"aldermen" poems - Hello Poetry

After the whipping he crawled into bed, Accepting the harsh fact with no great weeping. How funny uncle's hat had looked striped red! He chuckled silently. The moon came, sweeping A black, frayed rag of tattered cloud before In scorning; very pure and pale she seemed, Flooding his bed with radiance. On the floor Fat motes danced. He sobbed, closed his eyes and dreamed. Warm sand flowed round him. Blurts of crimson light Splashed the white grains like blood. Past the cave's mouth Shone with a large, fierce splendor, wildly bright, The crooked constellations of the South; Here the Cross swung; and there, affronting Mars, The Centaur stormed aside a froth of stars. Within, great casks, like wattled aldermen, Sighed of enormous feasts, and cloth of gold Glowed on the walls like hot desire. Again, Beside webbed purples from some galleon's hold, A black chest bore the skull and bones in white Above a scrawled "Gunpowder!" By the flames, Decked out in crimson, gemmed with syenite, Hailing their fellows with outrageous names, The pirates sat and diced. Their eyes were moons. "Doubloons!" they said. The words crashed gold. "Doubloons!"

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Stephen Vincent Benet

Portrait of a Boy

After the whipping he crawled into bed, Accepting the harsh fact with no great weeping. How funny uncle's hat had looked striped red! He chuckled silently. The moon came, sweeping A black, frayed rag of tattered cloud before In scorning; very pure and pale she seemed, Flooding his bed with radiance. On the floor Fat motes danced. He sobbed, closed his eyes and dreamed. Warm sand flowed round him. Blurts of crimson light Splashed the white grains like blood. Past the cave's mouth Shone with a large, fierce splendor, wildly bright, The crooked constellations of the South; Here the Cross swung; and there, affronting Mars, The Centaur stormed aside a froth of stars. Within, great casks, like wattled aldermen, Sighed of enormous feasts, and cloth of gold Glowed on the walls like hot desire. Again, Beside webbed purples from some galleon's hold, A black chest bore the skull and bones in white Above a scrawled "Gunpowder!" By the flames, Decked out in crimson, gemmed with syenite, Hailing their fellows with outrageous names, The pirates sat and diced. Their eyes were moons. "Doubloons!" they said. The words crashed gold. "Doubloons!"

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A rude dawn over the city Where Pepys once fought with his beautiful wife After seducing whatever servant-girl chanced To be around, where kings First ruled from cold castles full of cockroaches, Murderous cousins Lurking through the baleful halls of history Eyeing the empty throne. The stinking River long shorn of fish sweeps elegantly before The crimson petticoats of multiple ****** Promenading along Thames Street, Winking at under-washed gallants. Vauxhall gardens a pithy cavalcade of priests and doxies, Of flower girls, flaxen haired girls selling fruit, Anxious to reach home before the ****** hour of early Evening when beaus gather in alley ways establishing A testosterone gauntlet in the dust-spawned gloom. The road to Tyburn is littered with lost hopes! On hanging day bodies swung like debutantes dancing To jazz tunes- Aristocrats quartered with precision squealed like common folk, Bleeding as much. The city watched all this And didn’t murmur-never complained- Smiled, as only a city can smile, at gin-drunk matrons, pie eating aldermen And the ****** activity in street shadows by relieved young women on VE day 1945.

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Feb 6, 2017

Feb 6, 2017 at 6:04 PM UTC

stanley-wilkin

LONDON

A rude dawn over the city Where Pepys once fought with his beautiful wife After seducing whatever servant-girl chanced To be around, where kings First ruled from cold castles full of cockroaches, Murderous cousins Lurking through the baleful halls of history Eyeing the empty throne. The stinking River long shorn of fish sweeps elegantly before The crimson petticoats of multiple ****** Promenading along Thames Street, Winking at under-washed gallants. Vauxhall gardens a pithy cavalcade of priests and doxies, Of flower girls, flaxen haired girls selling fruit, Anxious to reach home before the ****** hour of early Evening when beaus gather in alley ways establishing A testosterone gauntlet in the dust-spawned gloom. The road to Tyburn is littered with lost hopes! On hanging day bodies swung like debutantes dancing To jazz tunes- Aristocrats quartered with precision squealed like common folk, Bleeding as much. The city watched all this And didn’t murmur-never complained- Smiled, as only a city can smile, at gin-drunk matrons, pie eating aldermen And the ****** activity in street shadows by relieved young women on VE day 1945.

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I'm starting with u I'm saying a kiss Is a century I am saying Baby u r so ******* Beautiful that perchance Buildings glance They'd fall down A plane zooming Overhead would Drop from sky I'm saying I can't stop I am a ****** And escape is futile They've seen the aldermen about it Plastered every light post Every business owner's window Spray painted on the side of The fire house even scribbled In the bathroom stall Escape is futile I'm saying I am losing Touch with the hour I am saying u r a pile of ******* I'm saying u r a light bulb Above a chair ur a syringe In the vein A push of plunger And I can literally Feel the reverberations Off the walls of the needle From sirens passing thru Silhouetted by headlights Of police cars is me Running almost out of breath Straight into arms I'm saying I see u behind the wheel Your lips, mouthing, Escape is futile At the same instance Ripping at seams of my jeans To escape I'm saying please arrest My gun on a rampage Blowing tops off Church steeples Slaying little children At this hour I'd rest But I love u

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Aug 4, 2015

Aug 4, 2015 at 9:49 AM UTC

bratt-m-jones

Untitled

I'm starting with u I'm saying a kiss Is a century I am saying Baby u r so ******* Beautiful that perchance Buildings glance They'd fall down A plane zooming Overhead would Drop from sky I'm saying I can't stop I am a ****** And escape is futile They've seen the aldermen about it Plastered every light post Every business owner's window Spray painted on the side of The fire house even scribbled In the bathroom stall Escape is futile I'm saying I am losing Touch with the hour I am saying u r a pile of ******* I'm saying u r a light bulb Above a chair ur a syringe In the vein A push of plunger And I can literally Feel the reverberations Off the walls of the needle From sirens passing thru Silhouetted by headlights Of police cars is me Running almost out of breath Straight into arms I'm saying I see u behind the wheel Your lips, mouthing, Escape is futile At the same instance Ripping at seams of my jeans To escape I'm saying please arrest My gun on a rampage Blowing tops off Church steeples Slaying little children At this hour I'd rest But I love u

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