Long Anne boleyn Poems
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~Henry & Anne~
Henry spied Anne, a beauty to his eyes
She answered the call to his innermost longings and sighs
Catherine his wife did not beget the heir he desired above all.
Anne the would be mother,Henry wanted,she did him so enthral.
Bedding Anne, this raven haired beauty
Would be a delight and not a kingly duty
His feelings ran deep for this girl Anne, he cast off his wife faithful and true…
He gave up his adherence of faith for Anne Boleyn and the chance of a little heir too.
He made himself head of the church for his desired soul-mate
But with all this machinating she didn’t know he had signed the young girl’s fate.
Anne knew she would be the soul-mate of a king
She planned and she schemed to grasp that wedding ring
The soul-mates did plan for their wedding and sons
To be announced to the world by the firing of guns.
But the soul mates did part in about a thousand days
As her head left her shoulders under the axe man’s steely gaze
Soul-mates they thought- but not forever did they last
One cannot plan a soul-mate those dice have to be cast.
© 22/05/2012
Written By:~GG~ For nettes Soul-Partners contest Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn
There's no mobile internet all day; Ukraine is flying drones
My mother, a sure reincarnation of Caterina Sforza
Who else would be so impeccably dressed in
A crimson jacket and a chic silk blouse when's it's anomalously hot in May?
We saw Romeo and Juliet, a Gérard Presgurvic musical. The verdict?
''Too raunchy, too loud, too much dancing.''
Me, Countess of black cats and Lady of possums —
I feel like a prehistoric curio pet in a cloud of Shalimar
And the music swims back to me
By God, it all just grabs me most violently
And I know I want to dress real nice, I'll be a funny Anne Boleyn
And I know those dead rascal Persian children will forever play with undead children
Amongst endless Indiana cornfields
And I know I am Sarah and you're Mohammed
And I know Russia and America won't always be circling each other
And I know I am from Izmir and you're from Cyprus
And I know everyone young and beautiful will just be dancing with
Their silly yellow stars on
They'll just dance, dance, dance until this strange sin is no more
They'll just dance, dance, dance light into being
And I know I'll go see that play about a Russian winemaker and a Polish musician
And I know I'll light a candle to St Jadwiga to bring my South African lover back
And I know we'll go to Uruguay and do 101 sun salutations
And I know we are Dodi and Camilla and we'll be sipping
Chilled white wine and gingerly nibbling on little vegan cakes
In pretty Bergen-Belsen
And I know we're going to become marvelously angelic somehow, some day
And I know it'll be all Belgian candies, sexytimes and Omar Khayyam poems
And I know all sensitive and non-violent males
Will be awfully useful during a crisis
And I know all hyphenated persons won't be different people in different languages
On my way home I see a stern fisherman by the Fontanka —
My blackfella heart instantly senses something, a falling black cockatoo feather perhaps
I watch a dying fish flail around fornlornly as if it was a sacrifice to some dark Reptilian god
Under the sliver of a young waxing moon
The fisherman knows the Moon Man is bad
As high priest to the Moon Man, the fisherman guards every piglet tragedy
And I know I love my hyphenated blackfella alien heart
And I know I am quite enough
And I know I am quite enough
I came across a tale one day
about a hatchet on display
a crowd be had an oddity
I see no man but only me
mind pays less, its tales interest
as time goes fast like growing grass
the tailor comes and sits right down
the storyteller's not around
then, frightfully in front of me
fate dealt a blow, the hatchet be
from whence it came I know not where
as if it fell out of thin air
from behind me, a voice I heard
a manly voice in every word
said please excuse me buttercup
was meant for me I stood right up
to see who made that teasing sound
and while I stood I turned around
I could not see a single man
except, a lady with a fan
who held it upright to her face
are you dear sir in the right place
my presence here I came to hear
about that hatchet over there
what of that caused your purviews
about its tale, it spreads like news
there's no such tale, they only lied
our harm in jail, they tried to hide
that tale began in Wilson's years
we tried and tried but no one cares
since there's no tale what is the point
nothing to write or to exploit
you're a writer ... and unemployed
mayhaps unlike, poor Anne Boleyn
I like the way you made that sound
I need a bit of your background
start with your name it's Alice Paul
let's spread the news at DC Mall.
King 'Enry of The 'Ouse of Tudor ruled merrie olde England, the mighty and the meek.
'E was quite obese in 'is elder years and threw 'is weight around - so to speak!
'E governed from 1509 'til 1549 when 'e expired and began 'is eternal bourne.
Though 'e slept around a lot, nary a male heir for 'is regal throne was born!
With virgin maidens and other guy's wives, 'twas a promiscuous life 'e led,
Though 'e eventually wooed a strange assortment of royal wives to 'is bed!
'E 'ad six of 'em, which would've left even the most virile of men in a daze!
'E soon tired of each and 'e dispensed with them in various and sundry ways!
Both Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard were destined to lose their 'eads!
Catherine of Aragon and Catherine Parr died of mysterious causes in their beds.
Jane Seymour and Anne of Cleves died from natural causes it is said as well.
'Twas rumored that 'Enry played golf as bells tolled each of their deathly knell!
'Enry got in a spat with the Pope of Rome which resulted in 'is excommunication.
This involved among other things 'is cavalier attitude in matters of domestication!
'E got in a towering snit and formed the Church of England as it is known today.
This 'ad all of not so merrie olde England in an uproar but 'Enry 'ad 'is way!
'Enry ruled with a fist of iron - serfs and gentry as well learned to toe the line!
'E died due to an old jousting wound and 'is fondness for food and wine!
'E was only fifty-five when in Windsor Castle 'e was laid out in repose.
'E was sent on 'is way with great pomp and ceremony as the olde saying goes!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 15 in Deborah Guzzi's "Sista's Bloody Sista's" Contest - October 2010
Bessie Blount, lady-in-waiting, gave him a bastard son.
Catherine was first true wife, who birthed his daughter.
Anne Boleyn, lady-in-waiting, caused king to divorce.
The king wants what he wants, a legitimate son.
Henry the 8th
what a treat
ain’t he sweet
not so much...
Anne births another daughter, and loses her head.
Jane Seymour, yet another lady-in-waiting, nets a son.
She then dies from complications. Life is complicated.
Anne of Cleves was not to the king’s liking; ugly.
Henry the 8th
what a treat
ain’t he sweet
not so much...
Married six months, then labeled as his sister; what!?
Fatso, ahem I mean the king, married another Catherine.
She was executed for adultery and treason, though
nicknamed, “rose without a thorn;” thorn in his side.
Henry the 8th
what a treat
ain’t he sweet
not so much...
Spirited, educated, Henry's sixth wife, Catherine outlived him.
She brought peace and stability and cared for his kids.
Six wives would eventually die, some young, not old,
all beautiful ‘cept for one. Relative to the king? Not so great.
11/1/2020
Caren Krutsinger’s SIX RELATIVES
Perpetual
Intellectual
Mother
Just another
Smother, then cover
“Too weak to recover”
“Be our good maid”
“Just to be betrayed”
“Don’t give her a voice!”
It’s not love if there’s no choice.
To deal with perpetual self-assertion
The old sisterhood of overexertion!
Sarah Baartman
Wu Zetian
Cleopatra
Anne Boleyn
Joan of Arc
Sophie Scholl
Sylvia Plath
Marilyn Monroe
Micaela Bastidas
Yang Guifei
Fate bestowed a bitter gift
A curse more grave than death’s drift
A life where they were lured and torn
Left gasping, alone, forlorn
Once the universe had lost them
Cruel hands never let them astray
Their trials, none atoned
Their weary souls never left alone
Battles fought, voices shorn
Our bodies spent, our spirits worn
No rest, no vindication, no excursion
Just the classic sisterhood of overexertion!
I have pages of unfinished poems, most a menial scribble.
Thoughts, simple phrases, baited hooks without a nibble.
Rhyming lines lost like balls because of my faulty dribble
or tossed aside because my muse and I began to quibble.
How many romantic sonnets were derelicts in my head
because I didn't note them; too lazy to rise from my bed?
Unwritten, they expired when from my mind they fled.
In dawn's light they were buried as my tears were shed.
Departed is the beauty of verses that might have been,
and if I'm recognized as a 'poet,' I would consider it a sin.
I can hardly bear their death; executed like Anne Boleyn,
and its shame I feel for the loss. I'm riddled with chagrin.
I wish those phrases had burrowed deep inside my mind,
those I no longer recall. The forsaken ones I left behind,
abandoned unintentionally, those I have hastily maligned
with neglect or passivity. To grieve for them, I am resigned.
Should I pen a plethora of poems and ten thousand more,
my guilt would never be erased, so I write this with candor
and a pledge to face this litany that I undertake as a chore,
to value my flowing thoughts as ones I should never ignore.
October 7th, 2022
In Pacifica
I despise that portrait of me.
The likeness ends
with the name.
Yes, Jane Seymour, unbeheaded
Queen of England.
No, not of pinched thin lips
and sharp bird-beak nose.
Those hideous wimples
tented on over plucked foreheads
displaying protruding toad eyes....
I was not the smoldering gypsy beauty
of Anne Boleyn
nor the loud, youthful
excess of everything
Katherine Howard
but look what their beauty cost them:
one head apiece.
I was pretty in my watchful, rich-wombed way.
I carried a King in my devoted belly
and a great love for my cousin-husband,
a fondness for estranged young Mary
and a fervent wish for peace.
I carried the scent of my beloved garden
sweet forsythia
nor the harlot’s stink of
Paris and promiscuity.
I was loathe to undergo
a coronation
I did not want to be Queen
and yet here I am,
the only wife to receive a queen’s funeral
and share a tomb
with the Beheader.
The dancing flames lit up her hair
In shades of dark and light
She looked at me with longing eyes
That sparkled in the night.
I know, she said, what you desire
The fruit that longing seeks
She looked me straight into the eyes
I watched her burning cheeks.
I will give all and be your slave
As long as you are mine
We shall make love ‘til dawn is here
And drink the sweetest wine.
She threw herself into my arms
And kissed my waiting lips
I held her tight; could not resist
Her undulating hips.
Our passion’s fire burnt all night long
Each movement – tenderness
I wished this bliss we could prolong
Profound togetherness.
When morn’s first rays peered through the pane
Lace curtains etched our skin
A tapestry of silk domain
She was my Anne Boleyn.
But fantasies evaporate
When light is shed on them
Forbidden love seemed to berate
How tarnished was our gem.
One night we shared, but ne’er again
Could we pursue our lust
Her husband, he was my best friend
We’d violated trust.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Co-write: Paul Callus & Carolyn Devonshire ~ Oct 2014
She stands all alone in a court full of men
An innocent woman condemned
The charges are great, she's resigned to her fate
She knows she will die in the end
Though she is in despair she's standing tall there
She knows she has committed no sin
But these cowards, these men will find her guilty and then
Seal the fate of Queen Anne Boleyn
On the 19th of May that terrible day
From her room in the tower she's taken
If they thought she cry and plead not to die
They were very mistaken
With words clear and strong she denies any wrong
With no quiver or break in her voice
The swordsman stands by with a tear in his eye
But he knows that he has no choice
One swing of the sword as she praises the Lord
And she's gone in the middle of prayer
The King is away he is hunting that day
Its clear that he doesn't care
That sword gave her peace it gave her release
It finished the fear and the pain
“Death rocked her to sleep and her memory we keep
Each May again and again
Anne's death wasn't in vain though she suffered great pain
Her daughter went on to be
A wonderful Queen, the best there has been
That was her great legacy.