Wrapped Up In Brown Paper & Other Poems Free On Kindle 20th to 24th May 2016

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Wrapped Up In Brown Paper & Other Poems
Free Promotion On Kindle!

From 20th May 2016 until 24th May 2016
WPFREE

A collection of 35 poems from the author of ‘Dead Medium’ Peter John.

Spanning subjects such as homelessness, public transport and kitchen utensils. This poetry collection swings between being both humorous and thought provoking.

Illustrated by Christopher Raven.

Contents:

Wrapped Up In Brown Paper
Alone
Life On The Line
Bad Deals On wheels
Good Bloody Morning
Memories
Mind Slip
The Fleeting Kiss
The Ninth Love Potion
The World At Our Feet
Splat!
All The King’s Horses
Waiting for Summer
The Couch Potato
A Pint And A Half
The Last Resort
Cringe
Sponge
Green Eyes
The Future Mushroom
Friend Or Foe
Spin Cycle
Broken Promise
Far From Perfect
Christmas Online
Just Another Christmas Morning
Paranoia
Rated 18
D’ring
Stray
Hello Friend
Utensil
The Beast Inside
The Foot’s Cray Meadow Adventure
Wrapped Up In Brown Paper II

Poetic Expressions: A Mile From My Home.

Poetic Expressions

A Mile From My Home

Themed Collection: Featuring locations from all over the world, this selection of poems was inspired by something or somewhere within “a mile” of each individual poet’s home.

Dream World by Alan Hardy

Mile From My Home a

This poem describes a wood near where I live, and two ‘visits’ to it: an initial one associated with a time of ‘dream-like’ happiness and fulfilment; and the later one where the splendid look of the wood has been compromised, and it looks overgrown and uninviting. I suppose it’s a poem on memory (and the way it distorts reality), as well as the rejection of ‘false’ youthful optimism with the passing of time.

DREAM WORLD

The path was always shaped like a tunnel,

with overhanging branches slotting a neat canopy

I rushed though, many years ago,

to reach, in the middle, the answer to my dreams.

The spring sun, shining through the leafy canvas,

sprinkled fairy dust,

as I stumbled on twigs,

looked at dying trees, in their keeling over

held fast by invisible rope.

I retrace my steps towards the path,

view a tangle of branches and leaves.

The sun licking my cheeks,

the strong colour of tree and leaf,

I look back on,

was always a magician’s spell.

A wood can be a scary place.

I shudder by its side, don’t cross into it.

Searching for a certainty of old,

in trees leaves and twigs,

and the sun that shone in between them,

I recognise I shouldn’t enter too far into

the dreams it fooled me with.

Alan Hardy© 2013

*****

The Station By Kristina Blasen

 The Station

A few months ago my daughter and I moved from a large city in Florida to a very small town called Elko New Market in Minnesota (USA). There’s a main street with a few shops and one gas station which really is the heartbeat of the little town. Like so many towns in Minnesota this one had barely 4,000 people at the last census. The poem “The Station” is focused on the sounds of small town life that we all filter out and ignore as we go about the regular business of our day.

The Station

Cars and trucks head in with careful purpose

Lining up to wait their turn or pulling in close

Their drivers hurry inside to find welcome warmth

All around there is the sound of gravel crunching and sliding,

The slurp of slush as tires spin slowly through snow,

The clank of the gas pump as a man flips the lever,

The scrape as the nozzle slides home in the tank.

Inside in short staccato bursts life goes on

The sharp snap and release as the drawer slides open

The soft crinkle of bills being shuffled

The ping ping of coins hitting and joining the others in their confinement

The door swishes open and clanks closed

As the people go on about their day

Life in a small town is still alive and well today.

Kristina Blasen © 2013

*****

A Secret Place

by William O’Brien

Flower pic- A Mile From My Home

‘My Secret Place’ is perfect in every way from the untouched beauty of nature to the hacked tree resting on the ground. Most of us forget our childhood and the way nature whispered – scents of wild flowers, the wind rushing through leaves and the spirits of the forest. On entering this world we are filled with innocence, while exploring the energies that drift over dimensions. Sadly, as we all progress with our busy lives, many of us lose this connection with devic energy. I hope this reminds a few people of the wonders of the world and helps them connect again – even if only for a few moments.

A Secret Place

There is a place not far from here

And one day I stumbled near the weir

Found a path and followed the way

Overhanging branches where sparrows play

I have lived here for many years

Felt heartbreak and lived the tears

The cobbled stones dry in early May

Opened up thoughts on one bright day

Dusty road and sharp green grass

Embellished the entrance that I would pass

I had never felt such calming spirits

Dancing, frolicking, living Devics

Roses grew, thorny, wild and free

Colours brighter than could possibly be

Whispers sent pricked up my ears

Waters trickled cool and clear

Most people don’t know mysteries sent

But in this place, secrets always meant

Many pass by brushing the morning dew

Notice an old tree fallen and hewed

While elves, toads and mushrooms play

Knowledge given the gifted one might say

A hidden world where everyone walks

Only the chosen can hear them talk

William O’Brien © 2013

*****

The Foots Cray

Meadow Adventure

by Peter John

PJ Foots

Foots Cray Meadows is a large open area near where I live and my nieces and nephews call it The Shire after the area in Middle Earth where Hobbits live. They often play at questing through the fields and fighting off the many hordes of orcs and goblins that reside in their imagination. A short length of twig is usually employed as a makeshift sword and is always an effective weapon against the forces of evil when swung wildly above one’s head.

The Foots Cray

Meadow Adventure

Flowering weeds of yellow and white are spread across a sea of green.

The soft blades of grass tickle their feet while a river gurgles unseen.

Gnarled old trees with finger like branches reach down with wisps of shade.

A darkness has risen over this land and a force of evil is set to invade.

Venturing forth, the young brave few are all that stand in defence of this land.

Ready to do battle, with adventure filled hearts and makeshift swords in hand.

A wild charge through dew soft grass they challenge the approaching horde.

An army of darkness filled with all the horrors their imagination can afford.

A fearless onslaught against fiends unseen the brave young few fight well.

Driving the horde back into the shadows with wild swings and the occasional yell.

The swish of wood through the empty air and the sound of children’s laughter.

Shines a light on this tale and just for once they all lived happily ever after.

Peter John © 2013

*****

SNOW

By Joshua Bennett

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I wrote this poem after one of my walks around the rural area where we live.. The snow came early, starting in November. Until this year, I lived “the big city” and I never experienced snow like I have since moving to the Ottawa Valley. I appreciate the beauty of the countryside as it sits covered under a heavy white blanket. – Joshua Bennett

SNOW

Pure and white,

Comes in all shapes and sizes,

Cold to touch, yet beautiful at first sight.

Merciless to many,

A foe we can’t fight,

We can only protect ourselves,

No one can escape its grasps.

It covers the green in a white blanket,

The greens turn brown,

And the brown turns dry and brittle,

In the cold winters night.

When the cold night appears,

The snow is white,

When the bright sun shines upon the lands,

The white turns blue, the blue dries up.

The white is merciless to many,

Yet a protector to some,

It covers the greens,

So that they can bloom again

The whites turn to blue,

And with the blue,

The brown turns green,

And the dry and brittle turn wet and strong.

Snow,

Pure and white,

Comes in all shapes and sizes,

Cold to touch, yet beautiful at first sight.

SNOW

Joshua Bennett © 2013

*****

Million Miles Away

by Madhu Kalyan Mattaparthi

Tuk Tuk

When I travel by cab from my home I put on my headphones and allow the music to draw me into a dream, leaving the hustle and bustle of the busy streets behind.

Music is self-expressed poetry with experimental sound designed to stimulate the mind and confuse the senses. We all live for the mind-blowing lyrical effect that comes from the sound. Though it’s not about the sound, in fact, it’s never about the sound; only the emotional output a song gives off, it’s not just the drummer drumming in perfect rhythm or the epic guitar solo in the middle of the song, but the emotion behind it. The sweet sound of the harmonica can only be explained in a saddening tale that is too much for just one heart to contain. Our own self-expressed sound expresses a side that even we have not seen; it shows us our true brilliance in sync. And as we explore this new us, the music becomes better. Some may think “what is the point in music if we have let out all our emotions, we will all become empty shells if nothing else, and there is no point.” well, that, my friend is a statement I cannot truly accept or deny. For one, the shell theory led me to think, that if we are shells of emotions, we are very fragile, and also, endless. There is never an end to the emotions one can pull out of them. Music shows that. Despite all that has already been written, songs are still in the making, obviously, we haven’t run out of motivational emotion yet, and we might never. Music shows more than our emotions, it shows our ability to creatively create sound patterns according to the lyrics desired. Music not only shows who we are, but how smart we are as well.

Million Miles Away

When I pull the headphones on
Switch the music
As loud as it can go
Its when my mind
Can run away for a little while
Forget everything for a moment
Be lost in a world
So new
So different
From your own
Let the music play
And suddenly
I’m so gone
Like I was never there
A day away
A year from you
A million miles
From any thought
Of anything
Let the music play
Get swept up in it
And
Let it take you away
Let the thoughts
Leave your mind
Let yourself
Get emerged
Lost in the music
And if its only for
Four minutes
Take yourself
A million miles away…

Madhu Kalyan Mattaparthi © 2013

*****

Please Check Out

The Seven Deadly Sins

by Poetic Expressions

*****

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The Indie Collaboration

*

Kiss and Tales

*

A Romantic Collection

 Valentine cover 1

Bus Driving and Book Writing In London.

The Pros and Cons Of Being A London Bus Driver and Author.

DM PB3

After reading my novel ‘Dead Medium’, many people have asked me just what hat I pull my characters out of to make them feel so real and lifelike.
“Peter has a brilliant voice as and author and he brought each character to life from the moment they stepped onto the page”. Amazon reviewer -Future Slayer Girl.
“Colourful characters, brilliant one-liners and an imaginative and captivating story”. Amazon reviewer – Busby.
“The plot thickens and you are taken into a unique story filled with memorable characters and lots of humor”. Amazon reviewer – Donna Johnson.
“This is a very entertaining and original story peopled with such well-drawn characters, I felt like I got to know them personally”. Amazon reviewer – DragonOne.
“This is a fun read where the characters came to life along with their surroundings”. Amazon reviewer – Sheryl.
I always tell them that I take inspiration from day to day life and, when you drive a bus through London, there is plenty of life to choose from. In an attempt to expand of this answer I have written this article about the pros & cons of being a writing bus driver.

 Bus

The Pros

I consider myself lucky in many respects. I have a certain advantage as I perform a frontline job in such a diverse city. I find inspiration in the quirkiness of the various people who I meet on a day to day basis. Take for example “The Stickman”. A man in his fifties who always boards the bus with a thickly varnished, wooden walking stick. He is generally late to the bus stop and I have to wait while he slowly hobbles up to the bus. Now you may consider this to be nothing remarkable, however, on a Monday and Tuesday he holds the stick in his left hand and favours his left leg. On Wednesday, Thursday and Friday he holds it with his right hand and favours his right leg. I have yet to see him board the bus at all during a weekend. However, I often see him with both his legs pumping away, as if he were treading grapes, on his old Raleigh Arena, dressed in bright yellow, skin tight lycra shorts and matching t-shirt. Now I can’t help but think that there is a story in there somewhere. Even though I have yet to hear him utter a single word, he has given me a firm foundation to a great character. Now all I need to do is build on that and “Grizzly Adams” would make for an interesting merge. Grizzly has a big, black beard and a mop of thick, curly, black hair. He boards the bus in the late morning and also in the early afternoon, usually just before the local schools kick out and the bus becomes like a moving playground. Grizzly is normally on the bus for between 20 and 30 minutes and he spends this time telling anyone he can get to listen about the time he spent as a minicab driver.
“You wouldn’t believe who used to get into my cab!” I have often found myself silently agreeing with his assumption. He would then ramble on about all the celebrities that had climbed into his taxi cab and also the strange and unlikely places from which he had to pick them up from. My personal favourite yarn he often strings is about how he was once propositioned by an Egyptian princess, due to his striking good looks and irresistible charm. I myself cannot comment on the ascetic quality of his face as it is always covered by thick, black hair. As for his charm, however, he does have a knack for getting people to listen to him and on some days he attracts quite a crowd.

Vic is a relatively new patron of my bus, having only been travelling on my particular route for about two months. For most of the first month he wore a neck brace. He was obviously suffering from some kind of injury the cause of which is a mystery to me. Vic always wears the same brown tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows. His trousers, however, vary often and they are always of a colour that not only fails to match his jacket but seem to dramatically clash. For example: his baby blue chinos or his bright orange polyester slacks, which have such sharp creases running down the front that, if he were to walk through an overgrown field, he’d end up cutting the grass with each and every stride. Each and every time Vic boards my bus he is in mid conversation on his mobile phone. He swipes his pass and barely registers my existence before taking a seat at the back of the bus where he continues with his telephone conversation. Now Vic doesn’t have a quiet voice; it bellows down the bus like a gust of strong wind and is generally littered with profanities. I have often asked him to curb his language, especially when there were children on board, but all my requests are usually met by various obscene hand gestures. Now I only started referring to this particular gentleman as Vic after I first saw him minus his neck brace and first set eyes on his dog collar.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

The Cons

The most difficult setback to bus driving, where writing is concerned, is the shift work. Instead of setting a regular time to sit back in peace and quiet to put pen to paper I have to fit it in whenever and wherever I can. I am never without a notebook and a pen and I try my best to keep my little 10” net-book handy whenever possible. The stress levels can also cause a hindrance and be pretty much counter productive. After a particularly difficult run my mind can lock up and my brain ends up feeling like a clenched fist. Not a great deal of writing takes place at times like these but, if it does, it tends to end up as no more than a penned rant.

image

Further Thought

All in all, I would be lying if I said that I didn’t want to find myself in a position where I could write full time and give up bus driving permanently. Writing for a living is my dream and I am constantly striving to make that dream come true. However, I am certain that I would miss the inspiration I gain through working with life buzzing around me and I would probably ride few buses whenever I felt in need of a muse.

TRKA NEW

“I’ll See You Out There!”

If you have a funny story about buses or a quirky character that you frequently cross paths with I would love to hear about it. If you suspect that you yourself might be either The Stickman, Grizzly or Vic I would be thrilled to hear from you. You may have even unknowingly photographed me at one time or another, I am always being dazzled by the flash of a camera as I drive down the road.

Out of the hundreds of people who board my bus on a day to day basis, any one of them could be you.

All the best. The dreamer of words and worlds (and the driver of buses).

Peter John.

“I’ll see you out there!”

Wheels

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