Archive for December, 2016

To reason what love is

Posted in Uncategorized on December 25, 2016 by thecockneybard

To reason love and what it is – The Cockney Bard

Loss brings so much pain. Who has never suffered loss?
Who has never felt pain? Each day brings a memory,
a thought, a tear. Embracing love of which is life’s essence, brings with it life’s great despair, when that which was once solid becomes thin air. Regrets frequent an otherwise sane mind. I should have done this or not done that. I believe in love more than anything this God damn life has to offer. Love of life, love of another human being. In a human’s capacity to think deeply on matters regarding the heart, one is to compound the simplicity of love into a far deeper semblance of reality than need be.
I love and need to be loved. One needs not to think too deeply on this. To love once or a million times is not to understand love. Love has no limits, no boundaries, no magic formula.


Merry Christmas

Posted in Uncategorized on December 25, 2016 by thecockneybard

Merry Christmas to all from the Cockney Bard

Sonnet 86 and the true expert on it!

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , on December 13, 2016 by thecockneybard

Sonnet 86

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
*Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence*,
As victors, of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence:
But when your countenance fill’d up his line,
Then lack’d I matter; that enfeebled mine.
—William Shakespeare

I have been fed with intelligence for over 20 years. The so called experts don’t understand this sonnet at all. The Cockney Bard can not only explain it so it is properly understood, but prove that what is written isn’t the figment of wild imagination. It is absolutely true!

#shakespeare #sonnets


Remarkable story

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on December 12, 2016 by thecockneybard

Many years ago I stumbled upon an abiltity/gift I had to write from some ‘extraneous’ source completely outside of my conventional thinking. This source would give me insight into past, present and future. It also gave me wonderful philosophy and poetry. On one such occasion I picked up the pen and began to write over two hundred words in a couple of minutes with no pause, punctuation or grammar, making perfect sense, telling me to go to a place called 33 Belgrave Square, a place I had never even heard of. I was to go there within the next two hours of finishing the writing. There I would meet someone. A train journey from Essex to London was needed, so I immediately left. On arriving I did indeed meet someone there, an elderly man. Remarkably I was to give him the name ‘Ulla’ which turned out to be the name of his dead wife. Ronald Bailey long time friend of famous duo the late John Thaw and actress Sheila Hancock recorded a video of this very meeting and his experience of becoming a great friend of mine. I have had many truly remarkable experiences in my twenty odd years of studying the mind. These stories can be read in my book ‘In Search of The Swan’.  More reading about me can be found on www., & my blog page

What you can say about me and my life is I don’t do BS, what I have seen and experienced is totally genuine, can be proven and brings a whole new understanding to what we as human beings can achieve if only we knew how! How amazing too that Ronald Bailey died on the 26th of December my birthday!


Gentle I – The Cockney Bard

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on December 8, 2016 by thecockneybard

Read this on the BBC recently!

Gentle I – the Cockney Bard

I gentle as a summer’s day, fiercer than the autumn winds, colder than the hearts delay. I gentle as a morn in May, as the spring is sprung, as the lambs first breath. The ghost of death shall pass me by, the darkest night and the tear of eye. Shadows fade into the night, the crisp frost dew upon the leaf, the quill before me writes. I as gentle as the night, as still as the bird in flight, when the arrow renders life no more. Be as I not as before, gentle as a summer’s day.