Best Margaret Poems
She wore a tiffany hat with a bow and six big plumes of red and white,
it had an ultra wide asymmetrical brim that rolled up to one side.
When it came to dames like this I believe God ran out of humble stock !
She wore pompadour shoes, like she had nothing to lose
and rouge so red it made the cardinals have fainting spells !
Her hair was soaked in henna, elderberry & radish extract,
and I believe her dress was stitched in the boudoir of coco-channel!
She was a nouveau riche reveling in her new found fame
and everything in her life was right as rain until that fatal day,
when her hat expanded 10 x its size, growing past her shoulders
like a great big beast, of leavened yeast!
Her hat pins strained from the strain of those great big plumes,
moaning and groaning from her lithe walk and all that perfume !
Then First World War arrived and suddenly it was unpatriotic
to be concerned with one's appearance !
She was no Rockefeller and didn't own a rupee nor a heller,
so she became a steadfast loyal dame, like dear old Helen Keller .
What happened to that big old hat, with the plumes of red and white ?
She stewed it, brewed it, boiled it down then poured it in a flask,
and yes she drank it slowly,... just in case you thought to ask !
March 30/ 2025
Politician Margaret Thatcher
No man could match her
First lady Prime Minister at number ten
It had always been a man till then!
Clerihew Contest
Sponsored by Andrea Dietrich
She was nicknamed 'the Iron lady' during her term in office
1/23/19
The famous journalist and author Margaret Mitchell
Dressed in pants so mother wouldn't have to watch a vigil
Her brother insisted if she was to play with him she would be a boy named Jimmy
I bet her mother saved thousands of dollars on her childhood shimmy
Shimmy- an undergarment worn by a female
Margaret Mitchell wrote the novel "Gone With The Wind"
Written: June 01, 2015
Sponsor: Kim Merryman
Contest: Cleri-who?
When Margaret was little her dress caught on fire on the fire iron grate but she was not hurt and all turned out well but her mother started dressing her in boys pants to avoid that happening again..She was nicknamed Jimmy from a cartoon character of that time..Of course, the nickname did not stay beyond childhood..
Nowadays
I'm awake before the light.
My talons are sore with over-use.
My beak is shattered in 3 places.
My feathers, thank God, still look amazing.
Though I've been flightless
For four days now...
Starting to see ghost worms.
Hobbling around in the cold.
Dark tunnels.
Chewing on wet paper.
I'm finished.
Someone tell Margaret I love her.
And that she was right.
Those zooming beams of divine light
Are not our friends.
Sugary mix roiling in a saucepan in the heart
of the house: a light-filled kitchen where family meals
were taken in lieu of the dining room, thought of by me
in two words: 'formality' and 'dark', whereas, windows
and a glass door in the kitchen let in light, led out to a porch,
then into a fenced backyard where chickens ran free, and
Yes, necks were wrung for the kitchen pot in not
a rural setting, but a beach-town, in-town backyard---
not at a cottage, calling out to salt spray and seagulls,
but a Victorian house, looming gray in memory, large
with a wraparound porch, its rocking chairs
facing a quiet street framed with sheltering trees:
maples of the intricate bark and heart-shaped leaves,
providing play place for games of Red Robin, May I,
Hide and Seek, until at summer dusk the welcome call
of Come Home, Come Home. No small screen there
to distract us, not yet the turbulent news of a world at
war A World Away. Instead, candy making in the kitchen.
Taffy pulled and twisted into ropes, cut into pieces and
left to harden on waxed paper. Then, Margaret, two
older sisters and a brother, upstairs to bed, a ramp
leading to bedrooms for them, an adjoining room below
for Margaret and me, her best-friend guest. Bathroom
to share, old-fashioned claw-foot tub, enameled in
porcelain. A doomed wasp sometimes caught in
golden window light between glass and a cream colored
pulldown shade. Past our bedroom, an enclosed
porch rose over its downstairs compatriot, meandering
the entire length of the house. All things unneeded
and used-up there, for the playtime delight of
Margaret and me: Not used-up yet
In a bliss of restful solitude
on this most blessed day,
my mind goes back in time
to how we celebrated our ways
I remember the laughter and love
that flowed around the room,
the excitement and joy we felt
before you were taken too soon
All the children of our family
were close like cousins should be,
but with your passing we drifted
along the winds, we split, in three
For a few years we attempted
to relive the days gone past,
as time passed people vanished
and it was never going to last
See the light that filled our voids
had dimmed and faded away
And broken pieces of my family
I weep still too long holding a sway
Mum you left deep within my heart
memories that time cannot erase,
even as I sit alone on christmas day
I feel you with me in this scared space
I still count the days we've been apart
but I rejoice in the fullness of time,
our hearts will again meet at the chest
beating together infinitely sublime
I'm getting closer to the doors
that will lead the way home to you,
difficult doesn't begin to describe
How my heat yearns turning blue
So until the end of my times arrive
I will continue to write to you in word,
Hello from the otherside my darling
Its Christmas again, another poem unheard
The wind was blowing,
as the car was going,
across the hills ; across the vales
the night seemed young , as each nightbird sung
to the moon there long and timeless tales.
Then, at midnight hour
the chauffeur rested, his iron fists upon the wheel.
There it was,
The mansion of Margaret May,
whose life tonight I shall verily seal.
I approached the moors like a silent hound
I scaled the walls then climbed the mounds
And though the night was dark and still
I still saw the great house upon the grey hill.
I scanned each wing like a wolf would see,
a sheep as it feeds with humility,
and yet it was no prey, that I was to kill,
for the hounds, they now bayed upon each hill.
The moon gleamed its mischief upon the terrace;
And it shined, like an unearthly thing,
it gleamed its sorrow upon my face,
and wailed its scorn, against the human beings.
I entered the house
the doors were not locked,
so I opened them slowly and its walls they did talk.
They spoke of devils and demons and familiar kind;
But I did not see them for my soul was blind.
I took out the weapon and its barrel shined,
by the light of the moon thay was now declined.
And having climbed up the ladder, to the rooms upstairs,
I found May just finishing her prayers.
She turned around and I gazed at her eyes;
How could such beauty be 'bought' to demise?
I dropped the weapon,
no bullet could shred;
The flesh of the mortal,
that before me was spread.
And yet she would die for the world could not accept,
what in this masion was hidden and kept.
She was not lustful but lust itself
and yet I could not stop myself.
For I had no soul,
I had no sin,
I went for her throat, and held tight her chin.
She did not struggle;
She did not plead.
Rather she smiled, till I had finished the deed.
And left her silent;
And still upon her bed,
and there she lies smiling,
but her heart is cold and dead
I wrote and read this poem at my grandmothers funeral.
While growing up, Toni; Steven and I
saw our Grandparents sacrifice,
so much of their own lives, without a fuss.
Along with our Mother, they did it just for us.
Though Grandpa he was called, he was our father
and in Mom and Grandma, we had two amazing Mothers.
We loved them with the clarity of a childs heart,
in each one of us, they became, so much a part.
Sadly, we have gathered together here today,
to say our final goodbye, to a wonderful lady.
Grandma was tough, she was stubborn and oh so loving.
She had about her, that special something.
That had every child in every neighborhood,
calling her Grandma, whenever they could.
I remember her ready laughter, at our antics,
and her guidance, by the seat of our panties.
The countless batches of cookies baked.
For each one of us, every year, our own special birthday cake.
The delicate Barbie and Troll doll clothes she made,
the big band music, on the stereo, she played.
The fragrant roses and brilliant dahlias, tended with care.
The home canned pears, who with the neighbors, she shared.
Then we grew up and though with Mom, we moved away,
Grandma and Grandpa, stayed in our thoughts every day.
Our sister Kristi was born and added to Grams happiness and pride,
then as if by magic, the years just flew by.
The four of us were having children of our own,
when Gram would hold them, her face fairly glowed.
Gram saw her great grand children grow into yong ladies and men,
Then came along some great, great, grandchildren.
I was always amazed, but never surprised,
how Gram, through the children, came alive.
Gram's whole essence was that of pure love.
So I firmly believe she has placed herself, in charge of the baby angels above.
She holds them in arms, that once embraced all of us.
She, herself, is held now in the arms of Jesus.
She is looking down upon us now, with a love untold.
Within her angels wings, she does now, all of us enfold.
In Loving memory of Margaret Sanford.
1918-2010
A jump a skip and a jig perhaps
I shall steel myself and I will
Dance on her grave
Mystery no forgiveness as time has passed
But my promise made and I will
Dance on her grave
An oath made as a wilful young man
Older now yet still and I will
quietly
Dance on her grave
It’s me. Margaret.
My parents’ gave me this proper name
Always wondered from where it came
I never liked it while in school
Just didn’t think that it was cool
Cut it in half and added an i
Now I’m wondering why
Starting to think it’s not so bad
Didn’t appreciate what I had
Now I’m grateful for their choice
My parents provided, when I had no voice
Would I change it now? No way!
I’m proud my name is Margaret A.
Mrs. Margaret 'Molly' Corbin:
A true Revolutionary War heroine.
When her husband in battle fell dead,
Though wounded, she fired his cannon instead.
Margaret Thatcher
thought no one could match her.
Her hair was laquered, never a mess;
she bought her knickers from M&S.
She did as she wanted to do -
and love her or hate her it's true -
she thought she was right,
ignoring the plight
of millions in the dole queue.
The poll tax was a big mistake;
her name was hated in its wake.
Replaced by Major, 'No,' she cried.
Some even partied when she died.
Margaret dared to poke the bear
She thought she was so smart
With eyes of coal; she lacked a soul
And shot him straight through the heart
She sat and laughed at what she’d done
Because she thought she was smarter than everyone
She played the victim and tried to sway
the stares and talks of what people would say
When his family discovered what she had done;
their fight for justice had begun
So she packed her belongings and fled out of town
In the middle of the night, not making a sound
But it was too late, they already knew
All the things that she did do
You can run, you can hide
But you’ll never get away
The truth always wins; we know what you did...and prison awaits your stay.
See Saw, Margery Daw,
Marguerite - a pearl of a name…
stateswoman, socialite, singer?
No, a servant, soldier, and spy.
Could she be a latent
Margaret Thatcher?
No she's clearly a servant,
a nurse to prisoners of war.
Margarita, clearly a picture,
which brings to mind a debutante?
No, she's clearly a "soldier"
a POW herself soon enough.
Marguerite/a Musical,
does she dream of singing?
No, she's clearly a spy; In 1946
she received the Medal of Freedom.
She was the subject of the movie,
The Great Raid in 2005;
and she shared her story
in an autobiography - Miss U.
See Saw, Margery Daw,
Meet Margaret Utinsky
a pearl in Manila, World War 2
a Pearl of the Orient.
Wipe my tears sweet Margaret,
ask me why it is I grieve.
Ask me not of my regret.
It is for un-leaving of a tree.
It is for coming lack of Spring.
It is for this and other things.
It is for clouds that block the sun.
It is for a clock not setting still.
It is for a creek waterless to run.
It is for loss of life's own will.
It is for all we have not seen.
It is for this and other things.
It is for wand-wood leafless lie.
It is for snow on mountains tall.
It is for tears that fill an eye.
It is for coming of the fall.
It is for a church bell as it rings.
It is for this and other things.
Ask me not of my regret.
Blind it is for men to sin.
Just hold my heart sweet Margaret,
and love me to the coming end.
Beyond your spirit catching wing,
it is for this and no other thing.