"archibald" poems
Georgiana Seymour,
Duchess of Somerset
crowned _'Queen of Beauty'_
at the 1839 Eglinton
Tournament, the first known
beauty pageant;
W
European festivals dating to the medieval era
provide the most direct lineage for beauty pageants.
For example, English May Day celebrations always
involved the selection of a May Queen.
In the United States, the May Day tradition
of selecting a woman to serve as a symbol
of bounty and community ideals continued,
as young beautiful women participated
in public celebrations; such as the beauty pageant
held during the Eglinton Tournament of 1839,
organized by Archibald Montgomerie, 13th Earl of Eglinton,
as part of a re-enactment of a medieval joust
that was held in Scotland; the pageant was won
by Georgiana Seymour, Duchess of Somerset,
wife of Edward Seymour, 12th Duke of Somerset,
and sister of Caroline Norton;
Georgiana proclaimed _"Queen of Beauty"_;
Entrepreneur Phineas Taylor Barnum staged
the first modern American pageant in 1854,
his beauty contest closed down after public protest;
However beauty contests became popular
in the 1880s; In 1888 the title of _'beauty queen'_
was awarded to an 18-year-old Creole contestant
at a pageant in Spa, Belgium. All participants
had to supply a photograph & a short description
of themselves to be eligible to enter; a final selection
of 21 judged by a formal panel.
Such events were not regarded as respectable;
But beauty contests came to be considered more
respectable with the first modern _"Miss America"_
contest held in 1921;
Still the oldest pageant in operation,
the Miss America pageant was organized
in 1921 by a local businessman as a means
to entice tourists to Atlantic City, New Jersey;
The pageant hosted the winners of local
newspaper beauty contests in the
_Inter-City Beauty Contest_ & was attended
by over one hundred thousand people;
_Sixteen-year-old Margaret Gorman of Washington, D.C.
was crowned Miss America 1921, having won both the
popularity and beauty contests, and was awarded $100_
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
A selection of limericks
There was a young lass from the Bronx
Whose ******* make fearful honks
She sounds like a car
When she puts on a bra
And the geese gather round when she bonks
-----------------
Father Alexander McMackett
Ran a ruthless religious racket
When taking collection
He'd offer protection
Salvation could cost you a packet
-----------------
A carrot named Archibald Nation
Had feathers in high numeration
He was labelled as veg
By a grocer called Reg
With a dubious qualification
-----------------
A sculptor named Arnold Duprees
Carved a **** plug from parmesan cheese
He lamented his luck
When it melted and stuck
But he fired it out with a sneeze
-----------------
Knights in the armour of old
Have little to keep out the cold
For they dress as the Scots
In thier tenderest spots
Which encourages rust and then mould
-----------------
Oh ***** you make my knees quiver
You chemical lethargy giver
You tickle my tongue
And pickle my brain
Then you jump up and down on my liver
-----------------
A Fella named Ricky De Gaul
Had seventeen ******* in all
They called him De Chesty
But with only one *****
It should have been Ricky De Ball
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 8:15 AM UTC
I got the blues like James cotton and the crew
The blues in my hands
Like the crew and James c.o.t.t.o.n
Not like k.r.a.f.t
More like zatarains r.i.c.e
...A lonely mans meal
The blues
For crying out loud my ol lady left me
Every 5 minutes for 9 minutes
I cry without tears coming down my eyes
So no need for a bucket
My cheeks are dry
I cry through my trumpet
My cheeks are cramping
I cry so often and so long
The way in which my feet tap you can't tell that it's a sad song
I thought I would've Lost harmony when Monica left
But my harmonica explains the exchange of breaths going through my chest
Yet, blues explains my mood
On stage with my dudes
Audience in-tune with my news
The blues
I got the blues
Can you relate?
Did she escape?
No wonder why you're rapping and sagging
Bluffing and bragging
And your not huffing; puffing , and nagging
To get a case of the blues the love between the two once upon a time had to be true
I got the blues
And it's hard and complicated
I am strung like the guitar
...Observation!
There's no contemplation
Nor hesitation
I abandon my mentals
And create instrumentals
I got the blues
And to prove I have the bruise
Heartache and headaches
Allow me to groove
The blues, skies, teals, turquoises
No lies, tears nor voices
Real blues like fats, Percy , Ruth, king, archibald "stack-a-lee", hank Williams "nobody's lonesome for me"
The blues
My aching trombones
Drug free, but my bass is laced
I let my fingers rake
The blues
She don't know what she had
Hope that I can put down my flask
when I move on to jazz
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 6:49 AM UTC
Fleas as a breed are troublesome
And some much more than most
There’s a vegan flea that lives near me
By the title of Archibald Post
He has a peculiar aptitude
For the swift calculation of odds
So he hunts for his prey on the high street
Leaving peas sound asleep in their pods.
When he leapt up and nibbled the ankle
Of a bloke as he ambled on by
He parked his parasitic posterior
And gazed up at the open sky
The bitten man stopped and scratched an itch
And harassed his smitten limb
When a blind man with a Labrador
Careered straight into him
He fell over and dropped his hamburger
The dog lunged and caught it with speed
But leading his man into traffic
Was the price of this dastardly deed
A car swerved and walloped a lamppost
Which fell through the front of a florist
The bulb set alight an entire display
Like a fire in a miniature forest
A girl in the office above the street
Grabbed her phone to call out some help
When she dropped it in her anxiety
And it fractured her toe with a yelp
She lent on the windowsill urgently
And knocked off and apple she’d saved
Its descent to the street was in moments complete
And the apple was thoroughly paved
Archibald smiled, breakfast was served
**
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 3:31 PM UTC
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown--
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves.
Memory by memory the mind--
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.
A poem should be equal to:
Not true.
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea--
A poem should not mean
But be.
Archibald McLeish
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 11:36 AM UTC
White are the far-off plains, and white
The fading forests grow;
The wind dies out along the height,
And denser still the snow,
A gathering weight on roof and tree,
Falls down scarce audibly.
The road before me smooths and fills
Apace, and all about
The fences dwindle, and the hills
Are blotted slowly out;
The naked trees loom spectrally
Into the dim white sky.
The meadows and far-sheeted streams
Lie still without a sound;
Like some soft minister of dreams
The snow-fall hoods me round;
In wood and water, earth and air,
A silence everywhere.
Save when at lonely intervals
Some farmer's sleigh, urged on,
With rustling runners and sharp bells,
Swings by me and is gone;
Or from the empty waste I hear
A sound remote and clear;
The barking of a dog, or call
To cattle, sharply pealed,
Borne echoing from some wayside stall
Or barnyard far a-field;
Then all is silent, and the snow
Falls, settling soft and slow.
The evening deepens, and the gray
Folds closer earth and sky;
The world seems shrouded far away;
Its noises sleep, and I,
As secret as yon buried stream,
Plod dumbly on, and dream.
Archibald Lampman
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 11:46 AM UTC
I will think of you my love
before they take me down
I will think of you my love
to help me smile and not frown
I will think of you my love
as they lead me away
I will think of you my love
throughout this my last day
I will think of you my love
as they lead me up the stairs
I will think of you my love
as the hangman he prepares
I will think of you my love
neath hood before the knot
I think of you my love
till my life ends with the drop
And when I've been pronounced
and my soul flies free above
know that for eternity
I will think of you my love
Jul 25, 2010
Jul 25, 2010 at 7:31 PM UTC
I'm not a seasoned poet
As standards go
I have neither the will nor wit
To assemble words that exhale
Sensuous truths of beauty
I have been tossed in poetry's net
To serve and protect its fate
I'm not sharp enough
To detect Moon's climb
For I'm not Archibald MacLeish
I'm no master metaphorician
To equate yellow fog to a cat
For I'm not T.S. Eliot
I'm just here to release the waves
That load my pen to barrage
Their organic ammunition
I cannot delve into the dark show
As smooth as Edgar Allen Poe
I'm not one to sing of love, of wine
For I'm no Rumi nor Khayyam
I can't settle music's dust
For I'm not Robert Frost
I can only write what I'm taught
By the shadow rulers of Art
If Yeats is awake
And Shakespeare watching
If Whitman, Dickinson, Keats
And the rest of the sublime ones
Happen to be espying
They would regard me
As an underling
And that would be a win
For I shall never reach
Their poetic spin.
Aug 16, 2019
Aug 16, 2019 at 11:20 AM UTC
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.
*
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind—
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.
*
A poem should be equal to:
Not true.
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—
A poem should not mean
But be.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 3:09 PM UTC
Galaxias is greek for milky
Your skin is Galaxias
It is the root word of galaxy
I drink milk because it tastes like space
Twentieth-century american theoretical physicist john archibald wheeler summed up einstein's general theory of reletivity as, "matter tells space how to curve; space tells matter how to move".
I guess you are space
and I am matter.
I tell you how to curve
and you tell me how to move on.
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 11:46 AM UTC
I have finally found you
In St. Enodoc Church;
Home is where your heart rests
Not your place of birth.
Summoned by the three o’clock bell
A pilgrim across the eleventh fairway,
Towards a crooked spire that protrudes
Like a drowning swimmer,
Signalling to be rescued from the dunes.
As I enter through the gate
Your headstone greets me with a shout;
A marvel of the stonemason’s art
Explosive script from marbles cold darkness,
Radiates your humour and warmth.
I am not humbled, sad nor afraid
This place is fitting to rest your phrase;
Looking down at where you lie
I try to imagine that lived-in face.
Archibald lies at your head
Old and trusted, faithful ted;
So much heard, but nothing said
All through the years of pressured steps,
To follow where your father led;
But you had other plans and instead
Were drawn to words with rhythmic thread,
That made you Poet Lauriat, a knight
Who finally has found some peace.
Nov 3, 2019
Nov 3, 2019 at 7:13 PM UTC
Does the earth gravitate?
Does not all matter, aching
affect all matter?
there's no chance at all:
we are trapped by a singular fate.
But id be in suspense for on such
a pretense
you wouldn't be you
As a bathtub lined with white porcelain
They either ******* or killed us.
Ignore all possible concepts and possibilities
Prey that our eventful alien over lords
are not Archibald-based,
Muscles better, nerves more;
forever making poetry in the lap of death, humanity..
i hate you.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 6:19 PM UTC
A chilled tired man,
Cheated of warmth,
Hungering comfort.
Darker and heavier skies bleed the city of light,
The first specks of rain hit the tired, sun fried, foot worn pavements
And I feel summer sink into my socked ankles.
Archibald Brown, man around town, locks up his sunshade,
The wind lifts rotting fence panels like discarded betting slips
And I smell winter rising in my rattling chest.
Rain on the window, like Mercury drops on a mirror,
Through clouded milk bottle glasses I peer at grey sky and flat green trees,
And I sense Summers end.
Crying now,
Longing for Spring.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 7:07 PM UTC
we found each other
by the Archibald Fountain-
what a day that was
6:59 PM
4/8/19
Aug 4, 2019
Aug 4, 2019 at 5:00 AM UTC