
dated 1920 (there are numerous other

versions of the poem).William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)



“Joyas Voladoras, ” by Brian Doyle – Your favorite poem


Consider the hummingbird for a long moment. A hummingbird’s heart beats ten times a second. A hummingbird’s heart is the size of a pencil eraser. A hummingbird’s heart is a lot of the hummingbird. Joyas voladoras, flying jewels, the first white explorers in the Americas called them, and the white men had never seen such creatures, for hummingbirds came into the world only in the Americas, nowhere else in the universe, more than three hundred species of them whirring and zooming and nectaring in hummer time zones nine times removed from ours, their hearts hammering faster than we could clearly hear if we pressed our elephantine ears to their infinitesimal chests.
Each one visits a thousand flowers a day. They can dive at sixty miles an hour. They can fly backwards. They can fly more than five hundred miles without pausing to rest. But when they rest they come close to death: on frigid nights, or when they are starving, they retreat into torpor, their metabolic rate slowing to a fifteenth of their normal sleep rate, their hearts sludging nearly to a halt, barely beating, and if they are not soon warmed, if they do not soon find that which is sweet, their hearts grow cold, and they cease to be. Consider for a moment those hummingbirds who did not open their eyes again today, this very day, in the Americas: bearded helmetcrests and booted racket-tails, violet-tailed sylphs and violet-capped woodnymphs, crimson topazes and purple-crowned fairies, red-tailed comets and amethyst woodstars, rainbow-bearded thornbills and glittering-bellied emeralds, velvet-purple coronets and golden-bellied star-frontlets, fiery-tailed awlbills and Andean hillstars, spatuletails and pufflegs, each the most amazing thing you have never seen, each thunderous wild heart the size of an infant’s fingernail, each mad heart silent, a brilliant music stilled.
Hummingbirds, like all flying birds but more so, have incredible enormous immense ferocious metabolisms. To drive those metabolisms they have race-car hearts that eat oxygen at an eye-popping rate. Their hearts are built of thinner, leaner fibers than ours. Their arteries are stiffer and more taut. They have more mitochondria in their heart muscles — anything to gulp more oxygen. Their hearts are stripped to the skin for the war against gravity and inertia, the mad search for food, the insane idea of flight. The price of their ambition is a life closer to death; they suffer heart attacks and aneurysms and ruptures more than any other living creature. It’s expensive to fly. You burn out. You fry the machine. You melt the engine. Every creature on earth has approximately two billion heartbeats to spend in a lifetime. You can spend them slowly, like a tortoise, and live to be two hundred years old, or you can spend them fast, like a hummingbird, and live to be two years old.
The biggest heart in the world is inside the blue whale. It weighs more than seven tons. It’s as big as a room. It is a room, with four chambers. A child could walk around in it, head high, bending only to step through the valves. The valves are as big as the swinging doors in a saloon. This house of a heart drives a creature a hundred feet long. When this creature is born it is twenty feet long and weighs four tons. It is waaaaay bigger than your car. It drinks a hundred gallons of milk from its mama every day and gains two hundred pounds a day and when it is seven or eight years old it endures an unimaginable puberty and then it essentially disappears from human ken, for next to nothing is known of the mating habits, travel patterns, diet, social life, language, social structure, diseases, spirituality, wars, stories, despairs, and arts of the blue whale. There are perhaps ten thousand blue whales in the world, living in every ocean on earth, and of the largest mammal who ever lived we know nearly nothing. But we know this: the animals with the largest hearts in the world generally travel in pairs, and their penetrating moaning cries, their piercing yearning tongue, can be heard underwater for miles and miles.
Mammals and birds have hearts with four chambers. Reptiles and turtles have hearts with three chambers. Fish have hearts with two chambers. Insects and mollusks have hearts with one chamber. Worms have hearts with one chamber, although they may have as many as eleven single-chambered hearts. Unicellular bacteria have no hearts at all; but even they have fluid eternally in motion, washing from one side of the cell to the other, swirling and whirling. No living being is without interior liquid motion. We all churn inside.
So much held in a heart in a lifetime. So much held in a heart in a day, an hour, a moment. We are utterly open with no one, in the end — not mother and father, not wife or husband, not lover, not child, not friend. We open windows to each but we live alone in the house of the heart. Perhaps we must. Perhaps we could not bear to be so naked, for fear of a constantly harrowed heart. When young we think there will come one person who will savor and sustain us always; when we are older we know this is the dream of a child, that all hearts finally are bruised and scarred, scored and torn, repaired by time and will, patched by force of character, yet fragile and rickety forevermore, no matter how ferocious the defense and how many bricks you bring to the wall. You can brick up your heart as stout and tight and hard and cold and impregnable as you possibly can and down it comes in an instant, felled by a woman’s second glance, a child’s apple breath, the shatter of glass in the road, the words I have something to tell you, a cat with a broken spine dragging itself into the forest to die, the brush of your mother’s papery ancient hand in a thicket of your hair, the memory of your father’s voice early in the morning echoing from the kitchen where he is making pancakes for his children.

by Brian Doyle


The City of the Crown, the Ghost Town – Promote Yourself


There was a town,

full of children`s laughter,

it was the City of the Crown,

until the time

when there was a slaughter.


It happened one night,

full of dark clouds,

the moon was looking

from above the sky.

His face turned red.

He sent everyone to bed.


Next day, no one woke up,

not because they were sleepy,

but because the guardian,

the moon, Mr. Dropout,

disappeared and turned

laughter into the creepy



He was tired of them,

tired of arguing and destroying

everything around,

so he made sure no one ever

would made that horrible sound.

The sound of the war.


Terrible stories started to spread

around the surrounding towns,

that their capital one

lost all of their crowns.


Until now, when someone

enters that creepy town,

he can hear whispers,

he can sense the presence

of the ghost sisters

and brothers.


Every night, Mr. Dropout

turns on the sky,

making sure no one will stay

and he will not hear

another cry.


After all these years,

he is still guarding them,

the souls that betrayed him.

He is looking down,

to the City of the Crown,

to the Ghost Town.


Not because he wants

them to be safe and peaceful.

He is making sure

they will not harm.

He still haunts

and stalks that town.


Some people say he was merciful,

that he sent them to sleep,

so they do not had to fear

all that was coming.

Another people say he was cruel,

trying to made them never forget,

only regret

what they had done.


When you enter the city

and start to frisk,

you will experience the pity,

so enter at your own risk.

He is watching.

Still watching you.


Mia Rohacova

Author: LilSwot (


//A bit about me: I am a writer and poet living in England, who is on her long way of self-publishing process. On my blog I focus on poetry, especially Spooky Poems and I`ve stared with poem story called Ghost Town. 

Autumn – Promote Yourself


gentle wispy breeze
subtle shadows dance on walls
leafy branches dip

and as the days grow shorter….

crowning of Autumn
caramel copper cascade
satisfying crunch

Guila Greer

Autumn is my favorite time and I have written a poem of this glorious season.

Become – Promote Yourself

More than you can imagine,
more than you can see in yourself,
you were meant to
bring freedom.
Bound in the chains
of your own past,
you have become disillusioned
to who you are.
You are a warrior;
you fight with passion
that pierces the hearts
of all who watch and admire.
Allow yourself to be free
from all that is outwardly appealing,
from all the memories that
provoke anger and bitterness.
Become the warrior who
defends the weak
who have been overcome
with pain and despair.
Let your praises resound
and force the enemies of God
to fall on their knees
in surrender.
Two choices present themselves before you:
To live in the mask of worldly success
or to open the eyes of the lost
to a love they never dreamed could exist.
If you could know this freedom for yourself.
If you could know the depths of His love,
the warrior you are would see that there is no choice:
To lead the way to freedom is the greatest
Lauren Heiligenthal

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