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.
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