Best Vicky Poems
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.
Vicky my cat
I love you are loving and
Caring when you know when I need you
Kind, silly, cute, and
You are my little angel
Shall I compare thee to the Autumn's breeze
Or to the Summer's gourds where they grow green
Before the spook day's jack-o-lanterns scream
their jagged tooth grins into the dark October night?
Shall I compare thee to the ice tray left unfilled,
Wanting liquid for our drinks to chill?
Perhaps I shall draw a simile
Of the sad setting sun you left with me.
Former lover, you are the Krampus' heavy sack
That sits in wait for the coal so black.
You are the roadkill waiting to decay
With every lie your venomous lips will lay.
And if I were to call you a deep abyss,
It would be a simple fact to miss.
You are the pit from which Hell's fiends are spawned,
And life without you has been a tranquil dawn.
Vicky is an archer, born on the 14th of April,
In 1977, and started getting that archery thrill,
In 2010 when she competed for the first time:
She found archery thru a friend’s lucid dime.
She lives in Malvern in Worcester, England,
So she trains in Lillishall in Shropshire’s land,
At the National Sports & Conference Centre,
Where there are facilities and lots of banter.
Her coach since 2013 is Rikki Bingham, tough,
She’s right-handed, not left, it does the stuff,
Vicky throws 26” long arrows at weight 24lbs,
And she went international in 2014, grounds.
Indeed, at the Euro Para events in Switzerland,
She shoot a new WR to get a silver garland,
Then at the Para Worlds, in Holland at Almere,
She won a bronze and a coherent team silver.
And then in 2016 again at the European Paras,
But this time in Saint Jean de Monts in France,
Vicky gained another individual bronze medal,
So she is also going to Rio de Janeiro to treadle.
Layer upon layer then a surprise inside
Poor little Vicky has gone and died
Big plastic trash bags and the face they hide
Poor little Vicky has gone and died
Evil man, evil man has chopped her up
Poor little Vicky was left to rot
Smothered her in plastic and threw dirt on top
Poor little Vicky was left to rot
People are horrified, they can’t understand
Poor little Vicky is not coming back
Who could do this what kind of man?
Poor little Vicky is not coming back
I do not have the words to describe the uniqueness of you
You are the voice in the wilderness
Crying out to me
Not to just me alone
Still you speak directly to my soul
I am moved too places I have not seen
Experiences foreign to my imagination
I taste the dirt beneath your fingertips
I am satisfied
And yet I wish to consume more
You drag me down
Yet I am lifted by the brilliance of your thought
I sit in the centre of the darkness illuminated by your light
Each word written with purpose
I cry and laugh
I am shocked and desgusted
I rip at my chest in anguish
I feel the pain of those I do not know
How is it that I live in a world without justice
I was unaware I was part of the problem
Until I read your words
A voice calling out from the wilderness
A strange now familiar voice
I clap and clap and clap
For you my STANDING OVATION
Your words your words your words
I am moved
Thankyou
Dedicated to Vicky Tsiluma the Poem says it all.
My oldest daughter calls me
All hours of the day
Just to say, "I love you!"
A little joke she plays
She calls me every break she gets
Calls me when she wakes
If she's going out
Oh, for heaven's sakes!
I'm outta the shower
Or heading off to bed
You'd think she lives miles away
But lives with me instead
I cannot be mad
For her voice is music to my ears
It's things like this
I will be remembering for years.
Old Roy’s place is pretty, soft, songbird sweet
Out in the country, secluded, warm, welcoming
On weekends high school students gravitate there
To sing around campfire, and drink illegally.
Old Roy has been helping children become alcoholics for decades
Not sure when it got started, but his bonfires are legend.
The kids call them “The Vicky Roast” in honor of his missing wife.
Yes, Roy’s wife had run off in the sixties, never to be heard from again.
It’s a weird joke; no one is sure who started it, but Roy always laughs
For the last forty years anyway
Let’s have a Vicky Roast, he would say, loudly, drawing big laughs.
During the Viet Nam war most of the seniors were out there on weekends.
Townspeople knew of it. Some religious fanatics used to complain
Learning the hard way that Roy’s cousin is Chief of Police.
It’s a small town; they should have already known it.
A few years ago the bonfire got dug up; because there were new owners.
Roy had been in a fetal position in the Senior Alzheimer’s Unit for years.
We were all grossed out when we discovered a skull and rib bones had been found
under the bonfire; and of course, it was his wife Vicky’s.
Vicky Roast sounds more macabre than ever now.
Once knew a girl named Vicky
She was an eater so picky
Till one fine day
Humble pie she ate
With homeless kids from the city