Best Queen Victoria Poems
We met in Valletta city on a fine November day
Introductions...hugs and kisses; we got talking straight away.
All agreed to go sight-seeing – architecture , harbour view
Made a stop to buy an ice-cream where there is a constant queue .
We strolled on and at Cordina’s chose al fresco to sit down
Next to regal Queen Victoria, a stone lady with a crown.
Drinks were ordered and pastizzi, which were followed by some cakes
Freshly baked and appetizing, all adorned with chocolate flakes.
We were served by cherub Fabio busy running out and in
Second time the badge said Mario, then we found that he’s his twin.
Jan and hubby soaked the sunshine, the Calluses hugged the shade
Those around spoke multilingual, a musician plied his trade.
We stayed there and spoke for ages, watched the tourists walking by.
Valentina took our photos; she is young and sweet as pie.
Jan and Bob will be returning in two years on Malta’s shore
Although Maurice has predicted it will be a year before!
They will then be celebrating married bliss with silver ware
All on Soup will be invited; this occasion is to share.
That’s a promise made for keeping – friends will meet for sure once more
We shall have some cake and snickers; sweet surprises lie in store!
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Fun poem ~ co-written by Paul-Jan-Valentina on 2/11/2014
I hear England's strong voice praising its past:
Football's World Cup glory in 1966,
Shakespeare and Marlowe penning plays,
Sir Francis Drake circumnavigating the world,
Queen Elizabeth I, with the stomach and heart of a king,
Queen Victoria, with her ever expanding empire and waistline,
Constable, Turner and Reynolds painting pictures...
and yes, although it can only whisper of its today,
it shall sing once more of new glories,
it shall shout from its rooftops for St George,
and be proud of its past and present.
A little Patriotic free verse for Carolyn's contest, inspired by Whitman's 'I hear America singing'
Limerick: Once the Great Grandson of Queen Victoria
Once the great grandson* of Victoria
Heir to the throne of tsarist Russia
Saved by “Doc” Rasputin
Killed by Lenin-Stalin
Lo! Heir to Queen Vic’s haemophilia!
*Tsarevich Alexei of the Romanov royal house.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
It may come as quite a shock
but Queen Victoria
Loved a curry on a Friday night
liked plenty of sex
and smoked pot.
Queen Victoria and her husband Prince Albert, had 9 children together. Her Indian servant and confidant introduced her to Indian food. Taking drugs and opium were legal in such times.
P Dome. copyright 2012.
I am the queen of geography
I deserve a trophy
I am the best
better than the rest
this is why I am the queen
In Turkey I swim I skinny dip in the lake
eating some cake
because I am the queen
during my rule ,
I want to grow a forest of baobabs
for Leanne's dads
they call me vanesso
cause I am the besto
and I like pesto
sound
later peace out xoxoxoxoxox
*******Dedicated to JB and Lindaaaaa******
Tonight, I want to say something wonderful
For the left-handed people who can adapt
to a world full of left-sided thinkers. The ones
who can navigate with all the specially opposed tools,
like the ones made standard for the 90%. I prefer
their open-mindedness, abstract, creative, those kinds of thinkers,
The ones who can use a can-opener
backward or flip scissors upside-down just
to cut. The ones who twist their paper or hands gracefully
to write beautiful things. The ones who learn
to use a mouse with their flimsy palm, while
they search on their computer for left-handed poets.
They are the truly special ones who change the world.
That’s why I want to say something astonishing
Like: Sinistrality, a graceful glove that is worn
on the opposing hand, those destined to be struck down
by the back-hand of a culture that doesn’t understand
what it really means to think with a right-sided brain.
Those few special beings have always impacted the world
The greatest minds, the greatest hands, the ones like
Napoleon Bonaparte, who strategically learned
To lead with his dominant hand as a guide to conquer
and rise to be great. Leonardo da ’Vinci who had the creator’s
gift bestowed upon his left hand. To write, paint, and create awe.
Jimi Hendrix, a guitar God, played upside down, but not wrong.
Mozart, Bill Gates, Aristotle, Leo Messi, Babe Ruth
Michelangelo, Raphael, Rembrandt, Picasso,
Ben Franklin, Darwin, Newton, Einstein, Marie Curie,
Helen Keller, Joan of Arc, Queen Victoria, Oprah,
Honestly, the list could go on and on and on…
But instead, let us praise them for being so inclined
to change the world by diverging their minds.
Ode to Sinistrality, ode-to the right-thinking kind.
Across the ocean
Across the sea
I live in Lagos
the city to be
Where business activities has become something of a frenzy
And her economy is a thing of envy
I come from Lagos
The Old slave colony
but now it is a free state because God has destroyed all her enemies
I live in Lagos
Once a real estate of Queen Victoria
But now it is a land of fun and hysteria
With the British Colonial past lingering on
Lagos is the land of coconuts and burning sun
I come from Lagos
with no flowers and trees
and you will be lucky to see a single bumbee bee
But now we have glass houses and many a tower
And hundreds of automobiles that speed of by the hour
And that is the Lagos I see
I live in Lagos
Precious paradise close to the Atlantic
With a view that makes travelers so romantic
But with a teeming population
which seems dramatic
the heat of Lagos is getting traumatic
Pitter patter, drip, drop, it’s not an April shower
Drip, drop, drip, drop raining hour after long hour
Suddenly the sun streaks through, javelins of sunlight
Then back to pitter, patter, and rain throughout the night.
In and out of doorways, trying to stay dry
Thunder crashing the Queens dead, the country seems to sigh
Edward the happy monarch will rule with fun from now on
Rain, rain, it never stops crying for the Old Queen is gone.
The sun breaks through the London grey, it sparkles on a tree leaf
Drops still dripping slowly, displaying all their grief.
Happy times are coming, skipping down the London streets
Children playing hopscotch, while the bobbies are on the beat.
A blossom opens a leaf unfurls, breathes the rain drops in
The first sup of clean water in these london streets so grim.
Pitter, patter, feel the rain - dodging in and out of doorways
Trying to keep dry in the summer rain as one does always.
The ringing of the bells, Big Ben strikes the hour
A begging hand from a pile of rags huddled in the shower.
The old queen is dead and gone, but wanders through her city
Looking left and right, she shakes her head in certain pity
Through London town she wanders where dirt and grime abound
She’s searching for she does not know - until it she has found
The thunder crashes the rain pours then drips slowly to an end
The queen is dead long live the King she prays his ways he’ll mend.
©~GG~ 2012
Entry for Tracie's Anything goes competition This is a Poem I have just done for a Magazine about when Queen Victoria died.
She wore an Armour over her dress
to go on and fight in the face of death
Joan of Arc is the name of the girl
that died at an age of nineteen years old
For the chance to make a change...
tell me, what have you achieved?
She is my Heroine
This is my Superwoman
The Unconditional Lover
Of the love that does deserve
And she stands to shine upon
the darkness of the night
She's a brave young solidarity
Unforgettable girl to my memory
To save a soul, Rachael (Corrie) lost her own...
Saying 'No', at the age of twenty three
To the Zionist bulldozery,
And the world did nothing at all...
She is my Heroine
This is my Superwoman
The Unconditional Lover
Of the love that does deserve
And she stands to shine upon
the darkness of the night
There are women in time, the idols of how to survive...
That are one of a kind, women of all times...
Helen Keller, Eva Peron, Queen Elizabeth, Nancy Astor, Anna Frank, Mother Tereasa,
Princess Diana, Jane Adams, Jane Austin, Catherine the Great, Mme Curie, Zaha
Hadid, Cleopatra, Queen Victoria, and many more... leaders of all time... be proud to
be a woman and don't allow men to decide if you have rights or not... you decide...
The sea's mist
spray my face.
The feeling of joy...
never cease to amaze me.
So let's go out
to see the world.
I wanna see you smile...
a sight I haven't seen in a while.
So come on and let's go,
the ocean awaits.
And so does our sweet chariot,
Queen Victoria
Victorian art is quite clean
Though Roman and Greek are obscene
The Queen did not care
That David was bare
But he was quite shy of the mean!
Hear Me, O Muse, no moos or cluckings, muckings or horns of fog
Do sound the clamoring claxons of the bardics that be written by William McGonagal o’ the Bog,
That Laird of Lamentations Disastrous, that Scot Wha’ Hey Nonny Nonny,
Laureate of the quite awful woeful grueful stuff that happened a-when Goode Queen Victoria was stuck-in in Buckingham and Balmoral and the rest, recall ‘em, of her palaces oh so very bonny,
All about bridges steel a-budging, assassinations most foul all gone kerplooey,
And many and other suchlike things dire. And then that tasty poetaster who be
Known far and near for all his poems fair about domestical bliss most sweet a-cloying,
Edgar Guest, good ol’ scrivener of the everyday, of pathos and bathos does he sing,
Garden paths and bubble baths and let’s not be forgetting the good ol’-fashion verities,
A poet to speak for everyone no matter who or how finicky, he’s.
Let’s round down to an even three with Rod McKuen, syrupy-treacly and saccharine,
Escape from thought and subject and technique and all things stern or black-and-grim,
As sure as roses are red and violets are blue
And God made the little green apples red but once in a while green too.
I swear I cannot live unless I’m able to read them many times per diem,
At work, at home, in bed, or sometimes while at my BM.
Annie Oakely: The Poem by Shane Nielsen
Deep in the Ohio woods, to brown eyes aspy,
The wondrous echoes of nature give their humble reply,
to the spirit of sight, and the will to try.
Billows of smoke from fires who do not cease to prier,
ventured the aptly named Little Miss Sharpshooter,
the stakes couldn't be higher.
To feed the sick and hungry, to blow away the competition,
to set all new records and rewrite the given,
No one aimed higher,
no one was more driven.
How could it be difficult?
How could sight not believe?
Skeptics and naysayers? Hard to conceive.
Bolts of lightening cast forth from the soul of the West,
struck down the greatest, struck down the best.
You can relax, even before you go far,
Aim for something in reach-"light up" a cigar.
With enough gold in trophies to fill the banks of a river,
Even Queen Victoria remembers the show you would give her.
After winning every round, with power and esteem,
you're worth more than a thousand words to fit in every magazine.
It isn't that that's important-it's the simple things of course.
Sitting by the gentle waters-feeding a horse.
So aim for your dreams, listen to that fire,
obey your intuition, your heart is not a liar.
Everyone, including Sitting Bull knew-that your aim was impeccable, that your heart was true.
Yes, with a heart so golden, a shell so strong,
It's no wonder you were the biggest lil legend that ever came along.
You are unique,
No need to be a replica,
Yes it is true, my dear Miss America.
I went to the Frankfurt Book Fair the other day.
It was mind-boggling..
Books! There were fat books, thin books,
White books, black books, tawny books,
Paperbacks, hardbacks, beautifully bound books,
Pure books, lax books, learned books, lay books,
Plain books, books of many colours,
Books on every subject under the sun,
Not to mention other books on
Distant galaxies, pulsars, quasars, black holes,
Books on any theme you can think of,
Or on themes you can’t even pronounce, from:
Art to Arthropods,
Bees to Biochemistry,
Cats to Catastrophes
Drugs to Decadence,
Energy to Ergonomics,
French Cooking to Frescos,
Guns to Gout,
History to Hippopotami,
Internal Medicine to Icebergs,
Julius Caesar to Justification,
Kulturkampf to Kinetics
Lace to Logogriphs,
Man to Manchuria,
Nietzsche to Nonsense Rhymes,
Opera to Ophthalmoscopes,
Poodles to Pollution,
Quantum Mechanics to Queen Victoria,
Russell to Rabbits,
Shaw to Shingles,
Tao to Torts,
Urdu to Ultimatums,
Virgil to Vivisection,
Whales to Witchcraft,
X-rays to Xylographs,
Yoga to Youth Hostels,
Zen to Zola,..
By closing-time my legs were giving out.
A voice, it seemed, was saying:
“Of more than is taught by these, my son, take care.
Of making many books there is no end,
And much study is weariness of the flesh.”
I don’t know about making them, I thought,
As I commenced my get-away from the Penguin stand,
But it takes something of an athlete just to glance at them.
I felt crushed, not only by the crowds
but also by the weight of my appalling ignorance.
Duchess in her finery
Duke in his chair
people wander round
looking without care
Taking airs and graces
talking with a plum
searching night for treason
drinking too much rum
Livery boy falls over
lady screams in fear
was that Queen Victoria
leaving out the rear ?
Abused and mistreated
maid’s hurry about their toil
cooks in the kitchen
covered in grease and oil
Cats lay in the wicker
dogs are in the bins
orphan child gets sicker
rags don’t warm a sin
Waste flows through streets
rarely washed or swept
whores on the corner
working off her debt
Bible was the only book
church ruled the land
sometimes a dangerous place
to play your last hand
Grandmother reigned in glory
Hanover rulers stand
Victoria’s wonder years
played to a brass band