Best Abbey Poems
Within these abandoned stone abbey walls
An old coffin can be seen on the site—
And strange sounds from the creatures of the night
Are heard echoing through the empty halls.
The vampire keeps sleeping until night falls—
Waiting for another victim to bite.
Once there is no longer any sunlight,
He awakes, and from his coffin he crawls.
Roaming the streets when the full moon rises,
He feeds on the blood of the innocent—
Then takes flight as a bat, flapping his wings.
Known as the Count that London despises,
From all his sins, he can never repent—
Closing his coffin as a church bell rings.
© 2020
Things bloom more beautiful when breaking down.
The nave now ploughs through foams of flowering trees,
a frozen caravel. Kissed by the breeze,
the river surface suddenly seems to frown
exquisitely. The apse’s jaunty crown
of weeds above one (sightless) eye would please
romantic poets. What was once a friese
lies strewn about, a shaley shanty-town.
We love whatever withers, atrophies.
To see a calked construction founder, drown
beneath its own detritus, by degrees
slough off its shape and, sinking to its knees,
expire, is satisfying. Velvet gown?
We’d much prefer to see a soiled chemise.
A lake? A cloud? A mountain? Megan Fox?
If we acknowledge Beauty in these things,
what are we saying? As when Smokey sings,
or girls emerge in slinky summer frocks,
something’s taking place outside the box
of regularity, and sprouting wings.
How might we classify these happenings?
A rupture in the norm? The whole Baroque’s
built on this very point. If Beauty rocks,
what is the special quality it brings,
and why is it so pleasing? Beauty flings
a spanner in the works of Orthodox,
and laughs at Workaday. It mocks
our essence, lurks in quirks, and smirks at clocks.
“The Wordsworth ouevre is cretinous. Discuss.”
The Long, Laborious Quest, The Sparrow’s Nest,
The Noble Oak of Guernica, Addressed –
We can’t escape the feeling he’s a wuss.
His subjects are unconscionable, plus
the rhymes he uses are a facilefest.
If only he were even half in jest!
His humour’s unintentional, and thus
more entertaining than he could have guessed.
Yet something in his scribblings seems to wrest
significance from dross, analogous
to Newton’s differential calculus,
invented by the by, at whim’s behest.
When Wordsworth falls apart, he’s at his best.
We are going on a trip to the British Isles
and Channel Island of Guernsey and Normandy.
This sure should be quite a cruise. Here is my
first poem I am writing about it even though I
have not been there yet. Here goes.
Crabby Walking Though the Abbey
by James Thomas Horn before we
go bye.
Can't leave London without having fish and chips
Which originated from slick, sailing ships;
Could ride by restaurant in horse drawn coach
See beautiful women while wearing a broach.
Many smiling people everywhere we shall see;
Some may even be from upper high society
Who all have much money they can spare
Yet, still can seed noses held high in the air.
While we were looking did see a lovely doll,
And ended up having a big barroom brawl;
After we left and what soon was a little later
Americans were accused of being an instigator.
From it all we started having terrible cough
Maybe it was from riding get on and get off;
Over pages of those punished started to skim;
No wonder Tower of London looks so grim.
But, at last, lovely parade now had begun;
Women had fun wearing hair in a big bun;
After seeing hats and hearing all of the hype,
Wanted to hear band who played a bagpipe.
Saw some important people in front of a manor
And out in front of it could find a big banner,
But you could see me starting to get crabby;
Wife said we will walk though entire abbey.
James Thomas (Out of Breath) Horn
www.poetrysoup.com
www.story-telling-around-the-world.com
Drama centered on an aristocratic British family in
Old times- early twentieth century
Waited on by butlers, footmen, maids and valets
Noble families lived wrapped in luxury, night and day
Tale of young suitors, attractions, loves and marriages
Of young Ladies with service class rocked the family carriage
Not uncovered till late-child out of wedlock added to the disparage
As World War and other world events stirred awakening
Barriers between lord and servant started fading
Butlers sought jobs as teachers, cooks sought education
Erosion of aristocracy was inevitably writ in the nation
“Yes My Lord” would not be heard by future generations
Written on :07/18/2016
Contest: "Your Favorite Habit-forming TV Show" by Tom Quigley
Horn Hiaku Triplet of Downton Abbey
Between you and me
Her knockers could hardly see
What a way to be.
She seemed to extreme
With no features that redeem
Part of a bad dream.
Bra was twenty-two
And more pounds lost quite a few
Which was end of you.
She set rapid pace
Did disappear into space
We could not replace
Were delirious
After many more queries
Had stopped whole series.
Wife sure was crabby
Now no more Downton Abbey
Stopped being happy.
I was even starting to like it.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
the past (( collaboration ))
by~ Abbey Haigh
'The past gives me goosebumps,
to think about in detail,
not to hover over the pits like a feather,
but to burrow deep down into the cracks and the creases,
to unpeel the half healed wounds and to pour salt on the cuts that are red and angry'
by~ Poet Destroyer
The past imposes on my future,
of what is and could of been.
Strike them like a match,
and trap every old memory in the burning abyss.
Abuse every thought that triggers out the barrel of a gun in to my mind'
A collaboration with * Abbey Haigh
In the abbey lived Friar McFunk,
Who pounded piano while drunk,
But to pay for his rye,
Was caught robbing the tythe,
Now they call him Felonious Monk.
You were my friend until you went away
I cry when I think of you
But you are running with others of your kind
With no boundaries and free
You were my soul mate until you went away
I could confide to you everything
You listened but never judged me
We were so different yet so the same
In our world together
You were my companion until you left me
You were loyal your whole life
The tender moments we shared never to be forgotton
The tears I shed you must hear
You were my precious Abbey until you went away
Your bright brown eyes grew lifeless and indifferent
Until we meet again know I miss you
My dear Abbey
The rooms sit empty, disused as of late.
The worn, wood floors, now, creak without weight.
Halls once sang to the harmony of life;
To the steps of many – socks and sandals, rife.
The halls hum, now, to a different tune;
Soft tunes moving with the motions of the moon.
Still, there are the sounds of feet, near and far;
The feet of mice, little pink things, they are.
Still another step muffles all other.
Soft, padded toes on worn wood, cover
Great distance if needed, wished or wanted.
They are footfalls of a feline, taunted.
Those clever tricksters, also known as mice,
Are smart enough to fool any cat at least twice.
Though cleverness and trickery aren't needed,
Since fun is all that's ever been deeded.
It’s said that “when the cats away, the mice play.”
Well, these mice have never missed a day’s play,
Since their purring friend stays, wholly, at bay
(Dubbing her: The Tabby of the Abbey).
The Fab Four crossing Abbey Road in single file, led by John in white suit
and shoes, followed by Ringo in black suit and shoes, bare footed Paul
in gray suit and George in denim and white shoes, all in synced with left
foot forward, except Paul and their short shadows inside the crossing.
Tree and parked car lined road under a clear blue sky, brown flats
peeking or towering the green trees and a bystander on the right
side and cars in both lanes a long way off, no traffic, no pedestrians
on a sunny, midday, based on the shadows in Abbey Road in London.
No album title, no band’s name and no artist name, just an image so
simple and memorable, the band casually crossing Abbey Road in a
moment of stillness that became one of the famous artworks in
history and album cover of all time and one of the most imitated.
The most recognizable album cover in history, the photo of the
Beatles crossing Abbey Road, taken in the summer of sixty nine,
fifteen minutes before noon on August eight to be précised.
An iconic album cover for the image resonated with the fans.
There are wall posters of this photo and it seems men, my age,
in music industry have one in their living rooms or studios.
The photograph of the most influential band in the world walking
on a zebra crossing became one of the most imitated of all time.
I am one of those who imitated it five months ago, 19 of October
at eleven fifty in the morning, when we had photos taken crossing
Abbey Road, amidst a busy road in northwest London in St. John’s Wood
in the city of Westminster, outside Abbey Road Studios, formerly EMI.
We crossed Abbey Road in single file with me leading, followed by my
daughter and my granddaughter with our fourth person, my grandson
taking the pictures so he was not included, kind of disappointing.
How I wish we were there on October 9, John Lennon and my birthday.
Can a teenage girl possibly thrive
On six-inches of masculine drive?
If you can revive
Then you will survive
As six-inches chugs better than five!
Window at the Abbey
Through the window I see
the sun fire up
for the last time today.
There are jays
in the trees near the meadow,
crows in the grass
I cut with a scythe
early this morning.
Still on my platter
corn from the fields,
scallions, tomatoes,
bell pepper and cheese.
I'll remain at my table
with lemon and tea
and look out on the land
that surrounds me.
The psalms a monk
gave me this morning
I'll read for an hour
before sleeping.
Donal Mahoney
Not often
you find such a landslide
of conkers
but my father saw them
glossy brown
among the hedgehog casing.
So we foraged
with the rove beetle, earthworm, mite,
lifting box-loads of mahogany jewels
into the back of the Riley.
Going home
I was ready to stage my strung shells
for the big fight
in the playground.
Time was short
and I was in a hurry
to catch all the fun I could hold.
Next term
it could be origami
or the sprung reel
of the Yo-yo
and then the winter snows.
Autumn at the Abbey
Through the window I see
the sun fire up
for the last time today.
There are jays
in the trees near the meadow,
crows in the grass
I cut with a scythe
early this morning.
Still on my platter
corn from the fields,
scallions, tomatoes,
bell pepper and cheese.
I'll remain at my table
with lemon and tea
and look out on the land
that surrounds me.
The psalms a monk
gave me this morning
I'll read for an hour
before sleeping.
Donal Mahoney