Best Hopkins Poems
Rode around Essex with murder in mind
With evil followers from town to town
Matthew Hopkins was the worst of his kind
Hunting for witches that he could take down.
Towns people would say that woman's a witch
She'd then be tortured until she confessed
Then hanged until death and thrown in a ditch
Hopkins got paid saying she was possessed .
People believed his work was of the good
Earned a large fortune from superstition
By ridding' evil 'from the neighbourhood
Claimed witch finding was his holy mission.
Three hundred murdered in his killing spree
Were all tortured and charged with sorcery.
Written 1st August 2019.
Sent from my Windows 10 device
Hopkins snakes
Old Hopkins had a rope ladder,
To keep snakes out of the house,
Snake killing sticks under the rain water tank,
In the shower, where a snake ate the mouse,
The fowls all lived up in the trees,
Brownies were sucking eggs down, (deadly mulga snakes, dozens)
The bantams were sitting on eggs in bird nests,
Till the chickens were walking around,
Half wacked Jack, demented, said some,
Went to see a drover come through,
On a grey brumby horse, naked of course,
An was strip bollicky too, (horse riding naked)
Hopkins he said “me two best friends,
Are me shovel an hurricane light,”
He’d be punching holes ,
With crowbar alone ,
And fencing on into the night,
So if ya go near StGeorge ,
where the snakeys do gorge,
dodge death, climb up the rope ladder,
if the brownies don’t get ya,
death adders aint better,
just go to the pub it’s your shout!
Don Johnson 10-sep-11
I like this one because it is true story
Destroyer A Poet ~
Contest Name Your (OWN) favorite poem......
Pray for Margaret you Jesuit priest,
who wept for falling leaves but cast no blame.
Her soul, as leaf-meal lies, is now the same
in Heaven she can now confront her beast.
Oh! Grief, not sweet-or-sour, but only grief,
as man was born for blight - same as our shame,
you twist your words like in a parlor game.
In flown fine-flowers you found your relief.
My poor pocket of pence, poor pence of mine
pray! Pray for us, pray you Jesuit priest ---
for motion of your heart, your heart is fine,
with all your want you could not make pine, pine.
Yet, light you gave; you gave the light at least
to cast before us a poetic feast.
Gerard Manley Hopkins -1844-1889:
Jesuit priest and poet.
Father of sprung rhythm, he is a hard read but few poets have as much to teach
in rhythm, language, style and many other aspects of poetry.
Hopkins' health, both mental and physical, had always been delicate; he was
prone to digestive problems and severe depression.
Even though agnostic, I am always uplifted by Hopkins' inter-weaving of sound,
the sweep and swing of words. His is poetry which attempts to break from the
plodding regularity of french-influenced metrical verse. Hopkins brought back
beat to English poetry, structuring his verse around stresses in a breath rather
than metrical feet.
His work:
http://oldpoetry.com/oauthor/show/Gerard_Manley_Hopkins
Katie Hopkins; Wild Redemption
Katie Hopkins, what a *****
She really makes my innards itch
She’s paid to spit and vent her bile
Her views are simply crass and vile
The woman thinks that refugees
Should all die screaming in the seas
And now she is an educator?
Well, Brunel students sure don’t rate her
Poor Katie got no praise or thanks
Just fifty silent backs in ranks
Her thoughts upon the welfare state
Perceived to be just tosh and hate
They sent her straight to Coventry
A damned good place for her to be
She’s blaming social media
For everyone is wrong but her
Not like she’s a cow at all
Or cares if pride precedes a fall
As long as she still earns a wad
She’ll carry on like some bad God
Dispensing poison, spitting blood
Dragging free speech through the mud
In years gone by our ears would twitch
A mob would rise and kill the witch
But that was then, and this is now
Best to simply shun the cow
For centuries of love and learning
Persuade us Katie’s not for burning
She’s bound to go too far one day
For Karma’s not a ***** to play
Eternal justice, endless fall
Oh, Katie won’t like that at all
Forever with the evil dead
And haunted by the things she’s said
Do you really want that, Kate?
It’s not too late to recreate
In love there’s simply no exemption
Just endless joy and wild redemption…
by Gail
Nothing is sexier, to me,
than the sharpest end
of self-understanding
Your quiet control,
excruciating stare,
command of movement,
voice,
self-direction,
and true intention
You are
where the stage ends
and life begins
Everything else is chaos
The maddening gnats,
the people too,
who never learn direction
or anchored purpose
You make me believe
in possibility!
That I were Clarice!
Your eyes waiting for me,
breaking me down
to the seed of existence!
Hold the muscle of my heart
in your hand
and rename love
“Would you ever say to me stop?”