Poem: And then there was light

by | Oct 7, 2010 | Poetry

at first it was dark
and then a small spark
made a light
that shone so bright
so the night fade away
throughout the day
then the light
slipped out of sight
throughout the night
and it was dark again

Plagiarising the Poet – I’m mad, bad and dangerous to know.

by | Jan 25, 2007 | Fame, LiveJournal, Poetry

Well to take my mind off the drudgery of dealing with some stupid people.

“Are you sure you want your domain name redirected there? You know that doesn’t exist so your site won’t work? No my redirecting it will not magically make the other place exist?”  All the while resisting buying the none-existent domain name to sell to the customer at a later date…

I was doing some random google searches on some poetry I wrote years ago. And blow me down with a feather I found loads of copies of them about the net.

Ok 85% of the found copies were people posting them as their own work, Now in the past this has annoyed me, and i’ve asked for them to be removed, but due to a mellowing out in my old age, I couldn’t care less anymore..  Either that or the fact that all the comments on the poems were complimentary, eased the pain :0)

Or the fact I found one professional (non-personal) site that had one of my poems on it listed as being by Lord Byron (1812). So kinda a decent compliment for people to mistake my work for that of Lord Byron!…

Least We Forget

by | Nov 11, 2006 | LiveJournal, Poetry

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

John McCrae (1872 – 1918)

(Edit:) Backdated for correct time.

Poem: Knocking

by | Oct 10, 2005 | LiveJournal, Poetry

Knocking

Late last night, and the night before,
There came a knocking, a knocking at my door.
When I go and answer it, there is no-one there,
There is no-one at my door, the door step is bare.

Oh who could be tormenting me, and driving me insane,
Could it just be the wind, and the falling of the rain.
Trees can bang on windows in a way that’s often shocking,
But what in nature makes a sound, upon a door of knocking?

I’ve asked myself this question, every single night,
Considering every option, till the coming of the light.
I’m Tired, exhausted, I just cant take much more,
But tonight there’ll come a knocking, a knocking at my door.