Lv 736,336 points


Favourite answers20%

posting on facebook and poetry under my real name

  • How does this poem make you feel?

    In an ice splintered twilight

    Sits dark in the gloam,

    A bird on a wire

    the others have flown.

    Perhaps they've migrated

    And left it alone?

    So I think of the city

    And its burnished, bright lights

    And the plight of the homeless,

    Forgotten at night,

    As they huddle for cover

    And keep out of sight.

    I ponder on faces

    of the Mothers who birthed,

    The ones who have nothing

    on this cold planet Earth,

    And the lesson I've learned,

    If your face doesn't fit,

    Your prospects and future

    Are worthless as spit.

    3 AnswersPoetry2 years ago
  • Any suggestions for improving a piece of free verse, this isn't my usual style?

    Swan Song

    I hold my breath,

    white death downstream.

    Our swans are dying.

    Within sight of castle walls,

    by Eton's bank, February cold,

    Winter dank.

    Planes flying overhead,

    heart hurting dead,


    I find I am crying.

    tears for years I have known them.

    As a child, I danced, entranced

    to Tchaikovsky.

    I would listen to the fall of stylus

    on to shiny grooved,

    Dad's dust free,

    as I entered another place,

    My place.

    Swan Lake,

    I ache for the dying,

    I ache for the fate of our swans

    as Avian flu

    pursues blindly through their ranks

    like black plague.

    4 AnswersPoetry3 years ago
  • Would anyone like to comment on the imagery in this poem?:?

    I stare into the glare of sun

    reflected in the river's flow,

    below its surface, schools of fish

    flash silver as they dart then slow,

    in forests strange that lurk beneath

    while ripples oscillate and fade.

    A sudden splash then gone from sight,

    into the depths as dark as night.

    15 AnswersPoetry4 years ago
  • Does this poem express the futility of warfare?

    At the Setting of the Somme

    Scorched and torched the bloodied, grieving soil,

    where mangled corpses sprawl in no man's land,

    felled by the rapid fire from gunners blitz.

    Brave men advancing blindly to their foe,

    onwards pass their brothers left in death,

    they sacrifice their lives, they give their all.

    All hell on earth as terror grips their minds,

    this carnage we recall brings home its stain,

    seared in our hearts such slaughter weeps in pain.

    One hundred years ago, lest we forget,

    red bleeds our wounded sky in deep respect

    and sinking sun weighs heavy with my shame.

    Poetry4 years ago
  • Would you comment please on my poem?


    Within Lynch Island's tangled tracks,

    I stand before an English oak

    whose girth exceeds all others seen.

    Grey furrowed bark is tough on touch

    as parasitic ivy clings

    on vines that climb to giddy heights.

    I circumvent a sturdy base

    and with extended arms I reach

    to measure round a wayward waist.

    Five times I stretch with fingertips

    beneath its overhanging boughs.

    Five times the width of my embrace.

    In days ahead with tree in leaf,

    a canopy of heavy shade

    will block each ray of lucent light

    and dark the pathways will become,

    that lead to where in May each year

    white bells of Loddon lilies bloom.

    How many Kings and Queens have ruled?

    How many tyrants thrived and died?

    How many battles fought and won,

    yet undisturbed this tree stands strong

    to oversee the misery

    of England's blooded history.

    If trees were able to convey.

    If they could whisper words to us,

    what secrets would they dare to tell?

    That life prolonged on planet earth

    is barely stirred by Heaven's grace,

    far greater stoked by flames from Hell?

    1 AnswerPoetry4 years ago
  • Why am I getting notifications of answers to poetry questions I asked six years ago?

    Some of the questions I am sure were reported and subsequently deleted. There have been appx 60 of these over the last couple of weeks. It has sent me on a nostalgia trip, thinking about the poets who frequented this place back then. Some interesting reading.

    4 AnswersPoetry4 years ago
  • Can you please advise me how this draft poem affects you on an emotional level?


    Once upon a lovely time,

    I grew a rose and she was mine.

    And in my garden she bloomed fair,

    enhanced my living, filled the air

    with fragrant, scented, sweet delight.

    For many days the summer stayed.

    Nurtured, cherished all could see,

    how dearly loved my thriving rose,

    how clearly loved she was by me.

    But then came changes unforseen.

    Uprooted from her garden space,

    her precious charms soon fell from grace.

    Into the hands she chose to go

    of those misguided, miscreant.

    Withdrawn from her own territory,

    a safety net was not in place.

    The warning signs were etched in lines,

    I saw the future in her face.

    Once in a while, her smile returned.

    Ignited eyes brought forth a spark

    and light would surface bring relief

    from darkness, shadows and the murk,

    existence in a twilight world.

    The thorns that scratched and wounded flesh,

    then shredded daydreams, tore on hearts.

    How far apart my rose now seemed,

    and how it pained and burdened so.

    The skin of kin not tough enough.

    Too thin, too thin, too thin by far

    to stop her demons sinking in.

    10 AnswersPoetry4 years ago
  • Thoughts on this poem would be appreciated, can I tempt you to comment?


    If I could conjure magic up

    and call for company,

    who would I choose from those I've loved

    to spend an hour with me?

    Who would I choose to sit beside

    upon this weathered seat,

    while watching shadows from old oaks

    draw closer to my feet?

    Who would I choose to linger with

    amid these scented flowers,

    oblivious of passing time

    or random summer showers?

    Oblivious to birds in song

    or butterflies in flight,

    or daisies yawning in the grass

    as dusk paves way for night?

    How hard a task for me to choose,

    pack those concerns away,

    my thoughts have harboured many loves

    as I sat here today.


    6 AnswersPoetry4 years ago
  • Will you comment on a new poem of mine?

    Dead wood of the damson.

    No longer will white petals fall

    to soften where I tread,

    nor fruit to stain the garden path

    in clots of purplish red.

    Sawdust scatters to the wind

    while kindling covers ground.

    Logs are stacked against a wall

    and death lurks all around.

    I counted rings that spoke to me

    of seasons long departed.

    The parting of this lovely tree

    has left me broken hearted.

    Some may say, it was just a tree,

    but oh, the joy it brought to me.

    9 AnswersPoetry4 years ago
  • Another Autumn Poem?

    So sunlight weakens, stirs our lawn

    in partial shade embracing leaves,

    like coracles afloat at sea.

    These scattered craft of summer past

    have fled a grieving cherry tree.

    And on the ground, still wet with dew

    a compass holds no earthly use,

    they lie prostrate in patient wait

    in hues of red, in random spread

    uncertain of their pending fate.

    Will they become an autumn mulch,

    or feed the burner, turn to smoke,

    send whispy trails high in the sky?

    With all their glory days surpassed,

    predestined too, like us they die.

    2 AnswersPoetry5 years ago
  • How do you feel emotionally when you read this poem?

    Between the sheen of purple drapes,

    two necklace trees stand on a cill,

    by day and night like sentinels

    through summer warmth and winter chill

    a rush of lifetime memories.

    Within their arms they clasp and hold

    the chunky pinks, the greens and golds,

    assorted beads that gleam in sun.

    Some worn in sadness, some for fun

    but all reflect a part of me.

    A few are new, though most are old,

    there's cheerful there as well as bold

    and pearls for tears my Nan would say.

    Each day there's always one I find

    that mirrors well my state of mind.

    They may have come steeped deep with love

    or caught on impulse as I shopped.

    Some dropped quite helpless in my hands

    enhancement for a dress I'd bought,

    yet all reflect a part of me.

    One day dear girl, I'll fail to breathe,

    don't grieve for me when I take leave.

    Instead I ask you wear the pearls,

    to complement your dark haired swirls

    when you say your goodbyes to me.

    2 AnswersPoetry5 years ago
  • Does this poem I have written reflect sufficient regret in its tone?

    Many, many moons ago

    too many to confess.

    I revealed my reasons for parting

    and you will remember the rest.

    It wasn't my finest hour,

    while caught in the cold April rain.

    I stumbled on words I was saying

    and knew they were causing you pain.

    Oh, it wasn't the morning shower

    that drizzled your cheeks with wet,

    it was the message that I was conveying

    so coldly without a regret.

    With hindsight I wish I had waited,

    not knowing your days were numbered,

    and the affliction that you would succumb to,

    would attack and leave you encumbered.

    Your fate descended in darkness,

    on reflection, I wish I had known,

    that your cards were marked with misfortune,

    a lament I can not atone.

    In a box in my loft I discovered

    concealed and hidden for years,

    a greeting you sent me one Christmas,

    now smudged by my much older tears.

    9 AnswersPoetry5 years ago
  • What do you think of the message contained in these lines?

    Far deeper set than those in sand

    which mark a path across a bay,

    our dearest will not wash away.

    As imprints left in dampened grains

    soon fade when fickle tide returns

    or when the wind sweeps them away.

    On borrowed time, they can not last.

    Compare them to the winter snow

    which melts when warmth demands it so.

    Yet footprints cast within our hearts,

    cemented smooth with love and pain,

    they are the ones that will remain.

    You'll see them in another's smile

    or in the tears they gently weep.

    Who says we go without a trace,

    we stay for those whose love runs deep.

    5 AnswersPoetry5 years ago
  • Does this poem cover the suffering inflicted by Alzheimer's disease or Dementia?


    What would I give to see all fear

    depart without a trace?

    What would I give to find a smile

    content upon her face?

    And in those eyes to recognise

    a spark of recall there,

    for peace to ease confusion's cage

    and pains that she might bear.

    Oh Mercy, Mercy, where are you?

    You hide when needed most.

    You lurk in shadows, view the scene,

    I beg that you draw close,

    to soothe her troubled mind and soul,

    for then your praises I'll extol,

    when you come calling to console,

    it's then I'll know you care.

    4 AnswersPoetry5 years ago
  • This is meant to be an uplifting poem. How would you classify it?


    Beneath this frozen ground we wait,

    protected from the iron fist

    of winter as her cover slips

    to freeze your garden, spread sharp frost

    on wayward leaves now crunchy crisp.

    Wild winds whip up and sun has lost

    her welcome warmth, so pale her face,

    no trace of robust, rosy glow.

    Predicted soon are falls of snow

    and ice will cling on country roads.

    Our time clock ticks yet we must rest

    in silent sleep, bear out the chill

    until we push our waking green

    through stubborn earth. And then the thrill

    in early spring, we'll bring to you,

    we'll dance for you in thickened clumps.

    We are your promised daffodils.

    5 AnswersPoetry6 years ago
  • How can this poem be improved?

    Against All Odds

    On Windsor's bank a sapling grows,

    straight-backed and graceful, light on leaf.

    A slender willow yet to weep,

    supportive stakes, no sign of grief.

    Ten paces to her left resides,

    a hollowed bole, two metres wide,

    where once a mighty willow bowed

    and dipped its tresses sweeping green

    into the cooling water's flow.

    I do not know what fate ordained,

    or why or how this tree was felled.

    Today I heard it call to me.

    'Don't fret or grieve for me', it said.

    'Look closer at my roots where shoots

    will prove I live, I am not dead'.

    4 AnswersPoetry6 years ago