Best Victorian Poems
My great, great Aunt had a lovely old home,
with many a wonderful story,
hidden within its walls.
A Victorian, architectural designers dream;
vaulted ceilings, full of ghosts;
where spirit voices sang of its splendor.
What I remember most, were the sparkly door knobs;
prisms reflecting the sunlight;
beautiful rainbow colors,
adorning her sitting room walls.
The animated colors of her crystalline chandelier
wove dancing shadows into the fabric.
As a small child, I reveled in that light-play;
how I loved her magical home.
There is happy ado on the old farmstead as Yuletide draws nigh!
Wondrous things to savor as gales blow and snow begins to fly!
The tempest rages for days - they will surely be snowbound,
But a blazing fire warms the Victorian home - love and cheer abound!
Since early in July Pa has had his eye on a special evergreen tree.
It now graces the parlor and they dance about it with glee!
Brightly lit candles adorn branches of the perfectly shape fir.
'Neath lies The Babe - The Magi offering frankincense, gold and myrrh.
The boys have hefted armloads of wood from the oak tree grove,
For Ma and the girls to cook delectable fare on the wood-burning stove.
Titillating aromas waft from room to room in the gracious old house,
From the roasting goose, venison and tender prairie grouse!
Rusty the dog and Simba the cat lie snuggling nigh the fire.
The family gathers 'round the old pump organ for an impromptu choir.
Bellowng off-key, Pa leads them in carols, all ln spirited mirth,
And later by the hearth, Pa reads the story of the Savior's birth.
The ancient grandfather clock tolls ten- the kids are shooed to bed.
Ma and Pa place presents 'neath the tree in old Santa's stead.
With a twinkle in his eyes, Pa steals a kiss 'neath the mistletoe!
The excited kids scarcely snooze listening for Santa's Ho! Ho! Ho!
NOT FOR THE CONTEST
On a broad street 'neath spreading sycamores sits a stately dwelling.
Its elegance and surrounding grounds are so very compelling.
Gracious gardens and towering pines enhance its wide expanse,
All girded by a charming, yet sturdy, white iron picket fence.
Gingerbread ornamentation adorns its every eave and gable.
At the rear of the house stands a horse and carriage stable.
In my minds-eye I sit upon its front porch, so very inviting,
To muse upon its past and what made life there so exciting.
I see eloquent ladies and gentlemen arriving for a gala affair,
Happily anticipating the fellowship that awaits them there.
Outside huge flakes of snow waft gently to the earth,
But inside a blazing fire welcomes them to its cozy hearth.
The grandfather clock in the hall intones its sonorous chimes.
For decades it has dwelled there, overseeing happy times.
In the parlor a grand pump organ reposes by yon wall,
If only it could speak, what special memories it might recall!
The house has weathered the ravages of time with exquisite grace,
Providing warmth and comfort, when life moved at a slower pace.
Built to last for generations, built when guild took pride;
There, generations of genteel folk, loved, laughed and cried!
Entry for Nayda Ivette Negron's "Enchanted House" Contest
Born into a life of poverty crime and squalor
where hunger and cold winds bite
and disease is rife
and it was a daily battle to stay alive
and find some food to stay alive.
Uneducated illiterate caught in the poverty trap
drinking polluted water
from the same polluted cholera riddled tap.
An impoverished woman
sells her body for a cheap bottle of Gin
and a lodging for the night
while a pickpocket and mutcher
ever watchful
look for a pocket to alight.
The deafening clunk and clatter
of horses and carts on the cobbled ground
and shouts from the street market traders
echo all around.
Children play and run through the narrow
crowded streets
dressed in rags no shoes upon their feet
The putrid stench from the gutter
and thick choking bellowing
smoke from factories
make one heath and make it hard to breath.
Dilapidated hovels and buildings
covered in black soot
horse manure and raw sewage
under foot.
Beggars with large mournful eyes
reach out pleadingly to the passing gentry
to fill their empty bowls with plenty.
A peeler pins a notice of a forthcoming hanging
at the local Gaol for the few who can read
upon a rusty nail.
A Mother desperate to feed her hungry children
steals a loaf of bread from a market stall
but is soon captured in the sprawl.
The judge sentences her to 10 years
penal servitude far over sea in Botany bay
but she dyes aboard the ship of fever
upon the way.
Her 9 children are sent to the workhouse
for the poor to gain some education
and work hard behind it's hellish door
never to see their Mother or escape poverty
ever more.
Peter Dome.copyright.2012.
Father Christmas is in the night sky his sleigh and reindeer a silhouette in the moonlight,
He has traveled all over the world to lavish his presents to small sleeping children,
A family has retired and left a mince pie and some sherry, the little ones dreaming,
Mr. Christmas climes up and down chimneys leaving special gifts it is a magical time.
Earlier on this Christmas Eve, many excited little children on their little tippy toes,
Straining to place their stocking high on the front room wall away from nosy grey rats,
Some scarcely reach higher than these rats, frantic that sweets will have bites in them
Older brothers and sisters unhook the stockings and pin them higher up, out of the way
Mother has sat them round a table and coaxed them off to their beds earlier than usual,
Told them all about the story of Christmas and why it is such an important special day,
They sat there wide eyed listening to every word the very young not understanding it all,
There faces rosy from the heat of a yule log burning in the hearth and everything quiet.
They understand that Father Christmas only visits very good and well behaved children,
And the children feel guilty as they cast their mind back over the last very long year,
The children find it hard to hold their tongues hoping Father Christmas won't ride past,
And that if they go to bed without any moaning and go to sleep early he will be very kind.
Laying in their beds can they hear the the sound of whistles, penny-trumpets and drums,
They squeeze their eyes shut tight, just in case it is Father Christmas flying nearby,
A wind blows the downstairs door could that be the reindeer's and the sleigh flying past,
Gradually they tire and one by one drop into a deep sleep the sort only known by children.
In their sweetest dreams they hear the cries of dolls, singing wooden birds, gold ribbons,
The ticking of pewter watches looked at by the rag dolls, toy soldiers guarding oranges,
They are asleep and so very happy the emblems of innocence, at peace on this Christmas Eve,
And when the morning finally comes they are loaded with beautiful gifts it's Christmas Day.
There is happy ado on the old farmstead as Yuletide draws nigh.
Wondrous things to savor as gales blow and snow begins to fly!
The tempest rages for days - they will surely be snowbound,
But a blazing fire warms the old home - love and cheer abound!
Since early in July Pa has had his eye on a special evergreen tree.
It now graces the parlor and they dance about it with glee!
Brightly lit candles adorn branches of the perfectly shaped fir.
'Neath lies the Babe - The Magi offering frankincense, gold and myrrh.
The boys have hefted armloads of wood from the ash tree grove,
For Ma and the girls to cook delectable fare on the wood-burning stove!
Titillating aromas waft from room to room in the gracious old house,
From the roasting goose, venison and tender prairie grouse!
Rusty the dog and Simba the cat lie snuggling near the fire.
The family gathers 'round the pump organ for an impromptu choir.
Bellowing off-key, Pa leads them in carols, all in spirited mirth,
And later by the hearth they hear Pa read about the Savior's Birth!
The ancient grandfather clock tolls ten - the kids are shooed to bed.
Ma and Pa place presents 'neath the tree in old Santa's stead!
With a twinkle in his eyes, Pa steals a kiss 'neath the mistletoe!
The excited kids scarcely snooze listening for Santa's Ho! Ho! Ho!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
I dreamt about an old Victorian house that was abandoned
It was dilapidated and left vacant for years and was starting to decay
It was hidden down a long dirt driveway aligned with overgrown lilac trees
The grounds were overgrown grass that resembled a field of wildflowers
I decided to look inside, the front door was unlocked, and I let myself in
I entered a beautiful parlor with floor to ceiling bookcases and wingback chairs
Sticking out was a rare Charles Dicken's book, I took it and sat in a chair to read
I fell asleep until I awakened in my bed as I noticed the rare book in my hand
Where did the book come from, was I really in that old Victorian house?
Victorian Era
~Victorian Era~
I think that the Victorian age would have suited me
The ingenuity fashion the great exhibition
Would all have been fascinating for me to see.
Not a child up chimneys, that’s not my mission
Not a Debtors Prison or Blacking factory.
None of these I’d do, that’s not my ambition.
I want to invent and better things for all,
The Victorian era was when inventors had a ball.
From Steam ships to sewers, lighting, and heating.
Bazalgette cleaned the streets Pettit and Smith made us warm
Lister invented antiseptic which we now use after eating.
Anaesthetic was invented, which is now the norm.
Science and technology all the greats were meeting
But prostitution and destitution were in need of reform.
A great Victorian lady I would have liked to be
But I am quite happy, with the twenty-first century me.
For: A Moment In Another Time by: Mandy Tams~GG~
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
The midnight masquerade ball.
Seemingly slight brocade shawl.
Beseechingly glance, decayed hall.
Haunted trance, unafraid fall.
Vaunted skies evade all.
She tries dissuade call.
Decree daylight, unmade, befall.
Every day on my shore walk, I walk by a beautiful old dilapidated Victorian Inn
It’s been vacant for many years since a rumored double murder happened within
Today, oddly, I notice a light on inside as I cautiously walk to the front door
I enter the inn and see the ghost of an old Sea Captain, as I pass out on the floor
I come to, feeling foolish, as a fluffy tom cat starts purring and licking my face
Until I hear the old Sea Captain tell me my room is ready to stay at his place
8/29/19
Contest: Halloween Fright Night
Sponsor: Carolyn Devonshire
Contest: Writing Challenge 3, August 2019 - Six Lines
Sponsor: Dear Heart- Wiishkobi Ode
There stands the Victorian house
by the small dogwood tree I planted at the age
of nineteen thinking of a colorful spring;
what a subtle joy palpitating inside
at a short distance, before Lassie starts barking:
her hearing is sharper than mine!
I stop walking with a curious reflection:
who built this house by a busy highway,
was it a desolate place of deep mediation?
wilderness was all around, unpaved roads
that raised dust that harmed breath and eyes,
and despite it, one savored its tranquility!
Monarch butterflies made some strange sounds,
and gathered on the branches of the long-leaf pines,
they decorated them with the blueness of their pretty wings;
swifts watched them and dared not make them their preys!
Were they taking a nap after the long journey from Birmingham,
where they couldn't survive the extreme heat towards noon;
I caught a few of them and gently caressed them releasing them
into that space sparking with light crossed by a vagrant balloon!
The Victorian house by the smallw dogwood tree was torn down
by heavy machinery to make room for another luxurious hotel,
I gave away the Border Collie, he made a great sentinel;
leaving against my will after decades was a heartbreaking decision!
I light a fire of determination
within my redwood walls
four hundred seasons have changed since
I answered builders' call.
My foundation laid to resist time
and storms along the quay,
the strength of stone supports a home
where generations sought to stay.
My eyes of glass with rust-paint brow
do gaze upon the bay,
my make-up, teal and sea-foam green,
a look certainly gay.
Twin turrets frame my pretty face
with cap of weathered cedar,
grace and symmetry my style,
a home to civic leaders.
My smaller rooms and crowded stairs
put you in proximity
with those you love (or maybe should) to
reveal true intimacy.
My yards have seen you playing games,
my porch has watched you cry,
this kitchens' feasts have fueled your flames,
the bedrooms heard your sighs.
All the stories that you read,
the board games that you played,
morning coffee, evening tea,
became why I was made.
Many folk have called me home,
I've watched them come and go,
and some have learned the secret that
I was built to know.
Passing a cemetery gate I walked in I could see all the epitaphs chronicling deaths,
The dates were all times and seasons and there were little graves for little babies,
Daisies mark children's resting places their small hands used to make them into chains,
Other huge graves showed people struck down in the prime and evening of their lives.
As time passed the sun's last setting beams a smile on the mounds and shadows stretch,
The evening wind began to sigh among the branches of the many Yew trees very near by,
Death awaits all so we should try to understand that and look death calmly in the face,
His bony knuckles will be heard very loudly as they rattle our doors and beacon us away.
The grim reaper will be the forerunner of the next searching ordeal that is the judgment,
We look into our souls watching the compass of our lives to which way the needle trembles,
As the evening wore on I could see a lonely figure limping along jingling keys to lock up,
A tired old man in the December of his life waiting for a bony finger to show him the way.
Making my way to an inn I ordered a glass of port the gas mantles, dimmed into half light,
Thinking about my day an image of my lost brother came to mind and the pain still dug deep,
I could see him playing with toys in his room, dark shadows under his eyes still haunt me,
Maybe one day I will see the boney finger of my lost brother beaconing me to join him.
The person in the Victorian mirror
Is getting fat and bald
Spots appear
Where there was once perfection
Inches of height disappear
From those on the drivers license
He has gone from someone
To someone else
Approaching no one
Hunched over
And shuffling somewhat
When he walks
He dresses up in his finest old cloths
Each dark night
And goes out
Hoping to get laid