"tudor" poems
to exonerate the clippings
they took the back road to oswega
the tudor house rabbits
had long lost their heads
(presumably to the *****
and what remained
of the landscape
was dead
and dry
and orange
that happy home
on the brink
of cattle loop
was now gull grey
the needles
and stragglers
from shady bay
remained (in growing numbers)
on the outskirts
of the driven back park
the once fabled town
of horse drawn tours
and dignitaries
was stone washed ~
on the back of it's
government docks
sat decrepit toppers
set against the high tide
beside the lighthouse
and its measured song
flutes and fiddlers
and acoustic sitars
ride the accompaniment
nose rings
and signage
in the hands of
staged protesters
the sickly spit strewn
with tidal run
and ocean bags
hedgerows trimmed
along the sea side
rolling hills fade
adjacent the chuck
mint juleps
and flop hats
peak on the parade
clydesdales
and royals
blinded in the back
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 2:41 PM UTC
knitting with scissors you run with.
will get you there. but you can't buy a house. i'm sorry.
you might, miiiiight get the Edwardian Tudor for a mansion in false claim
but you keep your gaze, your weary gaze ....and slumber not so sweet, my sweet.
knitting with false gods will get you everything
but Not the Other Thing
that gnaws at the substance of your gut
where the heart resides like a lion
addicted to Aesop Fables -
and dry humors that decimate with bounty
flooding the bleak with our windmills !
you and i are regardless.
knitting with shopping carts and dead batteries. washing ashore.
lick your lips at the foam
of our hysterical event. pitch a ******* tent.
and eat more stars than you came in with.
sew the hole
with a hole and
answer the phone sometimes,
****
i ain't got all day but you might take your time
like an aspirin.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 5:00 AM UTC
Although the experience of trauma is a certain force with which to be reckoned, one can frame its power within the realms of a problem or a possibility.
Consider the bond of brickwork in Massachusetts, as it resembles structures of olde, where the witch trials were an extension of ******* Catholicism.
Please acknowledge that there is lead in the windows of rickety black-and-white buildings of Tudor establishment, which must remain if its integrity is to be preserved.
It truly is a long way to the top of Australasian rebellion.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
He was one of those guys who marry money.
And you can grok that in any sense you desire.
But be forewarned, my friend,
I am well-versed in a multitude of
Marry-For-Money manifestations.
Take, for example, marrying the Boss' daughter.
Come with me, for illustration's sake,
Join me in one such dis-functional household:
George & Martha's place on campus--
A classic Tudor-revival home,
Ivied & plushly-appointed,
A coveted faculty perk
Which goes along with the gig.
And the gag, for that matter.
I speak, of course, of Edward Albee's
Two perversely miserable humans,
Married to each other, to wit:
George & Martha, leading lives of
Pubis-scratching desperation, in
"Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?"
She's the only daughter--
Daddy's precious jewel--
Only girl-child of the President
Of a small, rural college.
He's the middle-aged professor
With no great pedagogic or research prowess.
His working-class perspective,
Viewing the quiet academic life to be
A significant step up in genteel existence.
Except--and there's the rub:
Mere existence is a far cry from
Living the good life Dan Draper &
The rest of Satan's Mad Men minions
Taught him to take for granted.
So George & Martha,
In terms of core values,
Have little in common;
More like opposites, in fact:
His starvation diet as a child &
Her helping out Mom at the
Food Bank on Saturday mornings.
It's those formative razzmatazz years,
He lacked the behavior blueprint,
The overwhelming fatigue of acting.
He's perpetually memorizing lines,
Practicing ****** expressions &
Physical gestures & phrases.
Guard up, another Oscar-worthy performance,
Burton is superb & Elizabeth Taylor
Showing us precisely why she is &
Will continue to be revered as an actress.
George knows she has his number.
The thing about the play is the
Intense malice the couple feel for each other.
For the audience, an experience in stage drama
Best classified as an intensely painful morality play.
A good thing to remember: Live Theater
Adds value to a community.
Give generously, please!
But I digress.
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 12:27 AM UTC
I saw yonder—
leaves the colour of rusted coins
flattened into the soil,
their veins crumbling at a touch.
Coffee-stained envelopes lay scattered,
their paper-thin as skin,
ink bled blue by rain,
a Paris stamp whispering 1928
from a corner eaten by time.
They kept company with a bruised brown apple,
bitten once, abandoned,
its sweetness turned to rot
in the chill of a narrow room
in the mammoth province of Brandenburg, Prussia.
The rickety Tudor house groaned—
timbers bowing like old men,
windows clouded with breath
that had not been drawn in years.
The past lingered here,
a pale thing pacing the halls,
knocking without fists,
begging to be loosed.
Cobwebs clung to my wrists,
dust rising like breath
as I pried open the forgotten mail—
letters folded and refolded,
addresses crossed out,
sentences that never found their mouths.
“Let’s ride the rails,” he said.
His voice—young, low, certain—
rang through me
like iron striking iron.
My knees softened.
The floor tilted.
“We should get going.”
Two women in white scrubs
smelled of soap and starch,
their hands firm, practiced, final.
Step by step,
I was lifted onto wheels
that hummed and rattled,
carrying me through corridors of echo
toward a place newly named,
a place I would never call home.
The economy collapsed like wet paper.
The war broke what remained.
Yet memory stayed—
warm as breath inside the chest,
refusing burial,
refusing silence.
It never died.
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 5:43 PM UTC
A bumpy track led to the old cottage. The place hadn't been lived in for quite a while but was intact, a perfect timber-framed Tudor cottage. Even the old thatch didn't leak. Just two rooms downstairs with a small lean-to on the back, the kitchen still had a Dutch oven and an old copper for hot water. A kite-winder staircase followed the central chimney up to two bedrooms.
The place was coming up for auction. Desperately I wanted it. At the auction it made four times what I could afford. The buyer did not move in however. There was a story about him being in prison. At this time the farmers used to dispose of waste straw after combining by burning it in the fields, a practice now banned. That's how the thatch caught alight. There was no attempt to fight the fire because no-one even noticed it. Gales later blew in the gable ends, then the chimney crumbled, brambles grew over it until there was hardly a visible trace of the place left.
I wish I could have saved it. It would have been beautiful. Instead I bought a little terrace, then a detached needing renovation, then the one we have today. I got what I wanted eventually, but I still think about that old place sometimes, and how I wanted it.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 7:24 AM UTC
How beautiful the sunrise when it came ,
for I had waited so long ,
In vain,
how lonelineses. sweet tears I feel ,
down my cheek so bitter the pain .
Yet I walk were emporers once stood ,
Londiniam lies abandoned .
the Classis lit long since sailed ,
their. Masts beat against the wind .
The river Thames glistened from the morning sun ,
Past it’s banks and statues of gods ,
Monuments to Caesar and suns of the gods lie face down in the sun
broken in two ..
Why should I return for there is nothing here ?
And yet ,
the girls with yellow hoods shunned by the graceful good ,
call me back with their come to bed eyes .
and here I am ,
with ladies of wanton jewelled hair .
For now the Tudor warehouses of
Commerce swell what was once forgotten.
Matchsticks piled one on another ,
and look at them all too full of pride ,
to stupid to see .
Women with weasels in their hair ,
So elegant and fair ,
for the ladies in their yellow hoods say “ beware “
Now the suns rays that lie low ,
a ball of red ,
were quiet embers burnt and flowed ,
Only to find that ,
her Queen awaited
the suns rays of majestic glory ,
as if all of England looked to its shores .
her Golden Hind .
Monsters of the deep ,
Dragons ,
Serpents. ,
Demons from hell itself ,
yet
the evil seas could not swollow this ship ,
or return it’s bounty to whence it came ,
and the women with the yellow hoods hid their faces in shame .
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 3:12 PM UTC
Right off of the 7 train,
Irish Catholic schoolgirls spilling
out of Jahn's like marbles
Their plaid skirts against exposed brick
bellies full of kitchen sink
The produce stand next door
eggs .60 a dozen, milk one dollar
Now converted into a bodega
or maybe even a small
Muslim prayer room
I bought my first album
at a record store on 82nd
The brown paper bags, thin as bible pages
It spun on the Victrola in my
parents' Tudor
The yellowing wallpaper smelled of
my mom's Virginia Slims
And sounded of my dad's Vermouth
His own liver fried
with onions, just as he liked it
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 6:10 PM UTC
I was up to my fingertips
Doing humanitarian shtick,
Visiting a nursing home
Where they're more dead
Than sick;
Playing and singing
And doing my licks
For those with clocks
Near the last tick.
They didn't mind
My performance was sick.
The woman occupying
The bed next door,
Would curse and swear
Like a Tudor *****
Together we were
Rocking the floor.
Just then the P.A
Called Code Blue,
I played on through what ensued..
What was I to do?
Then we heard
Code Red, Code Red,
The one next door yelled,
**** I'm dead?*
I heard her screech,
Code Pink, Code Pink!
I caught the refrain,
Played a chord,
The Tudor and I
Were in full accord.
What was I to think?
Code Brown, she bellowed,
Code Brown, she hollered,
Hitting the ground
Just near the toilet.
*Code Green,
Code Yellow,
Code White,
Code Black,
I'm the victim of a Rainbow attack.
**** it! **** I'm gonna die!
Don't they know I'm colour blind.*
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 8:59 AM UTC
Tudor Royals. (An Acrostic)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tough times the Tudor King endures
Undecided on his bold armorers
Due to hots for miss Anne Boleyn
Ordered aside the maid of Aragon
Removed poor Anne’s head for Darling Jane
Rare son to Jane but childbirth was a pain
On death we see the shrewdest Ann o Cleaves
You know they didn’t get on or consummate
A fifth in Katherine Howard a **** for sure.
Lost her head , took Kath Parr to bed
Six was five too many for a King named Henry
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip.
November 10th 2018.
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 8:16 AM UTC
"BE NOT AFRAID OF THEM THAT **** THE BODY."
( for Wendy Falla )
Perotine Massey
is giving birth
amidst the flames
of 1556.
Her belly bursts open
with the fire's ire
and her fair-haired man child
is born in Death's embrace
"to be consumed
to ashes."
A man named House
snatches the new born from the flames.
But the child is ordered to be
thrown back!
Birth and Death
the same to him.
A born martyr.
An horrendous Herodian act
by this "...graceless generation
of Popish tormentors..."
this the era of Mary ****** Tudor.
Now over 400 years away
I stare into the Past
the heat of this summer's day
making my skin blsiter
a yellow butterfly alights upon
the Commemorative bronzed words
held in place
by a spider's web
it trembles every
now and then
in both past
and present
flying between
both times
"...faithful unto
death..."
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 5:31 PM UTC
Lizbeth finds
dinnertimes
a right chore
sitting there
at the oak
table with
her moody
mother there
facing her
her father
glum as hell
beside her
and Lizbeth
trying hard
to ignore
both of them
its beef stew
thick gravy
and drowned out
vegetables
you're quiet
Mother says
anything
wrong with you?
nothing's wrong
Lizbeth says
gazing at
the beef stew
you've a mood
I can tell
Mother says
if the girl
wants silence
why complain
Father says
I know her
and you don't
Mother says
to Hubby
Lizbeth stares
at Mother
I'm just on
nothing else
Lizbeth moans
on the rag
Auntie's come
sandwich week
THAT'S ENOUGH
Mother shouts
rattling
the windows
I won't have
you talking
like that here
at mealtimes
it's not nice
Lizbeth stares
at Father
as he mouths
the beef stew
in silence
did you know
Lizbeth says
that Tudor
King Henry
the 7ths
mother was
married at
12 years old
and had him
at 13
Mother sighs
your point is?
that's my age
she sprouted
her king sprog
at my age
Mother glares
at her child
with her dark
angry eyes
Lizbeth thinks
of Benny
pretending
he's upstairs
in her room
stark naked
all waiting
eat your stew
Mother says
no more talk
of those things
outside it's
countryside
fluttering
butterflies
a bird sings.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 2:34 AM UTC
We all have heard of Lady Jane,
A Queen of England who briefly reigned.
Then Mary Tudor took the town
And soon thereafter took her crown.
There’s been Queens like Liz
whose reigns won’t end.
Disposable Queens like Anne Boleyn.
These days, with thrones in short supply
It’s the crown of Beauty
For which girls vie .
Denise Garido had thought that she
had won cosmetic Royalty.
They gave her roses
and placed her crown.
Then one day latter
It all came down.
“A error in math!” the pageant proclaimed.
A drunken judge had misspelled names.
Far from being Queen as thought
Ms. Garido had come in fourth!
It’s Humiliation of a sort
To find out one is an afterthought
To be named Queen just for one day,
Then have the honor stripped away..
The actual winner was quite buff
and had gone to Vegas in a huff.
At least Denise, you needn’t cry
You beat out the Transgendered guy!.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 9:30 AM UTC
The Noble Soul Has Reverence For Itself
Some saw steel as a hurdle
A material, creatively, infertile
It had no use in a Tudor Chapel
As void an object as Eve’s apple
Innovation died with, past, ingenuity
A true lost sense of congruity
This defined the apparent nature of a coward
A form vacant in Howard
…(A car electric powered, Clear history soured.)
P.S Eter Ellers
Walked in, mud on his shoe
The substance looked like a mound of poo
Cleaned it off in a decorative pool
Down river, ran the stool
Birdie Num Nums scattered about
Soaked with water from a concrete spout
Furniture moves with a life of it’s own
The will to which is hardly known
An invited pest
An awkward guest
Painted skin
The Party is FIN
Futuristic Nostalgia
Two are split by the same division
A line drawn with accurate precision
One's caught in the hands of a time piece running fast
Frightened by setting it too far past
Another’s caught in a backwards flock
Allowing time to tenderly stalk
Neither finds it clear to see
Present tense is the place to be
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 7:20 PM UTC
Face all of crag
Lined out in youth
And smoothed where Time thinks best.
Parenthetical mouth.
Asterisk-ine blush spreads
Where Doubt lingers.
Question marks pronounced
Exquisitely through lips.
Like a tactile symphony,
No harsh chord exists.
Not in the lines of the face
Though it looks as if its
Planes were imported from disparate periods.
From a Baroque cheek
To a Tudor brow
And a smirk that even James would be
Hard-pressed to translate.
To my initial A. Long may he reign;
For I feel in truth whatever he may feign.
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 7:33 PM UTC
King Richard and his honor guard
saw advantage slip away.
Northumberland betrayed his king
and stayed out of the fray.
King Richard spied his rival's arms
on Bosworth field that day.
Lord Stanley on the sidelines stood
as if in Richmond's pay.
Richmond did not care to fight.
His men struck Richard down.
They stabbed at him repeatedly
till blood royal soaked the ground.
The battered and contested crown
-found in a thornbush there
-was placed on Henry Tudor's head.
as Henry knelt in prayer.
The naked body of his foe
was tied across an ***
Had ever a King of England
been so dishonored once he'd passed?
Two princes of the House of York
were in the Tower Lodged
Their deaths ascribed to Richard's hands
the truth- known but to God.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 6:18 PM UTC
We've all heard the story about Bonnie and Clyde
How they met, eloped and died.
And we're tired of hearing
About Henry and Ann,
And their shameless lives
Back in Tudor England.
When their marriage broke,
Ann lost her head,
With one stroke.
I won't bother you with the story
Of Napoleon and Josephine,
And that messy business
With the guilotine.
You know Caesar and Cleo
Put on quite a show,
They had a long distance relationship
From Rome to Egypt.
But it ended badly.
She by a snake bite,
Him by Marc Antony.
These famous couples didn't tarry;
They were harried
Before they married;
They met and wed,
But were too soon dead.
Now Byron and Colleen
Met when teens,
Byron was sixteen,
Colleen just fifteen.
They lived together,
To begin,
He loved her,
She loved him.
This wasn't living
As they say, “In sin.”
No rings lingered
On wedding fingers:
No bands of gold
To wear 'til old.
No license, no Registrar,
No vows were spoken,
But their silent vows
Were never broken.
They didn't need
A wedding token.
The cost was never the issue here,
Although Byron always claims he's poor.
And thus they carried on.
Boy, did they carry on.
In a romantic spree.
First came Jordan,
Then Jamie.
And thus they passed
Their years together,
In seeming status quo;
A happy well-matched couple,
For all intents, and show.
They lived well,
Ate well too,
Dressed and drove,
Worked and strove
For friends and family.
And all along,
The two of them
Have been our pleasure
To know.
After all, they're behind
Their doors,
That's all we we need to know.
And thus, they carried on.
Boy, they carried on.
Years down the road
They honey-mooned,
And after this, they married;
Like Benjamin Button
All seems reversed.
Should they continue
This backward style,
Then in awhile,
Following this reception,
They'll probably meet
At their conception.
Should they continue
In this fashion,
Their marriage should end
With their parents' ******
This is
The Ballad of Byron nd Colleen,
and if truth be told,
You're still just teens.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:30 AM UTC
My house was built in 1926
It was plastered with white stucco
framed within a blue trim, once green
which still shows through chips of paint
flaking off like a scab
from a curious child's playground wounds
This house fended off storms and fires
for nearly one hundred years
and stood tall and strong even when
my family fell to pieces
Dad should have left a long time ago
No one could sleep with him around
as he snored through our tragedy:
A mother and a father who hated
each other, both too stubborn to leave
I had dreams at 4AM, when I could sleep,
of the house collapsing, and these walls caving in
burying us alive in dusty white gravel
Mom wanted to be free like she was
when she would smoke cigarettes in her 20's
with young men lucky enough to have her
Dad didn't want the world to see us destroyed
So he stayed inside our little white tudor
tearing down the walls as we all fell apart
and were buried beneath the wreckage
that tore us all to pieces
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 9:34 PM UTC
The Spanish navy strong enough,
maybe too strong for their worth.
Led with the cross and then the sword.
Never questioning their Lord.
The infantry, the Tudor reign,
grabbing at what's there to gain,
As history repeats itself,
living as a helpless serf.
The Tribesman who once conquered all,
dying with the lions roar.
As history repeats itself,
nothing ever making sense.
The Christians, Jews,
Muslims, all,
each one shall forever fall.
Upon their blades,
those raised in hate,
Each one to their own sweet faith.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 6:03 PM UTC
*Every Sunday without fail,
my father would set about getting us on the
family visiting trail.
A picnic was packed, along with our macs,
(Just in case of the rain) and into the car
we were packed.
A beautiful drive through winding roads,
over a bridge that made your tummy lurch,
onwards, to the Pen-y-Fal psychiatric hospital.
The Tudor Gothic style hospital loomed large to a
child in a car. Like a silent waiting beast from afar.
A Charming gathering of gables and chimneys,
disguised the interior of quite simply "the madhouse".
Set in grounds of 75 acres, patients played bowls, cricket,
and croquet. I thought the people and the grounds magical.
There was this secret place with adult children,
smiling, and talking to the trees, knowing of fairies,
I never heard their pleas.
As I grew older, I grew bolder, the same Sunday jaunt,
to our familial haunt, but now I was an explorer.
I was allowed in. In to the centre of the Gothic beast.
Green tiled, with brown heavy doors, antiseptic smell
that clung to every pore and cell of you. Stark walls,
scrubbed nurses, white coated Doctors and thuggish orderlies.
And after your eyes took in those sights, your nose that smell,
the noise crashed into you. Moans, cries, wails and pleas.
The sound of a thousand lost minds.
My aunt was one of the lost.
She never went home again.
She never visited her children.
She never visited her eleven siblings.
She stayed, stayed with her friend Pearl.
Who once told me I had Vivienne Leigh eyes.
She stayed with the randy Italian, the piano player,
the Downs people given to that 'hospital', that smell, that Hell.
She was in the belly of the beast.*
The Grade II Listed Building has been converted into luxury accommodation now, but would you sleep there?
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
The (beep) painting (beep) dates (beep, beep) from (beep)
Holbein’s (beep) first (beep) visit (beep) to (beep)
England (beep) oil on oak (beep) a (beep) golden
Tudor (beep) rose (beep) over his heart (beep)
The chain of office his aurea catena
Of faith in God and in his king (beep, beep)
Is (beep) the (beep) paper (beep) in (beep) his
Hands (beep) Averil (beep) Manchin’s (beep) petition?
Saint Thomas seems to look so far away –
Perhaps he sees beyond his martyrdom day
Except for the rhyming couplet I’m having a bit of fun here. The Holbein painting of St. Thomas More is beautiful (beep) in every way, and I am grateful for the opportunity to spend some time before it. The Tudors to Windsors: British Royal Portraits from Holbein to Warhol exhibition is brilliant as is everything the Houston Museum of Fine Arts does: https://www.mfah.org/
Saint Thomas More, ora pro nos
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 3:06 PM UTC
the english tudor home
my face of who i
was suppose to become.
the chambermaid makes my bed
but dad, “i want to make my own bed”.
mother doesn’t understand
“i don’t know where this
child comes from but she isn’t mine”;
not to relish in the riches of glitz
and diamond chandeliers.
this is your life not mine
i am just a puppet of your image
it is not mine to own.
here little girl we give you
a pony, don’t you like that?
that maybe the only thing i like
he is the only one who
knows what love is.
dinner is served madame.
i don’t want to sit in the
24 seated mahogany table
i want macaroni and cheese
i will eat in the kitchen.
oh GOD, why can’t i have
an ozzie and harriet home?
oh you will someday.
the some day is my new
name and face to own.
surely you can live like a
princess with humility
wear love around like a
wreath of baby's breath
atop my head
not behind
a mask of a painted doll.~~lorilynn
copyright*lorilynn 2010
Sep 24, 2010
Sep 24, 2010 at 3:02 PM UTC
Searching through the archives
of - my family tree.
Struggling through the mislaid vaults
of ge-ne-ology.
Personal contemplation
on what might come to light.
With so much work before me.
I study through the night.
Lines that take me nowhere
all scramble through your head
but curiosity pushes you
as you study - the 'long' dead.
Suddenly things come to a light,
new relation leads
that push you through the lonely night
and sow so many seeds.
Will it be - Maud Plantaginet
who'll set me to the stars
a Sir, an Earl or Baroness
all Great Grandpa's or Ma's.
A close link to a Tudor King
of whom it's often said
that if he doesn't fancy you,
you could well lose your head.
Henry Three, Henry Two,
King John and Henry One.
Many times Great-Granddads
and the list - goes on and on.
William the Con-queror
and someone very quaint,
Ma-tilda Von Ringelheim,
she's an - Eigth Century Saint.
Has all the work been paying off?
Will the journey - be of worth?
For who knows who - we're related too
who has also walked this earth
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
what's with these juicy bits?
got talking to a cashier at a supermarket
because i wanted cash-back
rather than using the automated till,
she was part of a book club,
her grandchildren, something something,
oh yeah, into tudor english,
prope'h east ender but more into
o romeo o romeo why art thou bits of slicing
the butcher's expression, tudor english...
'so what do you do?
finish work early? work in
a slaughterhouse of mammon
and his slot machines?'
'i've only just begun, i'm an
adolf ****** of poets according to w.h. auden,
i mean, wait wait, i can make a calypso's worth
of sound with rhyme, and look ironically intelligent too!
i have ~40 adamant readers elsewhere,
yes, had to look for a publisher on the continent.'
you know, all that jazz & bass talk,
when you're buying whiskey laconically day to day,
and we both agreed: it's nice to leave an imprint
on someone, somewhere else, far far away,
rather than just an echoing footprint of a pacified
stranger passing en route on a shopping spree;
so don't up your game thinking writing is
a mind game of ups and ups...
it's a task like anyone else's, although it doesn't
pay out bundles of Ferraris or ******
there ain't not glamour in it...
you only get recognition in terms of the numbers
doing it after you're dead...
because it looks easy, because it looks like
a granny in an armchair...
what's that, 30 poems in and finito -
carpe diem hasta la vista baby?
strap me rigid on that train, i'll pay with all my
teeth being punched out to see where this is going;
juicy bits my ***
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 6:27 PM UTC
You waded through memories
on your throne
All of us look on, smiling,
False courtiers, pretend lovers
To the hag who was queen
Your Tudor eyes crinkle
As you pretend joy
At this false homage
From this worthless court,
All bows and manic grins
shining winter twilight coldly on you
You see Death in their eyes
As once before in your sister's
When her Spanish heart
Sent yours to the Tower
But your head did not roll on its green,
As your mother's once did
For tearing Christendom in two
For daring
To think
That a woman
Could have
A voice
You stroke Queen Anne's jewels
With her fingers,
The ones she gave you
When she loved your father
Despite all it cost the world
We, the victors of the Elizabethean age
Laugh at you, Elizabeth, aged,
****** Queen
Whose lover's letters litter
The back of her tear-stained pillow
When your cold Tudor eyes finally close
And end the dynasty first founded
On a woman's vicious piety,
Know that you,
Lilibeth,
Liquid eyes
that sunk a Thousand Ships,
Tinkling laughter
that tore men asunder,
Iron fist
that quashed a myriad hopes,
will not be mourned.
Nov 7, 2020
Nov 7, 2020 at 8:29 PM UTC