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Garden Poems Wanted

purple

 

We would love to see your poetry about gardening

Please send them to: gillianandthomas@yahoo.com

“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

The Butter Factory

butter

 

It was built of things that must not mix:
paint, cream, and water, fire and dusty oil.
You heard the water dreaming in its large
kneed pipes, up from the weir. And the cordwood
our fathers cut for the furnace stood in walls
like the sleeper-stacks of a continental railway.

The cream arrived in lorried tides; its procession
crossed a platform of workers' stagecraft: Come here
Friday-Legs! Or I'll feel your hernia--
Overalled in milk's colour, men moved the heart of milk,
separated into thousands, along a roller track--Trucks?
That one of mine, son, it pulls like a sixteen-year-old--
to the tester who broached the can lids, causing fat tears,
who tasted, dipped and did his thin stoppered chemistry
on our labour, as the empties chattered downstage and fumed.

Under the high roof, black-crusted and stainless steels
were walled apart: black romped with leather belts
but paddlewheels sailed the silvery vats where muscles
of the one deep cream were exercised to a bullion
to be blocked in paper. And between waves of delivery
the men trod on water, hosing the rainbows of a shift.

It was damp April even at Christmas round every
margin of the factory. Also it opened the mouth
to see tackles on glibbed gravel, and the mossed char louvres
of the ice-plant's timber tower streaming with
heavy rain all day, above the droughty paddocks
of the totem cows round whom our lives were dancing.


Written by: Les Murray

The impossible dream

a_million_penguins_1

I went to a place where penguins were sliding down a chocolate mountain

Where monkeys bathed in a marshmallow fountain,

Where sea – lions swam in an ice cream sea

At the side of a bench, lions were writing  poetry,

As I walked along the sands I found

A giraffe singing, it was the most beautiful sound,

A butterfly kissed my nose,

A lama handed me a red rose.

It was almost like they had been expecting me

Like they had invited me for tea,

When I looked up into the sky

I could not believe my eyes,

Angels flew beneath the clouds

I heard one shout out loud,

Although this is only a dream

Capture every moment and believe,

You can create what you want to achieve

That life is for living the impossible dream

By Gillian Sims

Falling

I am lost, I am falling, I am now living in a world with no sleep; The night has become an ocean and I am drowning in the deep

..

The moon has become my sun,  The stars bring light to my sky; Staring at a ceiling unable to sleep, no matter how hard I try

..

I am living in a silent world full of artificial light; Words fall from this pen, as pages are filled with these darks verses that I write

..

My eye lids are feeling heavy now, But are my eyes already closed? Or is this just a longer blink; My mattress is turning into quicksand, As I slowly begin to sink

..

Soft whispers start to tumble and fall down,  I wonder am I asleep or am I still awake; Maybe this is all a daydream, and I am laying here just waiting for yet another dawn to break

..

As I fall deeper I feel my body lifting up high, as soft voices whisper they have heard me calling; But just as the sun begins to rise I wake up screaming as I feel my body falling.

 ..

BARRY MOWLES ©2012

Where is home – Promote Yourself

homes

Your
eyes have stoned,
The tears have run out,
In the endless wait
To return
home…
You are lucky
You
have a dream
That you’ve
visualised…
Those brooks of fresh
water,
The apple orchards..

I, a cultural destitute
Don’t know what heaven on earth is,
It is a
  mere chapter in my history book,
Or a
family holiday that is being planned for years…

These four walls,
Manic, busy schedules
A place I
call home
It suffocates me

There is pain
That seethes within
Who am
I?
Where is home?

Warmest,

Lakshmi Kaul

   

Regrets

feather

A life is filled with things we might have done
Choices not taken that we later wish we’d picked
Other times there were things said or actions
In retrospect, our own behind we should have kicked.

Yet none of us are perfect so we do make mistakes
Too many times we overreact and have our minds set
Whether just a wrong course or feelings gets hurt
We can’t dwell, spending our days living with regret.

We must learn from the past and look to the future
Not everyone will accept that we can change course
Those are the ones that will never let go of doubt
All you can do is move on, not making things worse.

We look to ones that will accept us as we truly are
Realizing the person we are inside, offering a hand
Look through the windshield, not the rearview mirror
Find those that will, by your side, always stand.

 Charles Townsend

Tryst

Butterflies fly in my heart
And the sky smile casting light
When the thoughts take birth

Of you and feel immense mirth….

Dancing water of sea sings
On itself music and melody
And the birds on their wings
As amass make merry at our tryst…

Written by: Narendra Rai
Talhar Badin, Sindh…

 

Raising My Adrenaline

speak

When I see it happening around me, and I have to stop

take a breath, make a choice

do I respond, because when I do,

you know, they will retaliate, speak out loud

make a point that is that universal language 

that shouts with vengeance, screams a throttling,

angst.

When I feel,

it all unravels so quickly I can only sit back

and resign, let the wind hit me with stride

hope my balance, hope my center,

can withstand the scrutiny, piece of myself

that always believes there is something wrong

because the world around me constantly,

reminds me.

If when I respond to the circus that plays me,

I might not always feel a shelf below 

the polished instruments that eyes take notice,

letting those in the dust become a secondary after-thought.

Yet when sunlight strikes the silver lining,

that is the peace that drives me forward,

knows I can love with compassion,

knows there is truth and discovery,

allows change to become a practice,

a remarkable challenge toward realizing 

strength.

So when I cry,

please don’t ask me why,

just let me be there,

in the moment underneath all of my fear,

lies a vision, an honest reckoning,

perhaps a quiet travel through life’s intrigue,

while searching the endless avenues,

those difficult stumbling blocks

that when surpassed may speak …

Elegance.

~

© Thom Amundsen

http://thinkingoutloudagain.com

STOLEN HANDS – Promote Yourself

handsxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sunday Evening…
All ready I’ve
Suffered enough
Of this
Incurable
Hopeless rage.
I sit
To try and write it out
My feelings flowing
From blood
To words
On this unforgiving page.

See I once
Held hands
That i
Stole
While i plotted lives
With a cold hearted
Grace.
Now my hands
Lie
Only to my
Own skin
The punishment
I deserve
There is no longer
Solace in a
Beautiful face.

I betrayed
My own
Beating innocence
It is now
A cold dead tomb
In which i am burdened
By its weight
With dark skies
And overdue consequences
Time has finally caught on
The price of lies
I’ve discovered
Is beauty
Returning
As hate.

Gabriel Denver

HOME ALONE

I sit at home

So lonely,

No-one there but me,

The house is dark I’m frightened

There is no electricity.

Mum has not paid the bill

I wish my mum was here

I can’t stop these rolling tears,

All I can see is an empty bottle

On the table in front of me.

The clock strikes twelve

She must have lost track,

Because mum is not back.

Once again

Mum’s hitting the Gin.

It’s not fair life like this

Because I’m only six.

My father left some time ago

Because he didn’t wont to know,

I can’t really blame him

He tried but couldn’t stop mum from drinking,

So I’m home alone once again

Living the pain and loneliness.

Thomas Sims

A clouded Imagination

I lay and look into the sky
Watching all the clouds float by,
It’s strange the different shapes I see
Imagining what they could be,
Before they break and the rain falls
They move and mould and create more,
Shapes and things floating free
All the things I wish I could be,
All the animals I’ve never seen
Landmarks of places I’ve never been,
It’s strange to think they are more than just clouds
Imagination taking over the here and now.
Abbe Cutforth

Not to judge

I
know I am dangerous

I
kill Polar Bears, Whales, White Sharks

For
a Skipjack sandwich in a rest-stop

I
melt Ice sheets with my taxes and

An
oven cooked meal

Entire
species perish without protest

For
my table, chairs, my sofa

I
slump to the TV, watch rain-forests

The
rafter’s creak above me

There’s
life in that wood, yet!

People
fair no better

The
daily commute is a massacre

Much
blood in my petrol tank

It
sloshed around beneath me

As
I crawl through another red zone

A
quick spin here

A
short-haul there

I
buy fat Israeli Oranges

Parched
Palestinian Dates

Belligerently
place them

Side
by side in a bowl

They
fester

By
Marcel

Internation poetry entry 2011

What do you know of Spring – Promote Yourself

hydranger

What Do You Know of Spring?

for Julia

For what do you know of seasons,

child? of long awaited flowers? You

pluck them without thinking, without knowing

an old woman’s joy of looking out

of winter’s monochromatic gloom

each morning to find that, yes! the flowers are

in bloom! How could you know

that daffodils and tulips peeking

through green ribbons nod assurance that spring

is here and will stay until the blossoms

fade, dry to brown, and crumble

to dust? But you, in your unbridled lust

for the present, in the wastefulness of youth,

have thoughtlessly, and thoughtfully,

ripped every flower from its stem

and now, with triumphant smile, offer

them—already in the stages of death—

to me as if they were a secret only you

had discovered, but wanted

to share. I turn to hide my tears. Forcing

all of spring into a single vase for a single

day, I feign delight, then you, having done

your good deed, bounce

away. The next morning I hear you call, “Granny!”

I drag my weary bones up, and look out

at the gray yard. Only barren stems and leaves

remain. But then I see your beautiful face, precious

child, smiling at me as if to say . . . I

am Spring.

Published in From the Depths of Red Bluff, A Collection of Poems by Wynne Huddleston

—————————————————————————————————–

Before Breakfast

 

Day rips off night’s blanket, leaving

a chill in the air. Before sky awakens

to fire up the gas oven and cook his egg,

easy-over for breakfast, I race

to the garden then tiptoe through grass

taking its dewy bath. Blue morning

glory yawns open and reaches out

to shake my hand, while bees pronounce

apple trees “husband and wife,”

then set out on a trip for the honey. I pick

the pink-eyed purple-hull peas and proceed

to the corn, twist off the mature

that have lost their soft, golden hair,

and are pleasantly plump. The big boy

tomatoes wearing green crowns

are about to jump off; I take them before

they split, and roll down the hill like Jack.

I pick up the baby squash, lying nearby

in its bed of straw, underneath

a canopy of enormous green hearts.

Published in The Green Silk Journal, Spring 2011

Wynne Huddleston
Mississippi Poetry Society 2014 Poet of the Year
available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble

Dear Gillian and Thomas,

I enjoy reading your posts and poems. Here are two poems about gardens/flowers. I hope you can use one or both. They were both previously published. Although I am not what I consider “old,” “What Do You Know of Spring?” is from an old woman’s point of view. The poem is based on a true incident in which my granddaughter picked all the blooms off my hydrangea. But I realized that she was more important than the flowers, and I can never read the poem without tears. The second poem, “Before Breakfast” was inspired one summer when I was working in my parents’ garden. They would get to the garden so early (and I, not an early riser) had to struggle to get there in time to help them!

Bio: Wynne Huddleston is a poet, musician, teacher, and author of From the Depths of Red Bluff (Mississippi Poetry Society, Inc., 2014). Her poetry has appeared in numerous publications including Birmingham Arts Journal, Four and Twenty, Orange Room Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, and The Mom Egg. Ms. Huddleston was workshop leader for the 2011 Mid-South Poetry Festival in Memphis, TN, and has served as board member for both the Mississippi Writers Guild and the Mississippi Poetry Society. More info at http://wynnehuddleston.wordpress.com/

Thank you,

A DIFFICULT DECISION

history
 
History has so many lessons to teach us
So many truths that we can discern
We might be concerned with events in the past
But it is the future which should be our main concern
 
This future will depend upon the preparation we make
The willingness to use the skills that we possess
To hone them to the peak of perfection
And not to adopt the attitude of those who couldn’t care less
 
There are some who think the world owes them a living
And that others should provide the benefits they crave
That a good pension will be provided for them in their old age
And that there is no need for them to save
 
But recent revelations have shown this to be an illusion
And that the country cannot afford the sums involved
That the number of people drawing pensions is increasing
It is a problem that must ultimately be solved
 
Otherwise the future for the older generations will be bleak
As they struggle to survive on what others can afford
If the poor cannot save for their old age
Then the Government will need to do something we can applaud
 
How much longer can the problem be ignored?
Can we continue to bury our heads in the sand?
It is a serious problem with which we are confronted
One which demands that the solution is carefully planned
 
Unless taxation is going to be dramatically increased
Then better use must be made of the revenue they currently take
Either way this will involve sacrifices by those enjoying a good standard
It’s a difficult decision that any future government must make 

Ron Martin

My Garden

gog

My garden is a place i love to be

It’s like an island set in a tempestuous sea

Where i can withdraw from the problems of life

From a world torn with trouble and strife

It’s a place where contentment can be found

In appreciating the beauty which is all around

Above the silence there can be heard

The buzzing of the bee or the chirping fo a bird

It’s a place where many colours catch the eye

I can behold the beauty of the butterfly

If one looks closely there can be seen

Signs of where the aphis and slugs have been

Sometimes i get the feeling that i am not on my own

And that other power seeks to make its presence known

The fragrance of the flowers provides the air

And god seems to be speaking to me there

When i contemplate the power of the one in control

Peace and serenity descend upon my soul

I ask myself how did all this come to be?

And without god it must remain a mystery.

Ron Martin

Under The Greenwood Tree by William Shakespeare – Famous poets

tree2

Under the greenwood tree
     Who loves to lie with me,
     And turn his merry note
     Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
   Come hither, come hither, come hither:
     Here shall he see
     No enemy
   But winter and rough weather.      Who doth ambition shun,
    And loves to live i’ the sun,
    Seeking the food he eats,
    And pleas’d with what he gets,
  Come hither, come hither, come hither:
    Here shall he see
    No enemy
  But winter and rough weather.

  by William Shakespeare 
YOUR  FAVOURITE  POEM SENT IN BY YOU
WHATS YOURS ?
SEND TO  : poetreecreations@yahoo.com

COASTWISE BARGES- YOUR FAVOURITE POEM

Barge logo

 

Poem, origin unknown, found in handwritten notes of the late Frank Willmott.Buxom barges drifting,
Outward with the tide,
Outward, onwards, seawrad,
Where buoys and beacons guide.
Bound with Grain for Yarmouth,

Ghistong down the Swin,
Hasting, winding, storming,
From Lowerstoft to Kings Lynn.Every port and haven
From Tyne to Cawsand Bay,
Still sees the barges trading
With fresh cargoes every day.Laden deep with sugar,
with barley, sand or coke,
Spritties keep on sailin,
They were built of English oak.But their day is passing,
Fewer with each tide,
Grace old London’s river,
Long may their rare charm abide

YOUR FAVOURITE POEM 

SENT IN BY YOU

WHAT’S YOUR’S

Pat the cat

Pat was a pussy cat

Who was very  fat

Pat got stuck in the cat flap,

They rang the Police

And the Firebrigade,

And the Ambulance too,

But no-one  knew what to do

The policeman asked the fireman

The fireman asked the ambulanceman,

So they pulled his head and then his tail

This made the cat wail

Then they didn’t feed him

So he became quite thin,

Then he popped out of the cat flap

With a smiley grin

By Brendon Wakefeild

 6 years old

With a little bit of help from gran and grandad



Grandad’s mate made a video

It’s on YouTube under Gillian Sims

IT’S GREAT!!!

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