Best London Poems
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.
The west winds of springtime
Brought forth April showers
That rained on the pavements
Of Southwick for hours.
It was standing room only
And full to the brim
As people sought shelter
At the old Tabard Inn.
A man with a top hat
Sat staring in space.
There was illness and sadness
Etched deep in his face.
A man with a fob watch
Was seen swapping gold
For a bottle of whisky
Before facing the cold.
A woman sighed deeply
Then laughed with a guest
While sipping tap water
And winning at chess.
There was no chef so no food
Since that dark violent day
When the innkeeper watched him
Being stretchered away.
So the sailor (being followed)
Missed having his tea,
And drank five pints of real ale
Before leaving for sea.
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
How thrilling was a novel long ago
I read for school: A Tale of Two Cities.
It tells of common people whose great woe
comes from the upper class’ atrocities.
A doctor tortured in Bastille has been released.
To London he returns and regains his health
with his daughter Lucy’s help. To the east,
things get ugly for the French with great wealth.
Two men love Lucy: Sydney and Darnay.
She weds Darnay, who’s lied about his family.
They’d locked her dad up. She forgives him anyway!
But now he has big problems. He’s nobility!
It happens that poor Sydney has a face
much like Darnay’s. Though Sydney’s never been
a man of character, he will find grace
by taking Darnay’s place at the guillotine.
This novel shows the need for reformation
and is a treasure from Great Britain’s past.
It teaches redemption through transformation.
Dickens’ stories through the centuries will last.
Feb. 19, 2017 for Line Gauthier's Life lesson from a favourite novel
graffiti stares
and retro drips
beneath the
shoreditch sky
like those who watch
- between their sips
the world and
us go by.
It resembles the London Underground inside my messed up mind
With a network of confusion
And Tracks that twist and Wind
Tunnels full of darkness
stations now disused
I don’t know where I’m coming from or where I’m going to
terrorists detonate their bombs of devastating hate
My trains delayed
signals are down
and now again I’m late
The Homeless have all given up
Theres Drunks full up with booze
Lost souls decide to take that step
What have they got to loose?
The Pigeons flap
leaves on track
Tourist’s are trying to navigate maps
Feel the wind as the train pulls in
Reluctant for my trip to begin
Carriage is crowded, we’re packed like sardines
Music is blaring from head phones of teens
There’s too many sights, there’s too many sounds
There’s really no room now
commuters wear frowns
I want to get off
I can’t take anymore
I’m searching for the emergency door
But it’s moving too fast as the world wizzes by
Holding my breath as I try not to cry
Feelings Of Turmoil inside my brain
A maze of disorder
I’m clearly insane
I long to escape from this madness and fear
The tannoy comes on
my station is near
I pick up my pills from the box by my bed
Swallow two whole and I lay down my head
When Will this torture ever cease?
My breathing slows down
And I’m feeling at ease
I slowly drift back now into calm
floating free until my alarm
I look at this wonder,
This art,
The landscape behind her blushes,
Lone Londoner,
She defeats my love,
Trumps my harmony,
Warms my blood,
She beats my heart,
Passion in her eyes,
Collapse my brain,
Love is devotion,
Dedicated to her will,
To cry,
To sob at happiness,
I really can not explain,
I love.
Lucy went to London
She couldn't stay at home
She was a crazy mixed up kid
She felt lost and so alone
When Lucy got to London
The streets weren't paved with gold
She slept in a shop doorway
And shivered in the cold
In the morning she washed in a toilet
In Kings Cross station there
But she couldn't wash the pain away
And nobody seemed to care
She walked the streets of London
Till she could walk no more
She lost all of her dignity
As she sat there on the floor
Then a man approached her
He seemed to be so kind
He bought her a coffee and a meal
He was a stranger but she didn't mind
He said there was a place for her
Somewhere she could stay
And if she would come with him
He'd take her there today
Lucy was so hopeful
As she climbed inside his car
He said that they would be there soon
He said it wasn't far
Lucy looked out of the window
It had begun to rain
She was driven away in that big black car
She was never seen again
There are many kids like Lucy
All they need is hope
We must not let them run away
We must help them cope
(Sir Frederick Treves, Victorian surgeon, has the
following claims to our respect: (1) he discovered
and cared for Joseph Merrick, "The Elephant Man":
(2) He followed the route in Italy of the characters
in Browning's "The Ring & the Book", taking
priceless photos: and many more things!)
The Eloquent Man
Sir Frederick Treves enjoys four claims to fame:
the lifelong friend of Thomas Hardy, who
supped with him in the King’s Arms snug: the name
of Joseph Merrick (Robert Browning, too!)
is intimately linked with his: he’s due
a place in heaven for his healing feats:
and yes, he lived here, on the street of streets.
It’s Dorchester, or Casterbridge to some.
And Treves, a native, knew its ways and whims
as well as Hardy did. When he succumbed
to his appendix, genteel pseudonyms
were dropped. Tom Hardy chose the funeral hymns.
He also honored Treves in gentle rhymes,
to mark his passing, in the London Times.
The wretch named Merrick, or the Elephant Man,
could well have lived his loveless life untended,
had Treves not found him. Merrick’s mortal span
was made more bearable, being befriended
by one of London’s foremost. When it ended,
poor Joseph Merrick, long reviled and scorned,
found home in Wimpole Street, where he was mourned.
King Edward feels a grumble in his tripes,
and sends for Surgeon Treves, the kingdom’s best.
“You mustn’t operate,” the sovereign gripes,
“My coronation’s looming.” “Which seems best,”
asks Treves – “a crowning, or cremation?” Pressed
to give an answer, Edward takes the knife –
and Treves the genius saves his monarch’s life.
The poet Browning wrote some novel verse,
or rather, a verse novel: ring and book,
Italian murder tale. Treves was immersed
in it, obsessed with it, completely hooked:
went off to Tuscany, made notes, and took
some photographs, made sketches, thus preserving
the base of fact. The man defines “deserving”!
On my return from London
Happiness of meeting dears
and then the pain of parting;
My longings fail to give up
to the things most heartening;
Back to memory lane ....
When Sun rose with tender smiles
and opening of those little eyes;
As giggles marked end of the day
with everyone draped in clay;
Those were the days ...
When we were purely at will
appetite of the chimney and grill,
Holidaying whole day through
with melody of lyrics imbued;
Those were the days ....
Then thick books kept us awake
getting up in the mornings late,
So many questions, how, when and why?
till curious mind rested to tunes of lullaby;
Those were the days ...
Time has flown, memories remain
over the years wasn’t tough terrain;
Colourful person turned to drip
solitude hits hard like a whip;
These are the days ....
My soul stays there
as I halfheartedly return,
Putting smile on the face
while those irresistible tears burn.
Written July 31, 2020
© Dr Upma A. Sharma
Toast and jam
Sausage, ham
Cap mushrooms
Red legumes
Tomatoes
Potatoes
Eggs to try
Poach or fry
Breakfast tea
All for me
Tummy full
Last mouthful
Happy tum
Yum, yum, yum!
Day dismal
Pink bismol
Raining Days of London
Mean while on another side of town
a young man stares from a window at cold February air
dank damp grey filling the world with thoughts
nobody has phoned nobody has called
the money in his pocket is nothing he can afford
his room is growing smaller
air is growing colder
Meanwhile on another side of town
rain is coming down
a couple running beneath an umbrella
brush past a tramp
who catches nothing but tears in his hand
Meanwhile on another side of town
rain is coming down
a young girl standing on her doorstep looks down her street
knowing there will be no pay today
what’s left in the freezer may last another day
as a red Mercedes rolls by
a plush status symbol warmer than her feet
On the other side of town
the rain is coming down
a tramp who sit beneath a narrow shop way arch
catches nothing but tears in his hands
Within these abandoned stone abbey walls
An old coffin can be seen on the site—
And strange sounds from the creatures of the night
Are heard echoing through the empty halls.
The vampire keeps sleeping until night falls—
Waiting for another victim to bite.
Once there is no longer any sunlight,
He awakes, and from his coffin he crawls.
Roaming the streets when the full moon rises,
He feeds on the blood of the innocent—
Then takes flight as a bat, flapping his wings.
Known as the Count that London despises,
From all his sins, he can never repent—
Closing his coffin as a church bell rings.
© 2020
The TFL Shaman- A Journey Home.
Raindrops trickle down the misty train windows,
Obscuring views of coloured graffiti,
Works of passion sprayed on to embankment walls.
Bright colours splattered onto neglected structures,
Wild Statements of art,
Arising from the urban ashes of creativity.
Serious and distant faces find the protection,
In-ear plugs and Smartphones, from a carriage,
Painted in soulless grey and from fellow travellers,
Silhouetted against stark Fluorescent lighting,
From contact that might demand a human response.
Hopeful eyes, searching screens for some outreach of love,
Social media, this agency of sometimes silent desperation,
Of outsourced spirituality,
Paper castles and empty rooms,
Designed to steal us from the very now,
This very now, that would wake us,
From a digital nightmare.
Suddenly the sunlight slips through dark clouds,
Transforming the soulless city grey
Into instant beauty,
Sunlight bounces of wet sparkling windows,
Shafts of white light scatter across sky and
Concrete Landscapes, highlighting and making special
For just a moment, the ordinary.
And against a quietness,
Only disturbed by the rumbling train,
Comes the faint voice of a passenger singing.
Awkward feet shuffle as people turn away,
But as she sings, this TFL Shaman tears down a hidden vail,
And for a moment we stand exposed, real,
Scared others might see our pain.
Next stop, Chadwell Heath a soft voice says.
The doors fly open, and the TFL Shaman steps off,
Her glowing Red hair lifting gently in the breeze,
Her Shopping bags cutting into her small hands.
Outside In the warm summer sun, a blackbird sings with all its heart,
Falling silent for a moment, and then sings again.
John Roberts
I strolled around old London town
And walked to Maiden Lane;*
I closed my eyes, imagined them,
Despite the pouring rain.
I swear I heard a roaring crowd,
But no one could I see,
And then I heard a single voice:
‘To be or not to be…’
The play had ended with the dawn,
And shadows took a bow;
I smiled at him, and he at me;
I didn’t ponder how.
I stood alone, the silence loud;
And knew I’d been there, in the crowd.
*now Park Street