Best Florence Poems
She’s coming! Mom said this in a sing-songy way.
She knew that my twin and I were fascinated with Florence,
she was like our new toy. We had been afraid of her for years
due to her wizen face and her propensity to look like an older
version of the witch from The Wizard of Oz.
We ran out there like salivating puppies,
waiting for Florence to regale us with stories of hangings
or killing snakes, stories that gave us nightmares.
We were ten, ten-year-old girls live for nightmares, right?
She was leading Charming, one of her favorite goats,
as she laboriously walked toward us, head down, black hat,
nearly touching her shoulders. Her white gray hair was flying
out on one side. She stopped right before she reached us,
not looking up.
“Hey, Florence!” my twin and I both said at the
exact same time. I could tell she was smiling.
“Came to see Charming, huh?” she asked.
Then she giggled, but it was more like a cackle.
A cackle that used to terrorize us, but now it delighted us.
She was our new toy, she and Charming.
Florence Nightingale,
from England did hail.
Nurse extraordinaire,
she revamped medical care.
8/20/15
Come help me Florence Nightingale
I need your healing hands
I need your guiding lamp my lady
Meet my one demand
The people, oh they told me
That I’ll never be the man
If I don’t bow down to their decree
Then “Cursed by God, I am!”
Come be my saviour, Nightingale
To you I shall implore
There’s a righteous group of Christian Soldiers
Lurching on the floor
So help me if you find me
Locked behind the cellar door
And there I’ll rest like Edgar’s Raven
There, forever more
So wherefor art thou Nightingale?
If quoting Will I must
My visions of you on a steed
With lamp in hand I trust
And golden lace and silver trace
And diamond jewels incrust
But visions never saved a soul
For souls are all but rust
For now the feathered Nightingale
Can sing for me a song
The sweetest bird I ever heard
Has been here all along
For the Lady with the Lamp and healing hands
Could do no wrong
But I know that in my mind she stays
And that’s where she belongs
Still I whisper, dear Florence
Sing for me a song...
"The Lady with the Lamp," Florence Nightingale
Icon of Victorian culture. Her life, an exciting tale
White pinafore over colonial dress, she wore
She served as first woman nurse in The Crimean War
Florence McLane
1889 – 1902
Psst… over here!
My toppled tombstone is the one
With the somber seraph carrying a cross.
My grave is the one that no one can see or find.
My hidden final resting place is in the digesting shade
By the willowy walnut tree.
Can you find me?
Olly olly oxen free!
Do you see me?
Will you now hear me?
I breathed my days on Pasadena Street
Inside the little white house with the horseshoe over the door.
I slept my nights under the stars
With dreams and visions and intense remembrances.
My cross to bear bore no semblance
To the old bloody rugged one
Borne by my Lord and Savior to Golgotha.
To my friends and foes,
Dead now for a multitude of minutes.
I sought no pain or revenge.
But your closed eyes never noticed
My own bloody cumbersome cross.
Never truly noticed the tiny ray of pure light
Deep, deep inside my singed soul.
Enveloped and masticated alive
By the deadening darkness of the faithless.
My final words to you all:
Olly olly oxen Free!
Florence Nightingale,
born on 12th may ,
was a British social reformer,
a statistician by day .
She was a nurse
who had a magic touch;
helped all the men around her
would never make a fuss .
She was called the lady,
the lady with the lamp
who'd come and provide aid
all throughout the camp.
Out of all the nurses,
she was one of the best
earning herself a royal red cross
she was surely better than the rest.
even though it's been
years since her passing
her impact in the world
feels everlastin
Her
Light Was
Compassion
For Brians caricare contest
I remember seeing her sitting there at a table in the recreation room of the nursing home, staring out the window. As I passed by, she looked my way, so I smiled and waved and she waved back. Since I was there as a volunteer, visiting anyone that would like a little company, I walked over and introduced myself.
“What is your name” I asked.
She replied “Florence”.
I sat down and commented on how beautiful the trees beyond the window were with the sun filtering through the branches. That is when I discovered that Florence was trapped within the walls of dementia. She started to talk and most of what she said was gibberish. I was only able to pick up a few words that allowed me to make comments. For the most part I just sat and smiled, nodding my head from time to time.
We sat for about a half hour during which time Florence talked non stop. When I got up to leave, she waved and again began looking out the window.
Several weeks and several visits passed and I did not see Florence. Then a few weeks ago, as the staff was assembling the residents in the recreation room for an activity, I looked at the faces in the room and there was Florence. As we caught each others eye, she smiled and yelled “Hi”. I walked over to her and she held out her arms and we shared a hug. I say shared because I don't know if I gave one or got one. Probably both.
Since that day, I have seen Florence occasionally on my weekly visits. Each time I am the recipient of a smile and a hug. I don't know who she may think I am, but she is always glad to see me. And if that, for just a little while, makes her happy, then I am happy too. Sometimes it is just easier to communicate with your heart.
Dreams dashing in daring dragoon
People prancing in purple picturesque paintings
Tourist touring transubstanciating terrain
The world is not just an oyster
The world is my oyster
Like a sunrise in aix
Or a sunset in Florence
It connects my inwardness to the vast labryinthe of world consciousness
World capitals and ancient villas spread out before my soul
I am the dreamer who dreamed himself into his dream and loved it so much it became true.
No one is like unto thee
Ethereal goddess of mystery
Of your voice do sirens envy
Only to find themselves unworthy
From you lips rapture of bliss
To hearts of men, a sacred kiss
Virgin passion feeds my soul
Fainting, breathless, ecstasy, all
Beautiful excellence of shimmering light
Exudes from your being as darkness does night
In my conscience you abide
Your home within me angelic guide
Through love, joy, sorrow, grief
Your voice compels me, I find relief
Your courage conveyed upon me strong
Your strength instilled through lyric and song
Beautiful woman that graces the earth
God blessed the day upon your birth
To Florence Welch
The sacred lily of antiquity;
vital, that centuries have not defied.
Treasures, luminaries of Italy;
a preserved cultured city, dignified.
Basilica on the mount arises;
"The Gate of Heaven" takes my breath away.
The dome cap nestles above the city;
A vista opens to new horizons,
Cathedral bells ring, calling me to pray;
outside, minstrels in song, bold and witty.
On the old bridge, wares for sale are displayed.
A passage, above the River Arno;
self- portraits, don the walls; masters portrayed.
Bronzed doors, a journey to The Inferno;
afficionados of art come to praise.
Sculptures come alive in the public square;
Uffizi's galleries, patrons are drawn
to the genius of masters, are amazed.
The passion of "bel canto" fills the air;
night falls, your cobbled streets, dim, until dawn.
In marbled tombs lay national heroes;
maestros who impart the gifts of sages.
The Sacred Crucifix hangs in sorrow,
over consecrated ground, it graces.
A tapestry of life's virtues you share.
To the titans of art, we owe a debt.
Saints and prophets, their relics you enshrine;
devoted in faith we kneel in prayer.
David's majestic strength, Goliath met.
Florence's gifts, a legacy, divine!
May 4, 2022
For: Form O-Ode-New Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Rhymes verified on Rhymezone.com
Syllables verified on Howmanysyllables.com
Theme: Place
Placed 3rd in contest
Crafted in marble
Over a period of years
Discarded by the master
For it's impurity smear
Newly down from the cross
Lay Jesus Christ
In the arms of faith
Thrice
Nicodemus
And Mary Magdalene
With the Virgin Mary
Complete the scene
This sculptured beauty
In rebuild recommission
Completed by Calcagni
Is Michelangelo's
The Deposition
My entry in Raul's contest " The Deposition "
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/poetry-soup-3.php
Autumn sunlight falls.
On golden domes, sweet Arno-
Shimmers like pure gold.
They took Him down from the cross,
Joseph,both Mary's,mourned their loss,
From any angle,it was 'finished'-
In dead marble,the moment preserved,
Yet by living power,in Him, we're cured.
Inspired by Raul's photos of the Deposition
Florence The Goat Lover – FV
She had a wicked laugh, witchlike
Bringing forth Gingerbread House Fright
She lived with goats
They walked through the house gladly
Front door was gone
She wore men’s clothing
Overalls, and she wore a black derby
Her gray hair stuck out in crazy ways
We were terrified of her
Florence, the Goat Lover gave us
Wild stories about black snakes
Curling around her tomatoes
She killed them with a hoe
Which she carried and shook at us
When she wanted to demonstrate
Her murdering ways,
She told us about hangings too.
She had seen them
In her days as a child.
We were mesmerized and terrified
Running out to be with her and her goats
Whenever we could as she walked between gardens.
The goat had a bell, which called us out of our childhood laziness.
The most interesting, frightening,
Terrifying non-woman-like woman
We had ever met, in our ten years of life.
Florence, our childhood hero.
She lived her life on her own terms,
Not caring about social norms or niceties.
She taught me it is okay to be me.
My childhood hero, who always
Shrieked a maniacal Tasmania Devil screech when she saw a snake.
Delighting us in her joy of a good kill.
Written 2-28-2019
Contest: What’s In a Name Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues