Long Camden Poems
Long Camden Poems. Below are the most popular long Camden by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Camden poems by poem length and keyword.
In smoky halls where echoes groan,
they carved the truths in tempered stone,
yet none recall the scribe who wrote—
a chap in boots and mismatched coat.
His quill was plucked from harpy's wing,
he’d hum while making corpses sing,
and in his book, no saints nor rules—
just jesters crowned as sacred fools.
He’d scrawl: “The Pharaohs danced in socks,”
“Atlantis sank for TikTok shocks,”
“The gods play poker, bluffing fate,”
and “Death’s quite fond of jam on plate.”
No funeral dirge, no sacred chant—
just tales of one ghostly aunt
who haunts her pub near Camden Town,
and downs her Guinness upside down.
In Chapter Twelve, he penned with flair:
“The soul’s a squirrel. It climbs. Beware
of preachers selling spirit glue,
and wizards who misplace their shoe.”
The elders scoffed, the prophets wept,
the choirboys fainted as they slept.
But underground, the rebels laughed
and toasted with their witchy draught.
He wrote of love, of wars, of tea,
of how the stars play hide and seek,
of time—“a dodgy landlord bloke
who always vanishes mid-smoke.”
The Book of Souls, they locked away,
filed under “Myths” in disarray.
But now and then, it starts to speak
when full moons twitch and reason leaks.
It sings not hymns, but punk and blues,
of afterlives in dancing shoes—
a book that breathes, that mocks control,
and dares to ask: Who owns the soul?
So if you find it, dog-eared, worn,
by alley bins or fields of corn,
read loud, and let your spirit troll—
for madmen may just save the soul.
’Tis the early bird that catcheth the worm…
is a proverb that has survived…
since William Camden first wrote those words
back in Sixteen hundred and five.
It’s a proverb that lately in the morning I’ve been concentrating on…
After all…I’m considered an early bird because I’m up before the dawn.
But the early birds who greet me in the morning…
who have waited the whole night long
do not greet me, as many others do
with an early morning song…
No, the early birds in this part of the mountain
when to this porch they come…
are not the birds that sing at all…
they are the birds that hum.
Since it’s early and still dark I cannot see them…
and since they do not choose to sing
they make their presence known by the humming of their wings.
They let me know they have arrived…
and by their humming they’ve declared
They’ve come to enjoy the sweet nectar
Deborah has prepared.
It’s a beautiful sound in the early morn
and I don’t care if they don’t know the words to their song
because the more I hear their happy humming
the more I want hum along.
Which makes me want to amend William Camden’s proverb
this is what I think…
From my experience it should also read
’Tis the early bird that catcheth a drink.
And since I am an early bird…
In the morning from what I’ve heard…
’Tis also the early bird in the morning
who catcheth sight of the humming bird.
They married in their own garden under the canopy of a Wild Date Tree
An indigenous plant standing tall for sweetness and benevolent spirits
This one untamed and miraculously withstanding droughts in the City of Gold
It gave meaning to their union which had begun with similar unbroken desire
A small bonfire at midday crackled with pure passion and unified souls
It was warm in their hearts and droplets of faith embraced the heat
Shadows of yesteryear’s clouds had retreated from sorrow and sadness
Not long ago the two lovers had eloped into sunshine and started again
A small party of family and friends sat on the grass casually dressed
The bride in an attire from Camden market wore a rose petal crown
That matched the floral display on his colourful shirt which was in date
With Hippie dreams and nostalgic reverberation of rebellion and Peace
Her Anglican priest had refused to wed them ‘I need to ask my bishop
Who would have to absolve you from the sin of divorce and new love’
They found a Lutheran pastor who arrived dressed in African garb
Aptly with crash helmet and Harley Davidson with a roar to his engine
The lovers had decided against fireworks because they would resemble
Gunshots rather endemic in Johannesburg for all the wrong reasons
Sparklers would do nicely and sky lanterns floated into heaven above
Reached high rising feelings released bright unequivocal compassion
‘We honour our ancestors with all their beauty and divine guidance’
They proposed followed by clapping of hands and a rain dance’s vows
The sun sent its rays to bless everyone in the congregation of well-wishers
When it started to rain at the same time they danced naked in the spray
When such water and solar power combines at such a meaningful time and
Forms a rainbow presiding over the ceremony it’s called monkey’s wedding
And its display brings grace and good luck to withstand vagaries and misfortune
With a ring he gave her a wild date as the fruit never failed to deliver its promise
01st July 2019
Sophie was born with an abnormal right foot,
So when she was nine she chose amputation,
She comes from Camden then moved to Bath,
And now studies at Bath College Illustration.
In 2011 she went to a Playground to Podium,
Event at Bath University because she knew
As a junior wheelchair basketball: was good,
But she preferred individual sports - she flew.
Her debut came at the Manchester World Cup,
In 2012 just before the 2012 Paralympic games,
Which Sophie made and competed in the finals,
Of the 200m, scoring a personal best in flames.
In Lyon, France, in 2013, Sophie came fourth,
In the 100m sprint, but then in the 200m sprint,
She came third, winning her very first medal,
Internationally, which raised the roof at her print.
So Sophie participated in the Euros in 2014,
Which were held in Swansea in Wales’s land,
And also accelerated in the Worlds at Doha,
Which gave her experience to mature grand.
In dancing Rio Sophie broke the top WR speed,
In the heats of the 100m which were lastly held,
On the 17th of September 2016, on the second,
Last day of these Para games eventually weld.
a fairy tale of Camden Town
Clancy’s Gym, the same old sounds
a minute’s rest then two more rounds
I’ll jack this in (like Bobby Prewitt)
but where’s the one who made me do it?
He hasn’t come, he’s never here
by now he’s on his second beer
presiding in the Dublin Castle
surrounded by his navvy vassals
they’re calling me “the Tralee Tiger”
I coulda been … where’s my Rod Steiger?
the jolting jab, fast on his feet,
the bantamweight that no-one’s beat…
my bucket? Something-Saint-John’s-Wood
and scum from gumshields, spit and blood
I’ve learnt a word I like – “effete”
You don’t hear that on Albert Street
He knows I never wanted this. He
said he’d cure me called me cissy
he calls me Rocky. What a sham
why can’t I be the thing I am?
I want to dance like Nureyev
which might explain the fury of
the shellacking that this lad’s getting
Look at those losers busy betting
Sad old slobs with Patterson poses
ten-buck suits and flattened noses
come to think, though, who’s the fool
they’re not up here on this stool
back room Clancy’s Masculine Sports
blood on the gloves, shamrock on the shorts
Back in seventeen eighty-one
The revolution hit hard times,
Britain had taken Charlestown
And at Camden had crushed the lines
Of General Horatio Gates,
Leaving nobody to resist,
Except the Swamp Fox Marion
Who alone was able to persist.
South Carolina had fallen,
And Cornwallis was marching north,
The patriots had to stop him,
But could not yet match up with his force.
So they called up Daniel Morgan,
A brawler who had earned his fame
With his actions at Saratoga,
As a soldier he knew the game.
He was sent to march out westwards,
To harass and gain new supplies,
Cornwallis worried about this,
Let Banastre Tarleton fly.
Tarleton was a cavalry fame,
His infamy now widely known,
He’d butchered his foes at Waxhams,
When upwards their hands had been thrown.
The patriots called him Butcher,,
‘Bloody Bann’ was his sobriquet,
Yet many feared the young colonel,
From his legion they would run away.
But General Morgan knew all this,
He was pragmatic in his approach,
Knew what his men could and couldn’t do,
Where they thrived, where they were laid low.
Knowing Tarleton was close by,
He found a spot called ‘Hannah’s Cowpens,’
Nearby the flooded Broad River,
Here all tradition he’d upend.
Knowing militia ended to flee,
And not face a hand-to-hand fight,
He put their backs to the river,
They couldn’t run to escape their plight.
Now they would fight, or they would die,
But he felt this wasn’t enough,
So he split his force into three lines,
Plotting an elaborate bluff.
If the first he put sharp-shooters,
Told them to shoot ‘Epaulet Men,’
Then set up local militias
To form a line just behind them.
And the back were Continentals,
Tried soldiers of many a year,
These he knew didn’t break and run,
They were the few the British feared.
To top it off he arranged them
All on the slopes of a small hill,
Then waited there for Tarleton
Who expected an easy kill.
Tarleton had seen it all before,
At Charlestown and Camden field,
These rebels could talk a good game,
But in a fight they’d run of they’d yield.
So when he spotted Morgan’s force
He did not bother to survey,
Bold and young, he rushed in headlong
Expecting the militia to break...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Since the days of Francis Scott Key,
this city has changed significantly.
Still standing is the historical site of Ft. McHenry.
The fifteen star flag still hangs proudly.
While Key saw the rocket’s red glare,
and the bombs bursting in air,
there were no tall office buildings anywhere.
Oriole fans are as happy as a lark,
whenever their team wins at Camden Yards Park.
The National Aquarium is something to see.
It draws so many spectators annually.
This is where Poe wrote about “Lenore”,
and the raven repeatedly saying “nevermore”.
The NFL team carries the “Ravens” name.
They meet their opponents with a formidable game.
This is an historical city on Chesapeake Bay.
Why not stop and visit it someday?
At Camden Yards in Baltimore,
The Orioles will play,
The White Sox from Chicago
Their opponents for today.
But players will not hear the cheers
Of all their rooting fans.
For ticket holders, refunds wait,
A crimp put in their plans.
‘Cause Baltimore’s in riot mode
And so the call was made
To ban the fans but for the teams,
Their game won’t be delayed.
They’ll bat and run and steal and slide
To silent empty seats,
With no one there to cheer or boo
Or care which team defeats.
This situation’s a surprise
And many just don’t buy it,
But emptiness is better than
A predetermined riot.
It was after the defeat at Camden,
in the fall of 1780,
British Major Patrick Ferguson
sought to exploit Britain’s victory.
To secure South Carolina’s countryside,
he marched his loyalist forces forward,
threatened the men beyond Appalachia,
said he would lay waste with fire and sword.
He believed that with Gates fast in retreat,
resistance in the south would soon fall,
but he’d not met the Overmountain Men,
and did not understand them at all.
Living on the edge of the wilderness,
they were a hardened and seasoned crew,
who had been fighting Indians for years,
and had defeated more than a few.
Isaac Shelby and John Sevier,
fresh from a small win at Musgrove’s Mill,
were not going to just let this threat pass,
that would have been much too bitter a pill.
A call was sent out for all to muster
at a place known as the Sycamore Shoals,
fourteen hundred militiamen afoot,
they all started off after their goal.
Word was that this Major Ferguson
marched fast to rejoin the British man force,
against such an army they couldn’t stand,
so they hurriedly traced Ferguson’s course.
Even put nine hundred men on horseback
so their enemy would not slip on by,
leaving five hundred patriots behind,
across that fair country did they fly.
Ferguson knew he was being pursued,
and made his camp atop of a low peak,
three hundred feet high with broad wooded slopes,
it seemed a secure place to rest and sleep.
So strong did he feel his position was
that he proclaimed, to calm all his men’s fears,
atop the hill they could hold forever,
no force on Earth would move him form here.
Such confidence had the man in his strength
that his lookouts sadly dropped the ball,
at three o’clock the patriots attacked,
the British men had not seen them at all.
The militiamen surrounded the hill,
following a loose and pre-approved plan,
moving and shooting like the Indians,
never out in the open would they stand.
To make things worse, the British forces had
muskets, best suited for open fields,
patriots carrier Kentucky rifles,
at two hundred yards their danger was real...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.