Welcome to London Poetry

I meander back to my homeland,

A zig zag path without end.

I reach up to the nocturnal sky

And caress the shy moon.

The stars beam with glee,

Longing to follow me back home too.

I recently come from Turkey and now living in SW London. I love to read and write poems. This is a kind of passion for me. I will be happy to meet someone who had the same passion.

Hi,

I liked this line

I'm afraid of the noise of silence

This poem really touched me! It tells the story of a man down and out and living on the streets. I think it was absolutely brilliant! And the best one I have read so far. I also wrote a poem about an alcoholic one amusing and one sad. I also have a Polish half brother who lived in a cemetary, and a chronic alcoholic, so I can relate to this poem very well. You have talent! Well done!

I loved this poem because as I read it "I could see in my minds eye the whole of the poem. I found it very moving, and I could imagine being this girl. A really nice poem with a lot of feeling. Well done on a very nice piece of work!

Oh dear! I was really enjoying this site, and when I came across the poetry I was in seventh heaven because I write poems and stories? I was going to put on my Elvis poetry tribute? However, I am a bit reluctant to do so now? I am happy to accept criticism? But Vincent's message was harsh? I actually liked the poem about the sad girl on the sea wall! I shall have to think about making a contribution now! I'm rather shy lol.

The Lost Keys

Grandma, is that you?

I heard your voice.

Why have you gone?

We’ll go to Saint Anthony

to find the keys and glasses

in the lost past.

I can’t sleep in an empty house.

It is so dark here.

Loneliness drowns out thoughts.

I'm afraid of the noise of silence.

Tara doesn't want to go

squealing with grief.

I'll take the grid,

make the tea,

find the keys

only come back.

Without you I'm lost

in the clutter of life.

Have just read recently released 46 Poems by Dale Quentin, found them quite amusing, interesting, and in many cases true to everyday life, certainly recommend well worth reading, and remembering, and forwarding poems onto friends, certainly a different style, look forward to more publications.

Is stage fright or anxiety when performing preventing you from furthering your career? would you like to be completely confident on stage? yes? then we can help you quickly and easily, with incredible yet simple techniques that will ensure your talent shines through. Some of Europe's finest personal change experts ready to help you make permanent positive changes fast!

Hi guys, really pleased to announce I've finished the first stage of a poetry / writing / web project. I include several audio spoken word versions of the works, and have developed the site for desktops, tablets, phones.

www.searchforagoldensun.com

Please have a read if you're interested.

All the best,

North London Literary Festival proudly presents an open mic night on the 25th March 2013. This will be hosted in Hendon at Middlesex University Student Union.

This is open to every person who wants to get involved. The night is a free to all customers and performers.

It is going to be a slamming night, so keep your calenders open and either brave the stage or relax and enjoy an unforgettable evening.

If you are wanting to get involved or just have any questions, please get in contact with Lucy Danby at

Hi Looking to connect with other poets in and around the London area,also to talk to anyone who has got there work published or anyone who knows someone who can do a website for me,please contact me via email

Hi Minnie, loved your piece of poetry,would like to read more, Q,

A very moving poem, know just how this feels....Thank you for sharing. Elli

www.jonnylines.blogspot.com

"I do feel sad, but I wont cry" ...this tells everything !

Has anyone stopped you yet ?

Waiting for Hate Mail

by Mark Akrill

8pm, Wednesday 11th May, 2011

Venue: The Ambassadors Theatre, West Street, London, WC2H 9ND

Tickets: £8 (£6 concs)

"All scum like you who seek to drag the name of this great country through the mud and indoctrinate its youth will be dealt with and eliminated when the time comes."

In 'Waiting for Hate Mail', Mark Akrill takes the real hate mail he has received online and through the post as the starting point for a tragi-comic celebration of narrative, love, betrayal and loss.

Book online at www.theambassadorstheatre.co.uk

I also want to know about poetry clubs in East London.

Thanks

"Sunday"

The black dreams run under

My feet

As I drive over streets

Stained by my wishes and hopes

Do they now belong

To someone else

A pregnant mother

Two boys who know the score

Or did I just just create them

Just like those dreams

So long ago

I feel like being like apple Touching light

Like the star that shines from a distance

I always proud I Bytatryny

I have with a stranger

You sweetheart and policy Ghmkhvarm thoughts deceive me or stay

I warm you coast on it, being the trick will be

Two eyes to the kind God has Nazt

Is enough for me not to have to break Khdarv

Songwriter: Saeed Rahimi Verde

www.sporting-anamis.blogfa.com

I broke my ankle today

I turned in the garden,

Just to say "pardon?"

To someone I thought I heard say

"A lovely bloom, but out too soon

They will never last for long"

I fell to the ground

Heard a cracking sound

Oh No!! Its me Lateral Malleosus!

"There!" I did say

"Will you please go away"

"You're making my eyes not focus!!"

The truth is you see

As I wait in A and E

I shouldnt have listened at all

For, I wouldn't have turned

And all that I learned

Was, to be nosey - could end in a fall!!!

Tick, tock, tick, tock,

The lonely sound of my mantle clock,

Days, weeks, months, years

Some with laughter, love and tears

Looking back, I have been blessed

With laughter, friends and how we messed

With our emotions in our youth

As if we always wanted proof

Of our sincerity.

My hair now silver, my limbs are worn

My laughter, not so loud

I miss those days of friendship borne

And all the other crowd

Resting my head on the pillow

At the end of a weary day

I smile, from memories cherished

And gathered, along lifes way

Sanday 21 of June!

Time:5 pm

Admission: FREE(Any donation would be greatly appreciated)

"I remember a wonderful moment"

by Alexander Pushkin

Performance is a charming tribute to a great Russian poet Alexander Pushkin.

Pushkin's timeless poetry combine with tha exotic dancing and strikingly rich directorial style makes this show a genuine gem.

Performance in english language with a participate The Mazaika Duo(www.mazaika-music.com)

Theatro Technis. 26 Crowndale Road London NW1 1TT.

Nearest Tube: Mornington Crescent or Camden Town(Northern line) Buses: 29,24,214,46,27,134.

Please reserve seats IN ADVANCE:www.rits-theatre.co.uk/contact.shtml

0207 387 6617

0208 502 2386

I can imagine being a tropical cherry tree

Insecure and unloved at birth,

Weak textured wood

Created few nests and shadows.

My branch crashes

Like an old man's bone

In any extra burdens of life,

Unwanted plants hold onto me

Like blood sucking parasites.

A monsoon of love blossoms my fruit

Aubergine, ripe and divine,

If you treat me with a dry summer

I am bitter like new wine.

Roots of mine grab muddy soil

Not afraid of any fights,

In thousands of ways life hurts me

I will cling to my values, tight.

I love and am happy to see

The cherry tree in me,

And always wonder,

Can you see

The tree in me?

tipsily

Bravo - en gros, s.v.p.

Ah, Encule-moi doucement!

I set my gaze

She's yet to notice

For a long time now

Not on her lips

But lower

Down beneath

Her warm and pearly milky teeth

My gaze is not settled on the flash of breast she offers me

Though I take pleasure in fresh flesh

My eyes are intent upon her neck.

Call: 020 7326 0993

Bobble hat on with big warm gloves

Wrapped in a coat, wishing it were you

Seeing people go by, entwined against the chill

Thinking of you and I, wondering if it ever will

Be my turn for my heart to melt

I wish you knew just how I felt

About you

An endearing memory

But lost in the whirl of the autumn leaves

Another week, a month gone by

I sit and dream

of you and I

That fateful day, when you came by

My heart did skip

And now I cry

For times we had, but let drift by

Whilst pondering what might have been

Always searching, but never seen

In my soul the memory to hold

Something to cherish as I grow old

BORNDEEP ENTERPRISE LTD REQUIRES A VENUE FOR OUR NEXT POETRY EVENT ENTITLED TALK 2ME PART 2:REVOLUTION-CAPACITY 150-200

WHETHER you’re a verse virgin or a budding bard, the Essex Poetry Festival guarantees to give you something to wax lyrical about.

From Buckhurst Hill to Wivenhoe, and Harlow to Southend-On-Sea, melodic ditties will be ringing in ears as rhyme and rhapsody take over the county.

The festival kicks off at Poetrywivenhoe on Friday, September 19, with a reading from Peterloo poet Christine Webb and local writer Joan Taylor, before the colourful montage of spectacles and masterclasses get underway.

The Essex Poetry Festival will run until October 25. For more information visit: www.essex-poetry-festival.co.uk

Dosgs & workmen.

She expresses her love of life

through the joys and friendships

that matter to her.

A life is not a mere accident,

although accidents can happen,

they touch and we move on.

She likes e.e.cummings

as his words playfully

drip off the page for her.

Out there dogs woof,

woof their lungs full

on splish-splashy streets,

their language farting fully…

street workmen dig holes

below my dirty window,

and with the dogs and workmen

I tipsily remain focused

on her joys expressed in the world,

that pseudobeast beating its brains

in sandy streets wet with redstuff.

She gave me flowers for love

easily, innocently, she gave me love.

this site seems to have become distinctly underused.

The battlefield is drawn.

Our artillery is mostly muffled

as we take aim in gentle ways,

the shells are filled with wit

sprinkled with sarcasm for fun.

We practice low-level conflict

and fire incendiaries at each other

that we easily dust ourselves off from.

Our warfare is an arena

of foolishness and stupidity,

we try to gain ground from

inert cannons and friendly fire.

We charge like fickle soldiers

who really don’t want a fight,

we say make love not war.

We find an armistice is agreed on

as I cook and you do the washing up.

at Heathcote Pub, 344 Grove Green Road - 8.00 pm

Entry: £3

Leytonstone Festival presents an evening of music from Uncle Rabbit with poetry and prose readings from selected writers for Ambit Magazine. Donald Gardner & Naomi Foyle are among those appearing for Ambit.

Uncle Rabbit play a quirky mix of improvisation using rock & jazz riffs, and will be joined later in the evening by their special guest, John Ellis, formerly of The Stranglers.

St Mary the Virgin Church, Mortlake High Street, SW14 have invited Purple to come and perform some poetry in aid of their Tower Appeal on Friday 27 June 7.30pm. Open mike slot too - come and perform your own work or just listen. All part of Mortlake Weekend - a packed schedule of events Friday thru Sunday. All welcome, £5

www.poetrylondon.co.uk

She swims in my mind

She swims to the shores of my mind

gentle ripples of her sing a song

in the quiet whispers of tenderness

floating along my moments of solitude.

My wilder currents are animated

and gusts are blowing up a storm.

Along the water the stillness carries

her to me.

Her voice invades in heady silence

and her soul comes closer to me and mine.

Music man

Strumming life away

With blistered fingers,

poking out of black gloves.

And dirty nails,

making love to the guitar strings.

Like each touch is the first,

wishing the moment would last forever.

Those same half closed eyes

The same lost in a daydream smile,

that he had back in 1973

When he used to fill concert halls

And people sat in awe

His name in lights,

and on ticket stubs.

Back when someone cared

Even if it was for the wrong reasons

And now he plays here

As the world walks by

And I feel bad

Because his music touches me

But I never dropped anything in his hat

I pretended I didn’t see him

As I rushed by

2008

However you are it would be very good for you to just write your own poetry. You obviously have a flair for lampooning other people's work, but have you a flair for creating your own? Being spiteful is not a good way of living, not good for your soul mate....so why don't you just give it a rest and let people live their lives in peace.

Process Ants

Little legs tread

unplugged

in lines oxymoron

Colorful like

process ants

in tubes of

yellow, blue, red

green and brown

Watches float

and earphones

shoes and noses

like a sneeze within the

Greenwhich Zone

So decensitized

to the presence

of noses and shoes

hovering...midair

and chords reaching out

grabbing at ears and phones

like floatsam washed up

on tables at a fair

deaf to what's going on

in every head.

Wie

Serving an army

mashed potato and soup

that's demeaning to say

the least!

But they do say...

there is dignity in all labour

and the army and their leader

enjoyed the food

and the service was good.

The winged gods fly into our boats

with the agility of mountain goats

a hovering army with their leader

always talking to us about his reader

and his ideas and justifying death

and if you look carefully at the breath

they cast no hardy shadow now

they have travelled into the dust - pow!

and taken their soul into the abyss

I'm glad we've given them the miss.

Cherub's Tag

Green heaven outstretched

in backwards trace

to speedily celebrate

our eminent homecoming.

Groping trees lean left

with yellow fantasies

peeping through the leaves

while water heads north

as we go south.

Shy air tastes the earth

while clouds linger

upon its lips

like letters with shedded colour

of sand, of brick, of soot

And then it stops

sound falls to silent clap

tunneled underneath

sonar -- echoing pulse

Away from fallen stumps

and away from ploughed lanes

Away from cows and people sites

into time's one, then time's two

spell's somersault the same

Cherry trees reach

gripping wind's tail

tagging cherubs

on even revolution

all the way home.

You say colorful and I say colourful,

You say Greenwhich and I say Greenwich,

You say decensitized and I say desensitised,

You say floatsam and I say flotsam.

Let’s call the whole thing off.

I particularly like the refusal to conform to Standard English spelling in this poem – well done.

Colorful instead of Colourful

Greenwhich instead of Greenwich

Decensitized instead of Desensitised

Floatsam instead of Flotsam.

A brave tour de force!!!

Process Ants

Little legs tread

unplugged

in lines oxymoron

Colorful like

process ants

in tubes of

yellow, blue, red

green and brown

Watches float

and earphones

shoes and noses

like a sneeze within the

Greenwhich Zone

So decensitized

to the presence

of noses and shoes

hovering...midair

and chords reaching out

grabbing at ears and phones

like floatsam washed up

on tables at a fair

deaf to what's going on

in every head.

Why are you so mean?

I am not vincent, I am Gwen...and my poem was my own. Just because you pose as Roger and god knows who else...it doesn't mean that others do.

I simply love the fact that Gwen, Louise, Mary, Etienne and others besides are all Vincent.

Keep up the good work.

Pip! Pip!

I agree with both of you...he wrote a lovely poem there -- extremely talented! Pity others are using this forum of ours to vent.

Thank you, Louise...it's about time someone like you said something on this forum because this space is for others to enjoy too and what a beautiful poem that is: The far open space.

...I don't know what you think you gain from this, I really don't...its just basically cowardly to attack someone with superior skills than you have...

Tribute to...The far ocean space.

It is in the ocean we are born

unconscious...lost in the far space

of creeping tense hue

in ominous sands and vacated puddles

And as misplaced minds take small steps

to steal a kiss

to give short kindness

sometimes an imprint is not left

on the lover's mouth

but upon the lover's heart

Yes, the ocean to some is a cliche

of lost hope

and of people lost

But histories and bodies are not concealed

Nor drowned in the filled tidal stream of people

Yes, it's easy to think so

when born in the ocean's unconscious

it's easy to think so

when awoken lost

in far space.

One that camflauges

with floral language

wound in twines of

envy green

spitting poison

from lost love...

Attack not others

in the sea...

because

they're not of your

cuntry and tread not on

the land you walk...

You recognise not

the ocean's depth

nor the symbols of

its song

the waves you think

you are treading

are but the poison

in your pis.

J'ai pensé à la vie

Et j'ai vu que vous

Reviennent à l'attaque

L'autre avec talent Supérieur

Et, ce faisant,

Attaqué vous-même.

this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you...

I thought of life

and saw only you

coming back to attack

other's with superior talent

and in doing so,

attacked yourself.

One poisoned to camoflauge

recognizes not the ocean

the sea...

the symbol of unconscious

the mother that lives

the child that breathes

One with mind

flooded by phallic poison

defecates upon unconscious

defecates upon mother

and defecates upon child.

Now ocean space.

Space is the area around the country

Available at the end lost.

Palirroiaki strength and Marching

Holiday sand conceal dangerous

Flaques water, and less than short-term measures --

People are wrong.

Supply reduction

Klapei peoples lips,

In the short period between compassion

An empty sometimes kissing

It tracks Habib in the mouth.

Ocean has always cliché

Lost hope in people, is not it?

It is very easy to lose people in the world

What is the history of the illegality and facilities

Ploutos personenfreizügigkeit drowned in the floods.

The far ocean space.

A far ocean space is no place

to find each other lost.

Tidal tensions and creeping

holiday sands hide dangerous

puddles, smaller than short steps

between which people are misplaced.

Within the narrowing width

of peoples stolen lips,

in between short kindnesses

of empty paper kisses sometimes

no imprint is left on the lover’s mouth.

An ocean has always been a cliché

of lost hope and lost people has it not?

It is too easy to lose someone in the world

which conceals bodies and histories

drowned in the filled tidal stream of people.

Interested in writing comedy or peotry or doing it already and feeling ratehr alone...Want support, friendly constructive criticism and a laugh....Come along to the original comedy and poetry writing group..

We meet every 2nd and 4th Wednesday of the Month at 7pm at Garfield Community Centre, Garfield Road, London, SW11. Nearest tube is Clapham Common...Nearest overhead train is Clapham Junction or Queenstown Road.

Email

God Child

Born blue to the moon

screaching at demons

premature

your saving grace.

Journey's sacrifice

for heaven's disgrace

Bound in corners

of earthly room

Rest assured

your heaven waits.

God Child sheds tears

that scorch the Son,

Mother Mary, the Angels,

everyone.

God Child born and bound

your heaven waits

while petals fall

from the flowers

St. Therese laid

and demons scream

We pray.

Direct Adagio

Adagio

bring tears of joy

in strings caressing

Maestoso

spine and soul

Adagio

bring time enlighten

in spirit play

Scherzando

on earth course

heaven endear

Adagio

bring sweet surrender

in human heartfelt

Dolce

brand design

Adagio

bring pulse its death

in silent chord

Morendo

purposeful presence

Adagio

bring life from death

in cosmic twine

Vivace

blessed beings

Adagio

bring sacred sustainance

in holy legacy

Sostenuto

sustained experience

Adagio

Patron of our mood

Master of our passage

Direct Adagio

We walked under the moonlight

laughter stobing our path

Each owning our mind

exchanging thoughts

like gifts in natural satellite

And as we moved we grasped

at hands, at lips, at legs

as if we had only just landed

on each our celestial form

The street did not exist

The lamps all but dark

only our exterior look

lit by internal sense

We wandered

for less than half's hour

to a home of ancient time

leaving laughter and thought

to a gift

to a whim of volition

And it was here

you lay my head

on a bed of ancient world

not woven of rope or straw

but of earthly passion and pyre

I cannot help but love you

when you are away

and I cannot help but love you

for a rememberance

of antiquity

We are each other's shadow

we are each other's path

As Luna lights our spirit

we celebrate our heart.

In each other’s sun

She and I staggered

thoughtfully,

without fight time,

thinking thoughts together.

She and I affirm

and move obstacles,

invisible obstacles serenely.

She is established, sleeps

when I am still awake.

My bed is warm,

a flower of warmth,

the petals of which

have wandered often

but now are still.

She is my garden

growing with ease.

I think I am her soil

sometimes

but she slowly radiates me

and I am cultivated.

We are each other’s sun.

What if?

The internal seeker’s

Quest from beneath.

Infiltrated, porous , free,

Suckling on its fragments of ether

Stichomancy, reality

an acquired taste.

What if?..

I asked ****..

Define the desirable.

Cut out the cryogenics.

Soul so bountiful,

Pliable like the perception

of freedom.

What if?

Does

she truly seek?

Or perhaps just strange .

Like her sister’s Bestfriend

De noted.

Loquacious, salubrious,

Unbounded,

Engaging they cry,

What if? this is how

Ones Aries

energy must cascade,

Down their own,

Down trodden and

Lively walls

Forever too fast for infinity.

A heart-shaped stone.

On my pillow rests

a heart-shaped stone

The rolling waters,

strong piercing waters

pulling and pushing

Lady moon’s desires

and Father Earth’s

noisy quarrels

gave slow accident

to the complex body line

you’d placed carefully here.

The much of nature-time

swirls without complaints,

wrestled chattering stones,

the slate and the flint,

the shingle and shell

in blended shimmering beauty.

The life and death

of the fisherman’s catch

ploughing the darkness

for an abundant one

when the form

was being sculpted.

You worked the beach

and picked up this form,

which indent’s my pillow,

poised and peaceful.

Sinking into the feathers

its lies peacefully, like

a tranquil afternoon at rest.

A heart-shaped stone.

On my pillow rests

a heart-shaped stone

The rolling waters,

strong piercing waters

pulling and pushing

Lady moon’s desires

and Father Earth’s

noisy quarrels

gave slow accident

to the complex body line

you’d placed carefully here.

The much of nature-time

swirls without complaints,

wrestled chattering stones,

the slate and the flint,

the shingle and shell

in blended shimmering beauty.

The life and death

of the fisherman’s catch

ploughing the darkness

for an abundant one

when the form

was being sculpted.

You worked the beach

and picked up this form,

which indent’s my pillow,

poised and peaceful.

Sinking into the feathers

its lies peacefully, like

a tranquil afternoon at rest.

If you are a creative writer, whether as a hobby or a more serious pursuit, and regardless of the genre in which you write, our creative writing group may appeal to you.

Our meetings act as a platform for the sharing of ideas in a comfortable environment with supportive people.

Everyone is encouraged to bring some of their own creative work to read aloud to the group. People will then have an opportunity to share their ideas on what they have heard, providing constructive feedback the writer can take with them in order to further develop their writing and the inspiration with which to do so.

We have exclusive hire of a comfortable and private pub dining room in central London and next meeting is in the evening of Monday April 7th.

If you'd like to join us, please

A small but perfectly formed poetry group meet to read their latest offering, to discuss and enjoy each other's company. This is a group of mature adults who enjoy the company of other's and have a passion for verse of all kinds. We invite you to come along and share your poetic thoughts and musings. The next meeting is on 29 Feb at the Lamb public house, Lambs Conduit Street, London WC1 on the 1st floor. If you have any friendly questions please email...

overthought, overwrought, overdone too much

when stroll equals fuck

and cute becomes sweet and sweet becomes sick

the world says yay when you say why

but you do it because under the sun its got to be done

you paint that guilt better's shame but

hurt trumps all

in this fucked up world; wrong shoes, big ass, i'll pass

Date: Saturday 8th of March 2008

Show Starts 8.30pm sharp (Doors Open @ 8.00pm)

Admission: £10 per ticket

“STREETS PAVED WITH GOLD”

The reminiscences of a Black British Citizen

(running time: 55 minutes)

“Streets Paved with Gold” is a short play written and performed by Victor Richards. The play is set in the present, but explores recent history from the 1950’s onwards. In his one man show, Victor Richards explores African-Caribbean migration, and themes of hope, identity and change.

Red Gate Gallery

209a Coldharbour Lane

London SW9 8RU

Call: 020 7326 0993

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

Dear All,

I'm afraid it's time for me to go. It's been great fun on this site and I've enjoyed myself immensely. I've tried to show some the errors of their ways - Alas to no avail! And a special goodbye to you, dear Vinny. Will we ever meet again? Yes, we will. Indeed, we've met many times. Think about who is at your poetry group. Blue Sun. That's enough clues for now!!!

In case you didn't get it. Michael T = Michael Taker = Mickey Taker. Geddit???

Ta! Ta! Pip! Pip!

Goodbye Michael. I for one shall miss your very accurate (and often extremely funny) insights into the work that appears here. GOOD LUCK! Ric.

Well, my dear poetry chums - I'm afraid I must go. Yes, I know you'll all miss me dearly but I have lots of other fish to fry. I've tried to make some of you see that you shouldn't try to write poetry (you know who you are) but alas! To no avail. And a special goodbye to you, Vinny (and your split personalities of Etienne, Louise and whoever else). You'll probably never find out who I am. Or will you? Next time your poetry group meets... But to all - Goodbye! Adieu! Farewell!

Oh, and in case you never worked it out, Michael T = Michael Taker = Mickey Taker. Geddit???

Oh, and declaiming that you're not going to list your poetry on this site doesn't smack of arrogance does it? Like anyone cares...

What an arrogant person you are.

Mankind will thank me for my work.

Oh boo hoo!!! The whole world's crying!!!

I was going to put some of my poetry on here but have decided not to. Michael, you can take full credit for that.

It's "you're", luv, not "your". "And" should have a capital letter, too. Blimey, your English is as good as dear old Vinny's - but then you are Vinny, aren't you.

I look forward to more of your adolescent scribblings (complete with errors) soon.

and your a good judge are you from your efforts...you have a nasty soul and a bad personality.

Judging by the quality of the writing, so are you and Vinny.

yr on the wrong site I think