As I set foot in the paradise of flowers
I saw a set of vivid pals
Swaying and waving towards the unusual soul
Connecting hearts and hearts entirely
Greeting with a wreath and a glorious scent
I stood there gaping at them
As if that was a band of colour
But of more colours and like enchantress
I was entirely dazed and the pals were twinkling while looking at me
Soon my companion told me to stop looking at the lilies
But oh Lord, were they lilies or a whimsical rainbow?
I still ask myself that
As to me, they are the beauty:
The lilies of Buckingham.
Categories:
buckingham, allusion, flower,
Form: Free verse
There was a painter from Venice
Who wanted to paint Buckingham Palace
He got on his horse
And rode so fast
And didn't realize he was back in Paris
Categories:
buckingham, confusion,
Form: Limerick
Under the scorching spotlight sun,
this fan stands
fearing losing sight of a star.
Behind, watchers arm
themselves with binoculars.
Our eyes lock.
Lips prepare for
salty launch pad palms
depositing
lover's rockets.
Arms rise carefully.
Wrist rotate positioning
invisible spacecrafts
parallel to the earth.
Hot breath blasts
kisses flying,
floating in orbit
untouched
by gravity before colliding.
Now, one supernova sits
in a constellation
of safe jolts
and virtual crashes
propelled by two who
force breath simultaneously
intent on observing
the resplendent disappearance
the momentary flash
of a first kiss. Pores rise
becoming Braille revealing
how a married stargazer feels
weightless once more.
Categories:
buckingham, celebrity, crush, guitar, kiss,
Form: Free verse
(This is a fictional poem)
When I went to Buckingham palace last month, I got in a bind.
I accidentally saw the Queen naked and it caused me to go blind.
It was awful to see those sagging boobies and that wrinkled butt.
It was so disgusting that I puked out my guts.
It was disturbing to see all of that wrinkled skin.
I don't think I'll ever be invited to Buckingham palace again.
Categories:
buckingham, angst, funny, on writing
Form: I do not know?
Sussanah,my great grandma,times three,a pillow puffed up on her knee;with
daughter Ann in cobbled Cowfair,daily shaped their homespun ware.In such
humble women,cottage-tied,a rare and dextrous art did reside.Fashioned
out,stitch by stitch,pillowed lace in patterns rich.Tinkling bobbins with bewildering
skill,inch by inch grew the intricate frill.Twisting threads in pairs and
groups,knitted together with interlocking loops.An established craft of world
renown grew around this county town.Plain or decorative old point lace,a lost
rural industry of which there's no longer a trace.
Categories:
buckingham, family, history, life, nostalgia,
Form: Prose Poetry