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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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Poetry ....To Mike....  

Your poem to your daughter made me cry, as it reminded me of the way my dad made me feel.

He is no longer with us and I feel as bereft today, as I did the day he left us (16 years ago)....

No man has ever loved me as completely as my dad....

Treasure your little baby daughter for as long as you can, and she will love you for ever...

Post reply -->London Poetry Sad & lonely dadless daughter. 27 Oct
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Poetry A POEM FOR MY DAUGHTER  

I AM YOURS TO KEEP



You are a princess in my heart,
and I care for you so much.
I love the fondness in you eyes and your tender little touch.

I looked at you when you were born,
and knew then straight away,
that I would be fore ever here
to watch you grow and play.

You bring to me a heart of joy,
and memories so great,
and a powerful sense of fatherhood that no one can debate.

I watch you sleep and dream of things that I can only wonder.
That innocent look upon your face just makes my heart grow fonder.

I see you run and jump and shout and calling out my name.
No love that I have ever known could ever feel the same.
No suffering any tragedy no deeply seated pain
could ever over shadow the bond that we retain.

And so my little princess before you go to sleep,
Remember I am your daddy and I am your's to keep.

(For Victoria)




Post reply -->London Poetry MIKE 27 Oct
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Poetry ....ding, ding.... Round 89.....  

....please tell me I'm not the only one splitting their sides at the banter between Vinny and Mickey T?

It's hilarious......and they talk about bitchy women....

Personally, I think Mickey's got the edge.

.....slightly more articulate.

Really though, grow up the pair of you. You're both way too pretentious and precious for your own good.

Post reply -->London Poetry Amused Bystander. 23 Oct
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Poetry Too Right!  

Yes, I must agree with you - I thought I was the only one watching the handbags at dawn!

I don't want to take sides because I think both of them should put their toys back into their prams and go back to their respective kindergartens. However, I too do think Michael T. does have the upper hand when it comes to the put downs!

Knock if off, ladies!

Post reply -->London Poetry Amused Bystander 2 23 Oct
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Poetry Poor Vincent  

Yeah - poor Vincent. He's taking a roasting!!!

Post reply -->London Poetry Col 23 Oct
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Poetry V-v-v-v-vacant  

The last refuge of those who truly have nothing to say - to hide behind a foreign language. Gosh Vinny, for such a pretentious one as you, isn't French a little passé?

Churning out your adolescent scribble and thinking it's poetry. Who really is the sad one?

Good luck with learning to punctuate. I'm sure we'll see eachother soon.


Post reply -->London Poetry Michael T. 23 Oct
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Poetry tut tut tit  

tut-tut tit...ahahah!

anyway Michael T. As much as I have thoroughly enjoyed this exchange with you for the last few weeks I think it is necessary to bring it to an end. I know you will be unhappy about that and will respond with more blahblahblah comma but your tedious without any dimensional wit comma just a sad man, poor you...I leave you to your miasma, inability to versify and micro-world. Alors voila COMMA va te fair foutre connard, mois je m'envais!

Post reply -->London Poetry vincent 23 Oct
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Poetry  

who is the one hiding behined pompos words
you actually said nothing of intelligent nor profound just show off like jovenail kid how old are you? go and do some deep thinking before you talk your blaaaaaaa

Post reply -->London Poetry albert.24@btinternet.com 5 Nov
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Poetry PMSL  

M, you certainly need psychiatric help I think. A serious case of no identity coupled with stupidity.

Michael, does the T stand for tit.

Post reply -->London Poetry vincent 23 Oct
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Poetry MSPL  

That's what you think.

Can you believe this guy, everyone (I'm so popular).

Hope to see you at my primate stew, Brenda.

Post reply -->London Poetry Michael T. 22 Oct
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Poetry  

Not as frustrated as you, evidently.

Post reply -->London Poetry Michael T. 22 Oct
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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 Michael T. 22 Oct
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Poetry Aint it grate  

Ain't it great
When you sit by the grate
Eating a grape
Admiring the drapes.

The sun goes down
You walk into town
You buy a drink
Then just sit and think

Walking home
Usually alone
You go to bed
Then you have a sleep

Post reply -->London Poetry Michael T. 19 Oct
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Poetry in defence  

Vincent is absolutely correct and a very good poet. you bitchy lot should listen to his advice, you couldn't do better. I have read what he wrote and he is completely correct with his assesment. He was also right with his poem 'The Sound of Blossom Falling'. To rip-off someone's poem shows a disregard and marked disrespect for the work itself. You should be ashamed of yourself Michael, it would be better if you try to write something of value. It is clearly evident from what you've posted that more practice could yield something of quality one day, which certainly doesn't appear on this site from you. M. Horowitz

Post reply -->London Poetry MH 18 Oct
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Poetry M.H.  

Thanks MH, the troll with the pussy growl is still a pain in the butt. By the way, you are forgiven for making grammatical errors, you still put on Howl at the Albert Hall, so who cares what some mediocre idiot thinks!

Post reply -->London Poetry Vincent 18 Oct
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Poetry I quite agree.  

I quite agree on all three counts!

Post reply -->London Poetry Michael T. 22 Oct
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Poetry N  

If you return to the critique it wasn't done with any enmity but spontaneously as a gift, a favour. If you react in such a way then you need to think about what it means to be violent with people, to fight them, to punch them. It is not an easy thing to physically attack someone. I have an editor who assists me with my work before publication, he is an academic who edits and advises. This is essential for anyone who wants to write seriously. I liked the poem and thought it deserved the same attention. Now due your vain and violent attitude I no longer believe that.

Post reply -->London Poetry vincent 17 Oct
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Poetry  

No, I agree with Nordic.



Post reply -->London Poetry Michael T. 18 Oct
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Poetry The man who knew nothing.  

He sits alone (of course)
He thinks he's good (he's not)
Writing witless, verbose discourse.
A self appointed expert - exactly of what?
His comments are empty as a broken cup
Yet he never finds it in him to shut up.
One day a bus will silence his voice
And roll over his over-inflated head.
Then poets around the land will rejoice
Because the XXXX is dead.

Post reply -->London Poetry Michael T. 17 Oct
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Poetry drained of colour  

Its no crime to rhyme
When the verse is terse
And the meaning blinding
But rhyming poetry removes liberty
And herds the words
Muffled and shuffled
And leaves colour without flavour.

 Mail-me 

Post reply -->London Poetry vincent 17 Oct
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Poetry faces  

Our oily face.

Gaseous Eden,
sodden stalks from
greasy spikes, tubes
on floating islands
force the push
of bled holes
downwards,
ghost of fossils
from the sandwich
spew sobs.

Burning, swooning
coagulated love,
hungry needs
are trapped
in wealth boon.
High up
shirt-lifting clouds
push yellow air
and piss on us.

Those extractors
scythe and sink
in the shortest
time of a hiatus
from the beginning
to this middle time
we continue now,
like a gasp –
we cough in response.


 Mail-me 


Post reply -->London Poetry vincent 16 Oct
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Poetry Darkling Thrush 2  

Bristling in the twilight
Almost out of plain sight
A real delight
Then it runs in fright.

This is a creature of the night
But it's gone away
What dismay
Will it come back
Another day?

I hope so.
Hurray!!!!

Post reply -->London Poetry Michael T. 16 Oct
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Poetry as part of the manchester literary festival  

The Sound of Blossom falling.

He talks of her with the simple love of a father,
describing how they walked the verdant path
and along the softness of the hardy hills
entwined in each other’s presence.

He feeds the dialogue of his love of nature
as he gazes and points out
the crisp colours and myriad greens –

he asks if she sees what he sees,
if she hears what he hears –

and as she looks and thinks
with a bright child’s mind
she says ‘I can hear the sound of blossom falling.’

They both stand still and listen for a moment.



Post reply -->London Poetry vincent 16 Oct
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Poetry Our oily face  

Our oily face.

Gaseous Eden,
sodden stalks from
greasy spikes, tubes
on floating islands
force the push
of bled holes
downwards,
ghost of fossils
from the sandwich
spew sobs.

Burning, swooning
coagulated love,
hungry needs
are trapped
in wealth boon.
High up
shirt-lifting clouds
push yellow air
and piss on us.

Those extractors
scythe and sink
in the shortest
time of a hiatus
from the beginning
to this middle time
we continue now,
like a gasp –
we cough in response.  Mail-me 


Post reply -->London Poetry vincent 16 Oct
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Poetry Darkling Thrush 2  

Bristling in the twilight
Almost out of plain sight
A real delight
Then it runs in fright.

This is a creature of the night
But it's gone away
What dismay
Will it come back
Another day?

I hope so.
Hurray!!!!

Post reply -->London Poetry Michael T. 14 Oct
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Poetry poem  

Writing words of love to the sea.


I write words of love to the sea

my mistress so far from me here

in the grey light and night of the city.

I write words of passion for the waves

that lap my skin when close

that makes me come alive when I think

of her and take a path to her blanket.

I write a passion for the great emptiness

of my desire when away

for the solitude of when we are together,

when I glide deep inside her

and only come up for air when it is almost too late.

 Mail-me 


Post reply -->London Poetry vincent 12 Oct
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^

Poetry  

I hate to say it Vincent but I really like this one especially the last two lines, a fine ending.

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