Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best London Poems

Below are the all-time best London poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of london poems written by PoetrySoup members

View ALL London Poems

Search for London poems, articles about London poems, poetry blogs, or anything else London poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

Definition & Discussion of London Poems
Read London Poems

See also: Best Famous Poems

Details | London Poem | |

Jimi Hendrix

Electric poems reverberated,
Within the walls of a London abode.
A psychedelic haze fueled the gift,
That a creative heart was bestowed.

Far from his broomstick days,
Passionate strums…electrified the room.
Emphasizing the pain from within,
Recalling the days he strummed the broom.

Acid rock...illuminated the winding path,
That led his creative heart to fly.
Good intentions laced by corrosive thoughts,
Inspired the work…from his daily supply.

Guided by his artistic soul,
The frets…fretted to that day.
Captured by a recording device,
Were the anthems…that we replay.

What began in London ended in London,
In the same lonely…workplace room.
He was here that day, then gone the next,
In the blink of an eye, he was gone too soon.

Details | London Poem | |

Mum's Advice Ignored - "Don't Talk to Strangers!"

When I was young, an urban lass, and not gregarious,
I’d never dream of speaking to a stranger on a bus.

I’d sit, demure, my eyes downcast, and hope quite desperately
That none of those weird passengers would try accosting me.

But, now I’m “fair and forty” (ish!) I’m bolder, and what’s more,
I’ve lived so long in Somerset I’d clean forgot mum’s law …

Until I went to London town to see my student daughter;
She lectured me for doing what I really didn’t oughta!

“You shouldn’t, mum! It isn’t safe!” she cried, in some alarm.
“Some folk round here are really strange. you might have come to harm!”

I’m sorry I upset her, but  I carried on regardless.
I found most folks in London are quite friendly … even harmless.

Oh! I do love London Transport, and its camaraderie!
I had such fun, and lots of laughs and all completely free (!)

But now I’m home, I realise …
That weirdo, then,
Was me!!

Details | London Poem | |

GIVE ME YOUR HAND....

Let me take you to Venice
passing through the canals
all the alleys and valleys
gondolieurs,souvenirs,
saying cheers,drinking wine 
whilst we dine,full moon  
lanternes lightning sweet Venice,
its the place for romance
our place, shall we dance?
home sweet home ,we're in Venice............
Let me take you to Paris,
lovers home were we roam
and we go up so high nearly 
touching the sky in chic Paris,
There we go on Eiffel Greatest tower,
holding hand,disney land an adventure
for hours,shall we dance once again?
im your girl,you're my man!
home sweet home,we're in Grand Paris............
Let me take you to London doing good 
shopping spree,London eye,more to see 
visiting Royalty Handsome William and Harry,
thats the day ,You will ask me to marry......
Whilst we pass London's bridge by  the ferry
Home sweet home London home.......
Shall we Marry?...................................
Let me take you to Greece,
where all legends  and myths
shape to life once again,
whilst the Gods bow their head
shall we wed then we sleep in our bed,
making love through the night in soft breeze,
i'm your girl,You're my man!
Home sweet home,we're in Greece............
Let me take you to Malta melite!
Rich history, flowered carpets n all  streets,
Mdina  lovers' den, charming gem silent city,
brown eyed men with a tan,girls so pretty!
and the sun shines so bright,many stars 
through the night,my sweet homeland delight,
happy faces what a site!Malta beauty sweet dreams,
showing you what life means,where safety matter most,
where people are not ghosts,where love flows as it glows,
through our seas,scented breeze,treasure  treats
temples , harbours,good food,all to please...and they please.......
Its the place where you're home ,feel at ease
whilst we dance ,the best dance of classic  LOVE romance
home sweet home,we're in land of the knights,
we're in MALTA--MELITE--EUROPE'S  PEARL off all times...
Malta Melite my Heart Beat.........till it dies..................

--------------------------------------------------------------------CHARMA

Details | London Poem | |

ALL FALL DOWN

				Ring around the rosie,
				A pocket full of posie,
				Ashes, ashes
				They all fall down.

___________________________________________


Petronilla, I be hight, after a saint, long dead;  
Pet, Mother clucks as Father growls, willful child,
for I fail to stifle questiuns at the wizened age              
of seven. Sooth, I miss Dorsetshire and London   
is verray vile. These wretched streets are full of sickness 
and corpses pile like fish on a dock, far from graves. 

My mind hosts the lost and shall e’er be graven
with their bynames, lite ghosts left behind, all dead.
These ears hold confessions wrung from the sickened,  
the curses of goodwives, the wails of stung children-
Ay, there be gruesome hymns sung by all Londoners,
strange lullabies, for e’en  newborns shall not age.

A twitching moon brings dreams o’ the sea, days aged
by tidepools as plovers ran from waves, so gravely. 
A hundred castles I built of sand, ech a London
tower; fey, too, were those woods filled with deadnettle
flowers.  Play and prattle, everich that be childisch
is done for rattles decayed in the fists of the sickly.

I was to be a man’r maid, but that household fell sick,
so we scrounge for crumbs ‘n ole curds, un-aged.
In sleep, Mother quakes as though taken to childbed,
while Father weeps of sons and sin, his thin face, grave,
It is a though the devil his-self reaps a bounty of dead
as pestilence creeps un’er the pocked doors of  London.
 
Ech flaxen brother saved from the muck of London,
tots all, bedridden, while I was unwemmed by sickness.
Aye, they were yet alive when we fled in the dead
o’ night;  six, four, three and one were their tender ages,
Wee mites passing, no kin to tuck ‘em into their graves,
hell stilled their ruckus, stole away ech marked child.

Comes, the massacre, comes, again, Childermas,
this plague is naught but the pied piper of London,
Mother and Father unbar the door, eyes like graves
as they forsake me, nay farewells said as minutes age.
See, though bled, I now wear rings o' red, I art sick,
rath, so rath, I shall join the pale line of the dead.

I shall bear no gravestone, certes, angels shall sicken,
as blessèd children fall all o’er black London,
forbeden to axe what ages the heart, leven it deadened...






* Certain words are (mis)spelled in middle English
**Please read my comments below




Middle English Translation

hight- called/named
Sooth- truly
Verray – true
Byname - nickname
Lite – Little
Ech – Each
Everich – every
Unwemmed –  undefiled 
Childbed- labour
Childermas- Dec 28th, a day to commerate the infants killed by King Herod
Certes - Certainly
Axe – ask
rath - soon

Details | London Poem | |

The Olympic Games

How lucky I, to have the time
To watch Olympics all the day.
I have not written one small rhyme
For fear I’ll miss some of the play.

To watch Olympics all the day
Means I don’t get my housework done
For fear I’ll miss some of the play.
In London town its rain or sun.

I don’t get my housework done
My favorite has lost the race.
In London town its rain or sun.
There’s disappointment on his face.

My favorite has lost the race
I haven’t written one small rhyme.
There’s disappointment on his face.
How lucky I, to have the time.



Details | London Poem | |

London

She called herself London
On that day 
She fell from the sky
Child of apple blossoms
Dancing wildly
Into your mind

The snake that hung from her neck
Bites your hand
Expels you from Eden
Tears into the cool flesh
Of your madness
Posing as reason

London
Kisses you like a sweet lover
As though she really cares
Lets you 
Taste the passionate orchard
In her body’s secret lair

London
Wrestles with all your demons
Nothing quite compares
To the pain 
The indecent pleasure
In the waters that you share

Her name was London
Call her London

She called herself London
On that night
She prayed to the moon
Apollo’s lyre
Played darkly
In a portent 
Of your own doom

The hell she hides 
In her soul
Toxic drug you’ll never escape
You crave the milk of her touch
Her strange and dangerous ways

London
Kisses you like a sweet lover
As though she really cares
Lets you 
Taste the passionate orchard
In her body’s secret lair

London
Wrestles with all your demons
Nothing quite compares
To the pain 
The indecent pleasure
In the waters that you share  

Her name was London
Call her London

My baby, London
Call her London
My moon-girl, London 
Call her London

I love her, London
Call her London
Forever, London 

I call her London……


Details | London Poem | |

he is leaving home

                            
                  In great respect of the band I grew up listening to
                       as sure as Mom passed down Saturday Chores 
                      for I had been chosen to scrub bathroom floors `

                    Yet a familiar sound would bring me to keep scrubbing
                       The red album, The blue album , The White album 
                        Then .. Abbey Road , always remembering the sad look on
                  Ringo's face ,  something hard to understand underneath~
                       
                      I get it now, what you were saying all those years ago ,
                    the many sad lonely tears , secret tears , secret fears 
                    For Maxwell's Hammer was a real one . It wanted silence

                    Going back ..remembering when John Lennon died 
                      I was in Arkansas saddened with the world .
                      Then seeing his face saying " Drag isn't it " 
                      No .. this was not my hero in music and song .

                      he was a stand in hired William , he filled his shoes 
                      bringing diversity to create so much beautiful music from loss

                       One left standing , alone;; grief struck on back cover ~
                       The other identity hidden, tried to be part of ..coming together
                                                                                                                                                                        
                            his  world of secrets
                        He to suffers today , in fear , Faul~
                       
                        Too many years gone by .let us tell the Truth. Let us be free
                         The very sad long and winding Road ~
                         Let us Bury our real Paul. 

                         No more " Mystery tour "
                             No more fear 
                                Let him be in peace ~


           Inspired by " The Last Testament of George Harrison , Is Paul Dead ? "

                






Details | London Poem | |

Kingdom Lost

In summertime, the ivy climbs,
and hides the castle wall.
The king dreams of late,
that the sea is so great,
and yet - his boat is so small.
As swift as a fox and
dark as a raven on wing,
seven hundred soldiers march  
into the valley of the king.
Long overdue, a battle ensues
flanking the powers that be.
Children cry, and good men die, 
the monarch is now on his knee…
Soon the horsemen alone 
try to maintain the throne.
But the long way around
is the shortest way home.
The evening is filled
with chaos and smoke,
and the kingdom is 
stunned by it all…
Soon the sun will go down,
and in spite of his crown, 
the king will undoubtedly fall…
His rival’s strength
was mistaken,
by a king overtaken,
his life is now but a pawn.
His authority lifted,
the power has shifted –
an era of glory is gone…
 
 
Copyright © 2013
 

Details | London Poem | |

The Castle

In the green countryside of Wales,
A castle sits, dark and decaying,
It holds many ghostly tales,
That the locals keep relaying.

Surrounded by majestic, rolling hillsides,
Covered by a gray, misty shroud,
And cliffs high above the blue sea tides,
Where voices still ring out loud.

What was once a beautiful garden,
Where all the children used to play,
Has been left to whither and harden,
Just as the castle was left to decay.

Long cobwebs hang like curtains of lace,
In windows that remain dark and cold,
Someone still walks the crumbling staircase,
Just as they did in the days of old.

They walk the towers and through the halls,
Making the dusty, wooden floors creak,
Their portraits still hang on the walls,
Where the voices of the dead still speak.

The empty rooms will never make a sound,
But, if you listen hard enough to their history,
Stories of romance and love still abound,
Along with secrets of murders and mystery.





Written by: Kelly Deschler - August 8th, 2013
Giorgio V's contest - "In The Faraway" - the theme is gothic

Details | London Poem | |

1843

London’s clock just struck three
A forewarning of events to follow
The gloomy afternoon, an old mans delight
The weather of no concern, working late into the night

The village was in a festive mood
Of good will towards all men
Mistletoe and family gatherings
A twinkle in the eyes of young lovers

As midnight approached, on this special night
There appeared a spirit of a thousand souls
He woke the old man, who shivered in fright
Who are you he demanded, feigning his bravery

I am the spirit of all that was, and all that will be
Was the cold reply
So dress yourself old man, for I am taking you
To where you have been and were you will be

I will show you how you loved
I will show you how ambition consumed your love
Now you sleep counting pennies not from heaven
This path shall render you a dried heartless corpse

Come with me and my chains
As I show you the destiny of the unloved
Where spirits toil in the bowels of the earth
Hells fires fill them with painful regrets

The want and ignorance of the poor
If your life has amounted to earthy possessions only
You shall wander the afterlife in wanting and suffering
As these wisdom's you ignored here on earth

The old man remembered the soft touch of a kiss
That fate stole his bliss
The spirit spun his words so wise
The old man came to understand

The spirit of a thousand years
Drifted away with the morning light
So the old man, wrote his final wishes
Of good will to all of mankind

Then in silence, rope in place
He pulled away his chair
All of life’s efforts seemed fruitless now
As he escaped his life’s despair


Notes: Dickens meets Poe

Details | London Poem | |

Can you feel me

Feel me standing there
on the draw bridge
that stands stubburn and erect
over the rushing waters blown by the wind
back and forth.
I listened to the crows
posted on gargoils designed
of eightenth century Gothic architecture
singing their death songs,
when the sun is setting in the far.

The voices of women passing
startle me with a feeling of sorrow
I can't breathe, I am dying.
Feel me, can you feel me rot away?
Slowly but surely rot away
as time passes with ease,
and taxi cabs take smiling, intoxicated faces
to wayward cafes, oh how they screech to a halting stop
and wave to me to get in.

"No thank you, I'd rather walk." I say to the smiling faces
highly intoxicated with the thought of the birds and the bees
rattling around in their empty minds.
Then they drive off, into the city lights and turn a darkened corner.
I look at the rushing water
and feel myself rot away
slowly but surely rot away.

Can you feel me?
Can you hear me?
Can you see me?
Feel my heart thump with slow paces
that manage to keep up with fast melodies.
Of songs that play in your mind
only the ones that make you sigh
and think those one days in Spring time
as you walked over the draw bridge
and paid no mind to the water underneth.
I hear no more talk of you and me, I hear no more talk
of the good old times we all shared.
Time has passed, as I take my last breathe
and hold my chest and shead a tear.
Feel me, can you?
If you can, put your hand to my weak heart 
and feel it thump away with every second wasted
on useless items.
Now, see me a man of one time greatness
reflect his life with a reflection in the water below.
How I sigh and cry and breath heavely,
as I feel myself rot away.

The voices of woman pass me by.
Tomorrow is a new day,
for the smiling faces in taxi cabs will go home
and soak their raging hangovers with cool, wet rags.
As I still stand on the draw bridge singing with the crows,
feeling myself rot away.

Can you feel me without you, rotting away?
I surely can feel myself rot.
Such a heavy word, "rot"
So vulgare, yet a great description of me,
without you.

I pull out a shawl you once wore and I kiss it.
As the wind gusts and the sun rises and my shadow
comes to meet me, the wind shall take my last memory
of you away.
And I shall weep no more.
Then what will I do? Shall I walk the streets
and think of you.
Yes you, still rambling all throughout my head
like a lose screw.
Can you feel me? Feel me rot away
feel me think about you, and all your works.
Can you feel me?

Details | London Poem | |

witches revenge


   The misty dark night lit by pumpkin light

   To drive evil away , candle light an old way

   Witches brews , good and bad they choose 

   Always a woman as oracle from the start

   A Witch giving advise to many in battle 

   Then the day where she was taken by cart ~



   If a confession not made by drowning being nice ?

   The Witch would die by fire not smoke inhaled 

   Burned Alive , to be seen from a pub, a party held

   This Witch, many child  would suffer a severe Death 

   stalks put rightly in place,the fire felt directly on face

   If it be I that suffer this fate , I would curse all whom participate ~



  So when you are out this Halloween, stay close to parents 

  An angry Witch from the past may come to pass, you'll hear screams 

  you'll think it is done for Halloween , you'll be wrong while shaking

  The Witch burned no mercy given, cruel Death coming back a force driven 

  preying on innocence from inherited names , the Witch Blames .

  The Fire , pain , laughing while burning ,vengeance is hers in the making !



                    ~~~this Halloween ~~~


Details | London Poem | |

A Praise To London

        A Praise to London


To all of London’s folks who travel each
     day on their famous “under ground”
Yes praise you our London Town as we ride our 
carriages in safety, ease and comfort each lovely day

Oh yes on our daily tasks it might be to school to 
our work, or maybe, to some place just to play.

Certainly to us you are something very special as 
you weave close to the river, the sea, or by the bay.

Yes. when at the end of a busy week you will take 
us to our places of rest and worship where we can pray.

Yes when some unkind folks wanted to hurt our London
Town more then ever now we know what we need to do.

We'll stand shoulder to shoulder with conviction and courage
to heal our mighty land to protect her each day through.

Yes to our mighty London Town we will never give in to the few
who think they can hurt us, to TRY. to make us feel sad and blue.

Our prayers and thoughts of love are with us as we stand against 
our foes,. Oh London Town, to you we will always be very true.






Details | London Poem | |

Great Britain

Government
Royal family, regal, royalties,
England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales are part of GB, Europe
Army, Air force, and Naval support
Treasures, tutoring, training

Buildings and gardens of significance
Rivers, rail and roads
Islands surrounded by sea
Territorial forces, tax tea and traffic
Archaeology, history unveiled and preserved
Industry
National pride, National Insurance, National Health Service

Details | London Poem | |

Pitter Patter

Pitter patter, drip, drop, it’s not an April shower
Drip, drop, drip, drop raining hour after long hour
Suddenly the sun streaks through, javelins of sunlight
Then back to pitter, patter, and rain throughout the night.

In and out of doorways, trying to stay dry
Thunder crashing the Queens dead, the country seems to sigh
Edward the happy monarch will rule with fun from now on
Rain, rain, it never stops crying for the Old Queen is gone.

The sun breaks through the London grey, it sparkles on a tree leaf
Drops still dripping slowly, displaying all their grief.
Happy times are coming, skipping down the London streets
Children playing hopscotch, while the bobbies are on the beat.

A blossom opens a leaf unfurls, breathes the rain drops in
The first sup of clean water in these london streets so grim.
Pitter, patter, feel the rain - dodging in and out of doorways
Trying to keep dry in the summer rain as one does always.

The ringing of the bells, Big Ben strikes the hour
A begging hand from a pile of rags huddled in the shower.
The old queen is dead and gone, but wanders through her city
Looking left and right, she shakes her head in certain pity

Through London town she wanders where dirt and grime abound
She’s searching for she does not know - until it she has found
The thunder crashes the rain pours then drips slowly to an end
The queen is dead long live the King she prays his ways he’ll mend.

©~GG~ 2012 
Entry for Tracie's Anything goes competition This is a Poem I have just done for a Magazine about when Queen Victoria died. 

Details | London Poem | |

The City And The State Of Play Today

THE CITY AND THE STATE OF PLAY TODAY

No one worries about morals today 
They follow the rules they create
So to them all is ok
Those on the outside looking in 
Are the only ones feeling queasy 
As avarice and selfishness triumphs
So easily 

Good corporate citizens they claim to be
Industry awards abound on their walls
As thank you tokens from themselves
Yet society harbours a lot of ill-will
As it feels the often brute force of 
The raid
 Grab 
And destroy mentality
Of people only wishing to make money 
Any which way 
While Using up all of society’s communal resources

Sharks abound
The waters are forever bloody as they 
Know no fraternity and would gladly 
Cannibalize anyone with no influence 
The ability to upend competitors
A cherished characteristic 
In a bullish machismo drenched environment 

Bullet proof psyches
Absorb and repel any pangs
About unfairness
Blocking any regulatory or chattering classes’
Attempt at nirvana and equality 
They employ better paid lobbyist 
So always have the upper hand 
In influencing policy 

The gravitational attraction of money 
Towards another even bigger pot of money 
Numbs any cautionary instinct
That would take a long term view 
The thrill of instant riches
Overpowers common sense 
And even decency 
Fat cats they all wish to be 

The slickness of glossy tongued lobbyist
Who spin wrongs till they become rights
Embolden oestrogen low males with no inbuilt brakes
To take risks that eventually cost them disgrace 
They are champions of graft not of society 

Loopholes in legislation
That were built in by too friendly politicians 
Coupled with ambiguous suits and claims
Cause far reaching hardship when the good old days are long gone 
The villains only muster some phantom national pride
 When begging for a lighter sentence 
Some are forgiven
Others fatally wounded by an unforgiving public

Lots of money can be made both legally and illegally
As one racket is closed another materialises instantly
The conveyor belt of dishonesty
Overwhelms bureaucracy 
Who is not David to the goliath that is money

The ethos is wealth
The acquisition and the maintaining of gains
Not often acquired through hard work
There is no limit of acceptable financial comfort
For the millionaire always wants to be a billionaire
And the mega rich super rich

Money must always be hidden from the taxman
Shareholders want tax free dividends
Investors want tax breaks for buying with other people’s money 
Infrastructure and new runways must be built 
But not from the pocket of those who wish it 

With their hands outstretched
And always wanting more and more
From a government too eager to please 
We have a tax system geared to the advantage of party donors
And non-domiciled moguls and tycoons
Who know no philanthropy unless it is tax efficient 

Disadvantaging society by  
Never paying their fair and moral share 
The largess they reap so selfishly
They wish not to share 
Wages are low
Taxes are nil
Only the investor wins as we pay his bills

Fast paced expansionist dogma
Is preached within city limits
Only the highest paid
The biggest company
The greatest profits
Are allowed 
They are held up as ideals that all who
Wish to succeed must follow
Gunslingers they all appear to be
Rushing in to capitalize on the wanton success of their peers
The cloud of misery left behind 
Is never seen for the look forward 
Never backward 
Hindsight is never welcomed in this parasitic environment 

The political will to weed out these reckless demons
Is lukewarm at best 
The revolving door of government creating opportunities
For industry and industry gratefully accepting politicians post government 
Ensures that self-interest is king 

An economy built on flawed assumptions of wealth creation
Is one that must forever be in hyper-drive
Creating ever expanding demand and supply 
That is as real as a thief’s conscience 
When taking the rings off a dead persons fingers 

Money must always be made for 
There is no alternative 
Wealth is good
Poverty to them is laziness

The city is not the heart and soul
Of the nation
It is but one player in a system skewed in its favour
We all must share in the wealth of this country
To ensure its longevity  

Details | London Poem | |

SUMMER, WINTER SOLSTICE - 2010

It was a visit long overdue by most people’s standards. I had last seen my daughter two years prior to that during a whirlwind trip which she and her fiancé had made to Cape Town. I had an unexpected financial windfall and the money was burning a hole in my pocket. On the spur of the moment, I called my daughter and asked her to source accommodation for me in London over the Christmas season. A few days later, she called me back with the news that all the hotels had been booked up, save for the Ritz. I chuckled at the idea of having to spend my entire holiday budget on just one night at the Ritz. Then reason asserted itself and we put our heads together to come up with an alternative solution. I could hear her flatmate in the background, chipping in with her penny’s worth of advice. My daughter hung up and I was feeling down in the mouth about the plans for the trip being derailed in such a fashion. Later that evening, my daughter called back with the offer that if I did not object to sleeping on the settee in the lounge, I would be most welcome to stay with them at their London flat. I gladly accepted. She is a chef at a top restaurant and I was looking forward to gourmet meals prepared by her - including the Christmas turkey.

screeching seagulls dive at sushi scraps on a plate - the urchin watches
The evening of the booked flight to London, arrived. It was an uncomfortable hot day and I showered and dressed with only minutes to spare before my friend took me to the airport to book in the statuary two hours before international flight departures. At the airport everything was in chaos. We were given the unwelcome news that our flight had been cancelled. This was the third direct flight to London which had been cancelled that week due to London experiencing the worst weather and snow since records began in 1890! We were offered alternative flights and had to stand in queues for hours in order to procure a new airline ticket. Some people became very verbose and insisted on being granted passage on other airline carriers (at the cost of our local airline carrier). I do not know whether it was due to the weather or the disappointment I was feeling, but when my turn came at last to book a new flight, I readily agreed to fly on Christmas Eve ( three days hence) to London. If I had been given time to reflect on this date, I would not have accepted it. Arriving in London on Christmas Day would have been disastrous: The tubes and other public transport would have been curtailed on Christmas Day and shops and other amenities would have been closed for the day. This I knew from previous trips to the UK over the festive season. To add insult to injury, taxis would have charged triple for cab fare and no amount of quibbling would have swayed them. I phoned my friend to collect me and when we got home, I poured a large glass of Merlot and retired on the sun lounger in the garden. It was *full moon that evening and it was almost worth missing the trip to witness its beauty. I left my bags in the hallway and retired early – after phoning my daughter and giving her an update on the status quo.
moths dart between moon flowers - lunar eclipse
Six am the following morning, I was woken up by the phone ringing. Sleepily I took the call. It was the airline inquiring whether I could get to the airport by seven am. My friend was dancing up and down in agitation and already had the car out by the time I had brushed my teeth. I offered to pay any speeding fines which she might incur during our mad dash to get to the airport on time. The flight was an additional service which was laid on to get the backlog of passengers to their desired destinations. Heathrow had given our pilots permission to proceed, hence the call to me that morning. We were a total of thirty six passengers on the Boeing 747 – it translated to two passengers per crew member. We were treated to five in flight movies which were current and could eat and drink as much as we wished to. By the time we landed in London at seven pm that evening, there was a festive spirit among us. A radio taxi (which my daughter had organised) was waiting to collect me at Heathrow airport. It was a chilly four degrees Celsius below zero and I was grateful for my leather coat and wool accessories.
steep steps to flat shut out the bitter world - a heart pounds
**************************************************************** *The December 2010 lunar eclipse occurred from 5:27 to 11:06 UTC on December 21, coinciding with the date of the December solstice. It was visible in its entirety as a total lunar eclipse in North and South America, Iceland, Ireland, Britain and northern Scandinavia. "bitter" means piercingly cold..... A term commonly used by Britishers... "flat" means apartment. The Londoners I know, refer to it as just "flat" with no adj or possessive noun or article. Please see the About section for explanations regarding the 1ST AND LAST haiku. Haibun(literally, haikai writings) is a prosi-metric literary form originating in Japan, combining prose and haiku. The range of haibun is broad and includes the autobiography, diary, essay, prose poem, short story and travel journal. ~ Wikipedia

Details | London Poem | |

The Love of My Life

The love of my life looked me in the eye
As if I was dreaming, he understood
Like the beat of an eagle's wing
I felt his pupils expanding in gentility
It was the very first day
I held his hand in mine
He remembered
He called me kind

The love of my life looked me in the eye
Like sun beaming from encompassed gloom
A feather flirting the fingertips
A splash of refreshing water
He understood. . .he understood
And every word was so clear and new!
It was the very first time
The connection sparked

The love of my life looked me in the eye
And then was gone in a week's time
His spirit slid away in bits, like sand 
Returning to distant lands
He never said goodbye
Those green eyes still ponder and shine
Leaving but remembering
All that was said

The love of my life looks me in the eye
As tears flow down my cheeks
I miss the gentle beat of the wing
I miss the way he speaks
The treasures we did share
Are now only a memory that I wear
The love of my life looks me in the eye
Only through a photograph. . .

Details | London Poem | |

The Volunteer, A Poem Inspired by HRH Prince George of Cambridge

'We have a future king to make,'
Said the deep, resounding voice.
'But it is not a proper fit for everyone.
For a king must know first how to obey than to command,
And to abide rather than reign.'

'And thus, I need a volunteer.'

The eager little voices swiftly gathered ‘round.
'To have a throne and my own crown,' said a little voice with delight. 
'A great palace for my home,' cried another, 'or a castle with tall ramparts.'
'I’d be above all others,' said yet another, 'that would surely ease one’s comparing mind;'
'And best of all, to be revered by everyone and through all time!'   

'Don’t fool yourselves with thrones and crowns,' said a little voice from the side,
'Do not haste into a choice you may regret for all your life!
I’d rather risk oblivion and even want, but be free to choose my fate,
What is precious life for but to discover one’s gift and thirst?
You take that crown and throne, and you forever renounce the greatest prize you own!'

There were no volunteers at hand for that grand, distinguished life.
The once lively little voices now stood silent, with cautious glances in their eyes.
Yet they began to move a little, but not to volunteer their fates; 
Someone was slowly coming forward all the way from far behind. 
Soon, one single little voice stood ahead of all the others, and with a thoughtful stare, it spoke:

'I overheard a story once
Of a vast and balmy river 
That braves across cold, stormy seas
So it can meet a fabled shore
And become one with it.

'Wearied from its long voyage, 
It crashes beneath the sheer cliffs.
And as its froth caresses the jagged rocks,
It echoes the green, velvety meadows above
Which gently cuddle the harsh precipice. 

'The wee, babe-in-arms coming king 
Will hold that fabled shore in him.
For he, though one sole man
Will stand for an entire land.
And in choosing this destiny
Of that fabled shore I also shall be,
For it will be a part of me, 
And I, humbly, of it.

'And then, there is the brave lad who in sheer fright,
Gathered all his nerve and leaped into the dark night
Over the unknown enemy’s laird.
Oh, how I would leap into the dark along with thee!
Though he is now long gone, he will live in me,
And I, humbly, in him.

'And the family who huddled deep beneath the ground
Through the terrifying shudder of the enemy’s raging rounds. 
Then, to rise again, and not concede.
I was in that shelter along with them,
And so were a million others who were yet to be!

'Such as the young boy now walking to school on a quiet country lane,
To learn his Scott, his Shakespeare, his Milton, and his Keats.
I will follow him close behind, and my own feet shall grow within his footprints.
It takes no less than each of them to make a king, 
And not more than lacking one to lessen him.
For a king, though one sole self, stands for all, 
And all do stand for him.

'I know that in choosing this path, 
I’ll forever relinquish command of my compass, 
And may never find out what I could’ve become on my own, 
Or what my true talent may be.
I will follow, instead, a course that has long been set,
By others, and not by me.

'But I have a strong hunch 
That if I don’t put myself first,
Or what I feel I’m entitled to do and to have,
And choose, instead, to be fair, as best as I possibly can, 
To those for whom I’ll be honored to stand,
I’ll eventually know who I really am; 
And will meet, one day, the man I am meant to become.'

'Thus, I volunteer 
To be the child who’s one day to be king.'

A newborn day blazed in the distance,
And a transformation was about to take place, 
As momentous as the invasion of spring,
The rising of the harvest, or a mighty winter gale.
Nearly two thousand babies were coming to life on that land, 
From that land, to that land, for that land, 
And a single one amongst them exalted all. 

Half a world away, a vast and balmy river 
Was setting out on its long voyage to a fabled shore,
And nearby, radiant sunlight battled gray, stormy clouds,
So as to break through and paint in brilliant and broad brushstrokes
The lofty Highlands below,
And thus, be reborn as shimmering glens and moors.


Details | London Poem | |

Freedom

It started in Stirling, English blood was shed 
A hero was named, All around men lay dead 
The claymore was wielded against many a foe 
Ancient scores settled with every blow 

We marched south to york, a city to sack
ramming down the gate it broke the men's  back
Once inside we ransacked the town
English bodies dead pilled high on the ground 
The kings nephew commanded, we cut of his head 
We put it in a basket to London it was sent

Now on to Falkirk, we were flanked by a foe 
The nobles were bought off, our country was sold 
They would not commit to the battle that day
Cowards and scoundrels were Albas nobles that day 

Our cowardly nobles, a Hero betrayed 
On a slab in London executed he lay 
He would not submit to English tyranny 
Alba Gu Bragh were the words that he said

Details | London Poem | |

Demonstration

London, London the sea is no longer calm
The Wind blows violently
The God’s are angry

A new government rose
Elected to bring change
Men in suits that bore no pain

Hearts harden, Soul blank
They plates are filled
They bellies are full

Knock, Knock 
Innocent babes crying 
Eyes are dark, skin pale decision made
 
Nights are cold
Mornings are gloom
London, London the sun sleeps

Days are long, nights are short
Future looks doom

Great leader’s men of hope
Bloods on your hand
Elected to rule

Peace no longer reins
Seats won by liars and deceit
Promises made 

Promises broken
Nation crying
Generation lost

Revolution rising.


Details | London Poem | |

Luton to the Cotswalds

London , holds all its stories of old
Tea time all day , tea with a cozy
Tea time held proper at 4pm.
Everyone stops , everyone awaits a pot.

Earl Grey to PG Tips 
Milk served with biscuits
tiny tea sandwiches 
with cucumbers and cream cheese 

From Luton to " the Cotwalds "
Always the same theme 

The different dialects are not important to us
We are fascinated by all the difference
We love the Beatles , and your red Bus.

what part of London you are from 
It really means nothing to the Yanks .

The East , to The south , The Northern , or West end
The fish and chips are delicious served in paper with Vinegar 
 Neapolitans with high tea , fresh cream , we Love Great Britain.  

  to be entered in " new contest "

Details | London Poem | |

London Tipton

Believing you are flawless
Like lillies in the meadow breeze
Convinced you're the universes present
Strutting about as you please

But your transparency sticks out to me
As if snow in the midst of summer
Thinking you're sharp and perfect
But you dear, are fake, and much dumber

You're a little Miss London Tipton
A dimwitted blonde to say the least
With pathetic little taunts, you get what you want
Still you feel you are incomplete

So to satisfy your needs,
You take from me,
One who has sought and fought,
More than you'd ever please

My one necessity, gone-
You stole it away
Love, life, and lust
Beginning to rapidly decay

I hope you're happy, Miss London Tipton
For I'm too zephirus to scream or yell
Thats's all right, because I already know-
You will burn in hell

Details | London Poem | |

THE CITY THAT CHARLES DICKENS LOVED

Let's stroll down the London old silent streets,
where the stones of cathedrals never age,
when the orange sun sets on the London Bridge,
and the grotesque, historical Buckingham Palace;
look down: the Thames River gently flows like perfect rhyme,
to revive with its waves' sound someone's lost dreams,
while lampposts await darkness to arrive...
isn't this the city that Charles Dickens loved as deeply as Catherine's face?
Pride of England: the glory of what it was and
still is for all the English that adore their land...
even Shakespeare with his theatrical mind, must have felt great emotion
in contemplating it near dusk to give him an instant surge of inspiration.



London's Dawn-7:40 pm

Details | London Poem | |

Nepotism's Only Kin Deep

Chip off the old block;
        It runs in the family.
This all needs to stop
        In our meritocracy.

Titles through ages;
        A generation’s game.
Lordships by bloodline,
        Some things need to change.

Birth won’t denote skill;
        It keeps people out.
Mobility’s lost
        When money they flout.

James Caan can shove it,
        And let workers in.
Nobles move over,
        Let our time begin.