Thomas Bicknell

Battersea, London, UK

I was born on August 1st 1941, in St. James hospital, Balham. I have three grown children and two grandchildren. My job is in security at the moment, although, I have been working mostly on the engineering side for London Underground. Only one poet has duly influenced my work, as I write a lot of sonnets, of course, it can only be Shakespeare himself. I am very proud to have been elected into The International Hall of Fame. Some of my poetry has been printed in anthologies and I have had merit certificates awarded to me by the International Society of Poetry. I am working on a play at this moment which will be governed by sonnet dialogue.

Sonnet

The beauteous maiden that was thee
Has sneaked beyond my sight.
Though hidden, I remember so fondly,
Before I would sleep at night
I myself am no wondrous Adonis,
Though love did strike correctly,
And I made more than a promise
To love thee, until ending of eternity.
One can't destroy such a memory.
Of charm that overtook my heart
Thus, at last, I am able to see,
Thy love is there, we will never, ever part
And beauty, being thus skin deep,
Forever our own true love to keep.

Sonnet

Oh pretty flower, that fingers doth twist
Thy magic of creation, is before me.
Must one pluck thee, with an over eager fist,
Grabbing thee thus, cannot set thee free.
Do I become a murderer for beauty.
Attraction, tempts me, and thy generous scent.
Methinks, to take in thy scent, is my duty.
No flower of elegance, could man invent.
I would, if I could, return thee to life,
But, flower of beauty, selfishness wins.
Realise thou should, that flowers are so rife.
It it be, in plucking thee, there are sins.
I am guilty, and will pay with Gods power.
God forgive me, I do love this flower.

Old Haggard

Old Haggard is without a home,
He roams the streets with nowhere to go,
And, in some quiet park, in London,
A bench, where he lays his weary dome,
Old Haggard wakes in the early morn,
Then sifts through dustbins, to eat
An old crust, will do him, till the night
His curse is, he should never have been born.
Old Haggard, quells his thirst, with soup,
Received from the wagons, nightly round,
Then cardboard boxes he will prepare,
With others, to sleep, within a group.
Old Haggard is there no matter what the day,
Never moving any further, than Westminister.
He will ask for money, for a cup of tea,
Thank you, then discreetly walk away.
Old Haggard, has to live a hard grind,
Though, he would never change it.
He blames society for all of his plight.
And would be happier, if he wasn't blind.