It’s night
The moon shines coldly
An otherworldly light lives in my room
The quiet night noise of the city is music
Beautiful, unique atmosphere. This is also London
I timed my departure to coincide with the
lunar eclipse, but the
eastern horizon wasn't apparent,
in the park, or at the top of the road
my local high points
I scanned the firmament along with
other rando hopefuls but there was
no show to see so
onwards and upwards we went
as wine of a deep red hue
wasn't going to
buy or drink itself
Been to the London Stock Exchange
opened in 1571 by Elizabeth the Queen
and what's more saw the New York Big Board
the world's largest stock market ever seen
but when I took a trip to Paris
had no clue as to what to do
altho' I was educated in French
(parlez-vous?)
I believe brokers did so to discommode
as when yelling buying or selling
they communicated in Bourse code
Born in Lyme Regis Dorset
a palaeontologist fossil collector
in the English Channel marine bed cliffs
and a coprolites (faeces) detector
who at only twelve years old
found the first two skeletons plesiosaur
and outside Germany
that of a pterosaur
yet as a woman who did not
always receive full credit
for her scientific contributions
and ineligible to join to their discredit
the Geological Society of London
while struggling financially
for her it was no shell game
to make ends meet as circumstantially
when selling shells by the seashore
the seashore shells she sold
were her start of the first shell company
by the Natural History Museum in London I was told
Victoria couch station does not go
To sleep.
It's not even a one third of an aesthetic
But poets make frogs into princes so
...
I see the becoming in change. The
Comfort of being taken to a
Known destination not needing
To know the way.
It happens only in travels like that.
I see the becoming in repetition. A
Man sweeping the floor yet another time.
He is watching people like mouses.
Running
About their business not knowing
Why.
A constant of life in a place as busy as an
Ant house.
This place does not go to sleep. Lights colour it's windows
To scare away the ghosts of rest.
Stillness is a demon unable to possess.
A mouse, after mouse, after mouse. But what happens when
A mouse snaps out
Of this ?
He lived in chilly, damp London
at the intersection of Medieval
and Modernity
We know little of his life
Some indeed question
if he even existed at all
Yet this mysterious figure
known as Shakespeare
Wrote of events in Ancient Rome
in Africa, Denmark and medieval Italy
across space and time
As if he had experienced them intimately...
I don’t know about you
but as for me
I can only write of what I've experienced
~ personally
It looks to me like the iconic photo was shot on a Sunday
Behind an abbey that was soundless with loud prayers
The traffic was more human than mechanical
On the broad, asphalted spine of a skinned, dead zebra
Where four men created a useful, eye-catching scene
With their stern military march of youthful legs,
Coming together, yet drifting solemnly apart,
Each carrying that weight of something serious.
Crossing the London Bridge by trike,
I observed a head upon a pike.
So, I politely doffed my cap
and returned home to take my nap.
Through fog, on the London Bridge, I saw an image so forlorn -
upon a pike, a traitor's head. The span it would adorn.
While I understand the appeal of a well-weathered head,
wouldn't Christmas lights have been a better choice instead?
London,
a great house standing by
a long water,
bathed by a golden sun
behind the closed doors
of the eastern clouds
that send stuttering rains
even on the hearth of summer
to salute all that pass
the kennels of the
city once they have legitimate
travel passes that will elevate
them high enough to see
the Big Ben -
a timely invention
chiming and tolling,
to remind us of our
immigrating hearts.
When asked, 'If the orchestra conductor
had made an effort more concerted
not to miss the concert
and a sordid scene averted,
would he have been less disconcerted?'
"Don’t ask me, I’m only the drummer,"
replied I in chagrin.
And, altho' the name of my favourite band
is the one I am currently in,
I do like the sound of the moniker, 'Big Ben,'
it's music to my ears and have to admit,
it has a certain ring to it."
As it appeals one feels it would sell well as a bell
(at fifteen point one short tons)
and wake everyone with its loud knell.
Jews are aliens
we return to mother ship
relax wine and feast
a bobble hat fellow rumbles along
sharp turns behind me - hello -
but reaches up to the wall
grabs an apple 80 percent intact
and hobbles away again
a few seconds later he's back again
turns behind me, bends low
and picks up the soggy, abandoned
box of donuts
two inside remaining
successful mission
he wobbles away
Thought I heard a bluebird sing
somewhere over the rainbow
I was wrong 'twas but a song
playing away there on the radio
bought a garland and some gum
for Frances the girl next door
sadly due to a bad accident in London
the unfortunate lady is here no more
studio moguls and public pressures
to their shame were to blame no doubt
but the brainless Scarecrow simply said
of her... 'She just plain wore out'
Look, London ladies, buff your speech
Mind your soiled plantation fingers
Nary a trace of our old worlds
Occupy their halls royally
Porcelain cups poised on pinkies
Specific Types of London Poems
Definition | What is London in Poetry?