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Poetry Carol  

Hi Carol, tell me more about what you are doing.  Mail-me 

Post reply -->London Poetry Vincent 8 Feb
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Poetry The art...  

The art of my age.


The art has transitioned enough.

The narrative has broken up enough.

The wit has cascaded into ideology.

The tradition has become lost.

The irony has become bloated.

The modern has become conventional.

The important voice is incarcerated.

The display is style.

The magpie is traditional.

The art is stolen.

The now is not original.

It has all become a verbal opera.

The epiphany is a lost cause.

The artist has returned to the cave.


Post reply -->London Poetry Vincent 2 Feb
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Poetry The Art fan  

Hello, I practise art, though I am not an artist. Your poetry really touched me, I found it really struck a chord with me. I was wondering if you wouldn't mind letting me quote it perhaps to go on a website that I am making? If so, who should I attribute it to?

Thanks for sharing

Carol

Post reply -->London Poetry 4 Feb
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Poetry What is left  

I think about life.
and also of death.
of the times that have gone.
and the time i have left.

And as each day passes.
and another day dawns.
ive come to realise.
i must grab that day by the horns.

For i am old.
and my life almost through.
and have done so little.
with much left to do.

I have wasted my years
by living to work.
and now its to late
to work at living.

For to work was to live.
but now the work has gone.
now ive nothing to give.
how did i manage to get it so wrong.

Post reply -->London Poetry John 31 Jan
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Poetry The most powerful men in the world.  

The most important man stutters
The scarred, scorching arid land of others
And plays with other powerful men
Who speak the ancient foreign languages,
And are awash with abundant currencies.

Houses bigger than his ever were
Squat the land encircling regional disasters,
Although these strangers used to live in tents
Other powerful men changed their lives
When the black muck of industry wept riches
And other men came to play their games.

Earnest discussions through interpreters
Talk of what is wanted from each other
Keeping diplomacy above belligerence
And the menace f one force upon another.
That happens to their weaker neighbours.

Men covered in protection buy and sell
The height of defensive modern weaponry
In the traditions of mass murdering armies,
Place their bags of wealth before each other.

In God and Allah they trust.


Post reply -->London Poetry Vincent 26 Jan
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Poetry Pickled Onions  

Pickled Onions

In a jar,
And one of many I’m sure
Waiting for a deserving hunger
To come and feed on me.
We jostle for space and we all
Dream to lose our place,
In this dead end queue
With no one to sing to,
Nobody’s love fool,
But years of wear and tears
Because no one wanted you.

Not enough anyway.

But everyone wants a double,
Everyone wants the trouble
Of a bleeding heart.
Yet ours are still new,
The labels still attached to
And in perfect condition.

So you worry at night,
That you’ll never be alright
Where is he
That would die
For me?
Always for sale,
Because you always fail
At love.


 Mail-me 

Post reply -->London Poetry J 24 Jan
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Poetry Etienne  

The bird that was in my life.


You arrived at my door with your colourful exaltation

like a preferred murder of crows and landed at my feet.

You lived with me and we flocked well for a while

we nested well and watched eggs boil after an evening

of soaring flight, which left us exhausted.

Your plumage beamed me into a flutter of ecstatic

equilibrium which reminded me of the domination

of gravity and then quite suddenly you flew off.

 Mail-me 


Post reply -->London Poetry Etienne 19 Dec
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Poetry Untitled  

It's a far cry from the biblical
Prophetical mumbling story
Absent from the television and miles from the internet
Drive across the ocean African desert reaching prospect
Of ever finding anything to rival
The feeling of insecure bliss
That is keeping me alive.

Post reply -->London Poetry alex 17 Dec
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Poetry Etienne  

My Liquid Birthday.

You lit a plate full of candles
In the early reveille of this day
Of my birthday - in that hour
Before I lumbered to work.
The sleepiness of my gaze
Made the warmth of the flicker
Scintillate this November shudder
And it’s sterile and blank eclipse.
I could have been swimming
In the sun due to it, gently
Glazed by every stroke described
With this pen – the one you gave me -
Describing as I do, the arching glow
Of your romantic
And thoughtful intentions.
The warmth from these flambeaus
That you ignited for me
Radiate within my soul.


Post reply -->London Poetry Etienne 16 Dec
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Poetry  

flambeaus - what a wonderful word!
This poem is very visual and I enjoyed
it's expanse capsulated in one morning event.

Post reply -->London Poetry CB60 17 Dec
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Poetry Butterflies  

If you touch their wings,
they die.
It seems cruel..to create something,
so beautiful that one,
should feel such need,
as to posses it,
But doing so destroys it.
We possess,
We love,
We kill.

Post reply -->London Poetry Naz 5 Dec
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Poetry well  

In order I'd prefer
love
possess
kill
but I get your meaning


Post reply -->London Poetry CB60 6 Dec
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Poetry  

I think' butterflies' is a lovely poem but I also think
there needs to be more input. Common poets - show
us your stuff. As it stands now we've been on the same poem
for nearly a month! If you want to make this a poetry forum-
then put up your stuff pleaaaase. Let's engage in more than one
or two put forward.

Post reply -->London Poetry CB60 14 Dec
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^

Poetry I dont think so  

Rarely are things possessed before they are loved.

Post reply -->London Poetry CB60 9 Dec
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Poetry ascend  

death rides beneath the feet
just below your little toe
ascends quietly
waves of matter
not yet there
tiny molecules
so tiny, it's hard to notice
but if you look hard enough
you will witness
the harness of flesh
broken at the seam
before a fall
complete in
its entirety

Post reply -->London Poetry CB60 3 Dec
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Poetry Lydia  

Sleep touching.


Enchanted, our mime snake-like
entwined, wrapped in each other,
a limbed garland, a drowsy choice
where no obvious choice is made.

Our sighing bodies entranced,
meshing, threading smoothly
covering velvet soft, satin warm.

We touch without touching,
no fingers or lips or eyes
come into knowing contact –

We purr a murmur and our skin
dusts the other’s skin gently.

We are languid as we wake
again to the light of the world,
to the animation of the day.

And in our strokes we begin
to touch differently
realising each other is near.



Post reply -->London Poetry Lydia 28 Nov
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Poetry At last poetry  

Thanks Lydia, how nice to have my poor poem sandwiched between two of your poems. It's great to see poetry coming back to this site.

Regards Peter


Post reply -->London Poetry 28 Nov
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Poetry Lydia  

The Album.

My love,
my torn heart,
my wounded bird,
my ransom,
my baggage,
my poor cats,
my Loves.

I have to be careful
of thoughts I carry.

Not one
person.
Not male
or female,
or human.

Not just single memories
pulsate with growing age.

Not just one incident
reminds me of them.

I forget what some of my loves
looked like and flicker thoughts.

They were themselves
and I conjoined for a while.

My loves,
my beautiful cats,
my beautiful women,
my kind friends,
my dead father.

A list is never enough
nor is a photograph.


Post reply -->London Poetry Lydia 27 Nov
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Poetry Palomino  

Dappled golden mare
With flaxen mane,
Stroking your flank
I feel your strength and power.
We share breath,
The sweet smell of hay,
I offer you mints, negotiate a ride.

A path through the dunes reveals
Wide sands,
Distant breakers.
Nostrils flare at sea salt breeze,
Reined in,
I feel your desire.

Relenting, I say “go”
And hold on tight.
Arrow straight
Towards the distant sea you fly.
Galloping the margin
Where sand and sea collide,
Salt spray flies,
Overhead, gulls shriek encouragement.

I lean forward,
In time with your stride,
Feel the sun and the wind,
Hear you breathing hard,
Sense your joy
Running wild and free.

Golden Horse of the West
I will never forget you.



Post reply -->London Poetry nordicskyemail@aol.com 24 Nov
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Poetry Lydia  

An inner kiss.


You smile at me with honey lips

and not the honey of just sweetness

rolling globs of sticky amber liquid

or oozing from the flower’s heart

or even stolen from the sticky comb

but from the deepest sprinkle of pollen

from that musk-miracle within

from the depth of that time

the warmth within the gem of a kiss

to the final drip

that settles on my lips

and sweetens my soul.


Post reply -->London Poetry Lydia 23 Nov
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^

Poetry Thanks Lydia  

That was really sweet. I'm going to make some toast and put honey on it and then read your poem again.
Regards
Peter

Post reply -->London Poetry nordicskyemail@aol.com 24 Nov
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Poetry Lydia  

The Morning.


How does the morning taste?

It tastes of vanilla tea

Brought to you while snoozing.

How does the morning sound?

It sounds of outside rain

Drumming the pane whilst dreaming.

How does the morning look?

It looks not quite awake

In its wintry overcoat, cold and fragile.

How does the morning smell to you my darling?

It smells of the duvet, warm and inviting.



Post reply -->London Poetry Lydia 14 Nov
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Poetry Thanks for the Poem  

Thanks Poetess, a nice straight forward poem using everyday words to convey an image.

Thanks for posting this.
Regards ~ Peter~

Post reply -->London Poetry nordicskyemail@aol.com 21 Nov
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Poetry Indentity Crisis  

There's a man called V
Who hides his name
He's sad as you can see
And extremely vain

His poetry is dire
His ability is nought
He thinks he's the messiah
But lacks original thought



Post reply -->London Poetry Michel Le Thé 5 Nov
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Poetry arseholes  

the earth has moles
the parachute has holes
and the world is full of arseholes

Post reply -->London Poetry Dawn 3 Nov
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Poetry Inland Revenue  

I am lustful to pay my tax
By cheque or by fax
So I don't get into trouble
And end up in court at the double.

I am lustful to send in my returns
To tell all what I earns
Otherwise I'll be fined
And everything won't be fine.

I am lustful to get tax forms
Which I ponder from the dawn
Scratching my head about their complexity
Perhaps I'm too lusty to pay afteral.

Post reply -->London Poetry Michel Le Thé 2 Nov
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Poetry INLAND  

Inland.


I am lustful for the sea to be within
for the shore to rasp my feet for the water
to cover its sheet about my body and cover
this city lightly and then darkly the shingle to tickle
my senses and secrets.

I am lustful for the sea to transport this man of slate
far away from the mountains of plastic and carouse
in exploding waves breaking the shouting of cars
and crying of polluted false winds.

I am lustful to be drenched
and to remove the smoke from before my eyes
to wash me to make me swim in currents
far from streets of hopeless discourses.

I am lustful to sink in the sands and not in me
to splash in a strong adhesive away from the glue
away from the quag-dosage of the city’s condition.

And when the cyano-night comes at me
I am lustful for the sounds of glassy chattering
to come calling for the sea to be lusting for me.



Post reply -->London Poetry Etienne 1 Nov
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Poetry Red Apples  

We sat on the harbour wall,
Eating Red Apples,
Watching the sun sink behind the Isle of Skye.

You held my hand.

Lost in our own thoughts
There was no need to say
…anything at all.




Post reply -->London Poetry nordicskyemail@aol.com 1 Nov
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Poetry Southern Ocean  

A massive wave crashes down,
The deck turns white,
I hold on tight
Seeking the shelter of the mast
I climb towards the angry clouds.

Once more the bows pitch down
Cleaving slate grey water
I grip the frozen rungs
And feel the ice cold spray wash over me.

The steel deck is far below
I remember vertigo
My legs shake
I feel the paralysis of fear.

A loud squawk… she’s back
My guardian angel;
Black wings, nine foot span, orange beak
Southern Ocean Albatross riding westerly gales.

I rush upwards; clip on the safety harness,
Between deluges I change the navigation lights;
Task complete, I suddenly become aware:

Aware of the howling wind,

Aware of foaming white wave crests,

Aware of sunlight breaking through storm clouds,

Aware of cruel, raw, untamed beauty.

I throw back my head
I shout defiance at the mighty ocean…

I am no longer afraid.




Post reply -->London Poetry nordicskyemail@aol.com 1 Nov
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Poetry Great to put your feelings down in poetry.  

The best thing about this is that it's poetry from the heart. I hope you get to spend time with your daughter.

I admire you trying to stick with the rhyme but I think you should have a go at free verse, it's much less restrictive and lets you write what you want.

Good luck with the poetry
Peter(nordicsky)

Post reply -->London Poetry 4 Nov
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