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London Blake Poem
What are the clouds sitting on?
Carved castles
Powerful shapes and delicate dollops
But clouds are flat on the bottom.
The clouds are flat on the bottom.
They are like my great, great, great wrinkly old aunt Mildred.
They must be sitting
On an invisible something.
A divide in atmospheric pressure?
A mile-high, sky-top of our own human smog?
Or the wall that the dragons fly above
(But we cannot see them through this blinding shield)
The clouds are sitting on top of
Something invisible.
What a lucky something,
What a lucky us.
Thank you for holding up the clouds.
Copyright © London Blake | Year Posted 2025
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London Blake Poem
a tangled, twisted oak,
might and trunk torn open, ploughed through,
strewn upon the forest floor,
limbs - desolate
caverns - Hollowed
chest open and body gutted,
taken for Its branches,
and raped of its fruits,
rotting as the fall sets in,
shaking with the cold of fear
and stench of death,
beaten and stinking
with wounds from the ancient serpent
should be left
alone
to return to dust
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Copyright © London Blake | Year Posted 2026
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London Blake Poem
I have 33 reasons
Why I won’t go home.
I am a loyalist
Tortured by iniquity
Captive of antiquity
But the snake inside me
Is unfolding its fibers of cypress
And the water is thicker than blood
I have 33 reasons
Why I wont go home.
Copyright © London Blake | Year Posted 2025
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London Blake Poem
If my body is a temple,
Then my temple is a forest.
A place of worship built by God himself
With arches of thick tree canopies.
And steps to the throne, roots and brush and earth and dirt.
The choirs are the birds, the wind and patterings of prey.
Why isn’t the forest as good a temple as any?
Is my temple less to you
Because the machines have torn down my trees,
Or the blood in my soil upon which life is built
Disgusts you?
But these rampant canyons of trees and sweet smelling wildflowers
Are the offerings I can bring to the one who loves my soul.
And as He brings the sunset
I stretch my limbs to trickle light through the halls of this sanctuary.
It is not as formal
As you would have it.
But it pleases Him the same.
And though I have been torn down time and time,
He constantly grows new life, again and again.
This broken body, He raises up over and over.
Evergreen and eternal.
What could make a better temple than a forest?
Copyright © London Blake | Year Posted 2026
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