Fly BMI, to land in time
There is no time to waste
Stroll down along the Serpentine
The morning air to taste
Across the park to Albert Hall
To Kensington High Street
And further on, towards the Mall
Where you can rest your feet
It’s got to be the Living Room
Their Dover sole is great
Pale sun, and even paler moon
Fall down on your plate
Two people here, three people there
Dull people talk and turn
I like the fuss they make, don’t care
To be liked in return
On Charing Cross I’m quick to toss
Some CDs at the Foyles
A truly searching lad I was
To find my kind of noise
End of the day, the hotel bar
I’m looking at the floor
There is no more Thistle Hyde Park
And Living Room’s no more
The times have changed, but I remain
About the same today
Although it’s quite a different game
I imitate to play
Those were the days, my darling dear
Those were the nights as well
Fly BMI, to disappear
No one would care to tell.
Dust gathers
on the sleeves of morning,
while sunlight hides
inside tired hands.
The city wakes slowly...
steel shutters,
factory smoke,
a kettle singing
in a worker's kitchen.
Someone walks toward another day,
carrying yesterday's exhaustion
like an invisible country
upon their back.
Yet dawn persists,
breaking through cracked pavements
and the stubborn courage
of ordinary people.
Flags rise like restless birds.
Voices gather
like rain before the storm.
Even silence
learns a different breath.
For every road,
every tower,
every window lit after dark
has passed through
the hands of someone unseen.
And somewhere
beneath the noise of the world,
a quiet truth endures:
No life is ever small.
Copyright@farukahmedroni
Do you guard the water’s edge,
or watch my vessel glide?
You climb through space, a silent pledge,
to guide the gentle tide.
A voyager of folded sheet,
my crisp white edges free,
where sky and mirrored shadows meet
in quiet harmony.
Without a compass, chart, or strain,
trapped in a fleeting design,
I drift through ripples, rain, and lane,
along a winding line.
And if I soak where waters yield
and sink beneath the clay,
I’ll anchor in a sodden field,
reborn in earth someday.
When I
switch on
the light,
I think
of you,
Faraday.
Born
to a poor
blacksmith
in London,
where poverty
tried
to bury
your dreams.
Yet you
listened
to Nature,
while kings
listened
to power.
You discovered
electromagnetic
induction,
the heartbeat
of generators,
transformers,
and the
electric motor.
You gave
light
to a world
that had
forgotten
how to
dream.
In 1825,
you discovered
benzene,
a gift
to science
and industry.
When I
pass
the Sandemanian
church plot
at Highgate,
I remember
that greatness
can rest
in silence.
You conquered
poverty.
You conquered
ignorance.
Without
wealth.
Without
titles.
Without
formal education.
The powerful
built empires.
You built
the future.
Every lamp
that defeats
the night
whispers
your name.
And when
the streetlights
flicker,
I do not
see electricity.
I see
Michael
Faraday—
the poor
man's son,
who became
the light
of the
nineteenth
century.
Invasions I fear
How good am I with the sword?
I protect brown skin
As the flowing river runs toward the sea,
Like the London Eye gazing upon the Thames,
My eternal love simply flows away.
Even in the moment we hold hands,
Looking into each other's eyes,
And whisper our love,
As the Thames flows beneath the London Bridge,
My love, too, simply flows away like that.
My love also vanishes
Into an unknown, fleeting mist,
And the chimes of Big Ben echo through the fog,
Leaving only tears to flow within my memories.
My love was the wave of my eternal sea,
Crying out toward you.
Oh, thou chimes echoing through the mist,
Toll for me!
My love still remains with you.
Oh, thou darkness within the mist,
Come to me!
Carrying my tears upon the River Thames,
I shall offer my love to you,
For someday, my love
Will come before the London Eye.
O fierce wind, that seems to shake
A thousand years of time!
Come to me.
O my light, that seems to pierce
Through the clouds of the vast sky!
On the day you come to my side,
For your sake,
I shall become the chimes of Big Ben!
Circling in the swinging rounds
Sleeping in the busy train
Of the London Underground
Missing over and again
Escalators that deliver
Upwards to the rainy street
Interrupted dream will quiver
Falling down under feet
What was real, becomes imagined
More amorphous, less greater
Undeniably nostalgic
Though I will deny it later
I return to where I’m bound
Leaning on the rails it’s me
But you’re nowhere to be found
Though it’s only you I see.
I would love to have cocoa and a cookie I said
In London town with my waiter, name badge Ned
Biscuit and warm mud, he told the cook
I was irritated now I said to my friend Brook
Don’t they speak English in London Town?
Never mind I told him, and I got down
Headed out the door to the next café
found out they don’t speak English either, right away
Yippee salivating about captivating clash.. against never brash Kiwis
Not too flash a side with pride not a mish mash but winning wheeze
From beginning grinning egos binning odd bod pods of similar peas
Pacific ease shoot the breeze what they say style of play does please
Not rash no push over won’t just slash crash like T20 bash does tease
Even when on their knees still busy as bees & GP chances will seize
Punching above weight droll niche cliche no nouveau riche disease
Rather pavlova than palaver mate no rigmarole how we roll us Kiwis
Behold the Globe, where Will in splendor stood,
His quill a wand that bent the world to art;
He summoned tempests, witches, fire, and blood,
And bound Verona’s lovers heart to heart.
He bade dear Hamlet grapple with his soul,
And cast enchanted moonlight o’er the stage;
He crowned mad Lear, then let the thunder roll,
A king undone by storm and mortal age.
His verses roll through time’s eternal hall,
Each utterance a flame from voice to voice;
Players and princes rise at his clear call,
And sound his truths in tones that bid heaven rejoice.
O Will, thy works yet walk the boards with might,
For thou hast taught the very stars to write.
poem written for online poetry class
Another gritty grimy old town with echoed din
who sees how many secrets it keeps within
where at day's end amid traffic's sound
some head for home some run around
with rain-washed windows in hotel rooms
whenever there I do roam
through wind-swept streets at midnight
and hold long-distance conversations on the phone
and that dirty old river forever flows
who knows how many places it goes
as the ships come in and the tide rolls down
some make it safe some run aground
and oh those winking blinking lights
filled with promise of earthly delights
will take you shake you
make you feel all right
I would often wander through the Tate
walking round the galleries and halls
admiring all the portraits
pictures and artwork on the walls
it was almost quite the hobby
then a painting I espied
of a proper Peeler a British Bobby
arresting is not denied
corporal punishment is implied
I admit would you believe and have to say
the stripes on his sleeve were a giveaway
but I was unfamiliar
with the artist responsible
as the vignette was neither a Sargent
and yet no more a Constable
Rumors abound
All around town
Lily White
Needs a knight
She is tangled
Being wrangled
By the tricky trees
Planted by Peacocks from Leeds
Wolves are down under
Hearing wraths thunder
Drinking Burnley claret wine
Getting ready to do second tier time
In comes the Hammer girl
Wearing expensive pearls
Bought using Gallo credit
Wondering, ‘will anyone get it?’
Message, ‘relegate’
Easier opponents await
Fans will have reason to cheer
Dousing the same expensive beer
As players work on maturing skills
Crunching numbers, paying the bills
Oh yes, who is going to get dropped
Commentating, ‘our season truly was a flop’
Officially closing the show
Taking the athletic production to parts unknown
Goal now ‘will want to come back’
Claiming healed healthy, surviving a relegation attack
hey whats new?
I am making a poem
well how's it going?
working on it
that is good need any help
yes that would be nice how would you improve my poetry?
well can you dance with me?
we can dance like we are new to the seven seas
I like that notion
And can we improve with fostering emotions?
we can sow the seeds
maybe play some hoops
and go fishing?
yes all this and more
Wow thanks
You are my best friend and I am here for you dude
No silence in our own little world
hidden away from site?
no best to be open Lord's delight
yes agreed we may walk toward the sky
or sly the detection?
many such things unleashed
And a storm is brewing
maybe it is coffee sir?
yep we love to make this poem with you Patrick
Full surrender to Lord Jesus is best for me
thanks
England’s King Richard the Third -
the last Yorkist king and one not preferred.
His defeat by Henry brought the Middle Ages’ end.
If he had a funeral, did anyone even attend?
This same king in Shakespeare’s play
was a product of the Tudor-thinking way.
Shakespeare employed some exaggeration
such as having Richard die in crazed desperation.
Scoliosis is a condition that the King had,
but Shakespeare had Richard appear really bad,
like a “bunch-backed toad” with withered arm.
Who would be giving THIS king any smarm?
As for murder of his Lady Anne,
his wife died from TB and was murdered by no man.
Historically, he loved and mourned her when she died,
but in the play, King Richard was very dry-eyed
Shakespeare’s King Richard was a fiend,
who toward murdering relatives leaned.
Indeed, the kids in the tower were more than just removed,
and that’s a fact from history that cannot be disproved.
London Categories
Definition | What is London in Poetry?
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.