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Best Poems Written by Robert Horton

Below are the all-time best Robert Horton poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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London

London

The tour of London begins
 In the streets of my mind,
  Through past and present
   Intrinsically entwined,
    Through people and places
     It's heart we will find,
      Through fellow travellers
       And friends left behind.

From West End theatres
 To the cafe's and bars,
  Round Oxford Circus
   On buses and in cars,
    Where rich and poor
     Peruse bottles and jars
      On the old market squares
       Beneath the neon stars.

Intricate and beautiful,
 Woven in rhyme,
  Delicately melodic,
   Pure and sublime,
    Rhythmically beating
     Perfectly in time,
      To the bells of bow,
       How sweet you chime.

On speakers corner
 Free justice calls,
  For the suffragettes
   Chained to the walls,
    Sneers and ignorance
     From the Westminster halls
      To the whispering gallery
        In the dome of Saint Paul's.

Innocent naivety,
 Children who stray,
  Ragged and forlorn
   On cobblestones lay,
    Begging for morsels
     To survive the day,
      In the Eastend arches
       Where harmonicas play.

Dirty old Thames
 Lapping the rocks,
  Where painted harlots
   Swish their locks,
    Coax the sailors
     With perfumed frocks,
      For half a crown
       On the London docks.

The Mayfair Gentry
 Their carriages refined,
  Regalia and etiquette,
   To snobbery resigned,
    Ridiculously wealthy
     Yet socially blind,
      The waifs and beggars
       Out of sight and mind.

Trade and commerse,
 To the city, its life,
  The hustle and bustle
   In the ale houses rife,
    Westminster or Stepney
     Husband or wife,
      Make bread and honey
       For the trouble and strife.

Parades at the palace
 Where the Queen sips tea,
  Changing of the guard
   Tourists duty to see,
    Trooping of the colour
     With all its pageantry,
      Pomp and circumstance
       Steeped in history.

To the bloody tower
 Where the ravens fly,
  Where heretics confessed
   And traitors died,
    The Beefeaters guard
     The secrets denied
      In the gallow's tale
       Of London's pride.

Piccadilly to Trafalgar
 The omnibus mayor,
  Over Westminster bridge
   To parliament square,
    Where commoners and lords
     Will debate his fare,
      While the underground
       Buskers sing for spare.

This is my ode to London,
 My poem, now penned,
  Celebrates the diversities
   On which these words depend;
    "A song for all seasons
     To your ears I'll lend,
      And my heart I bequeath
       To London, my friend."

Details | Robert Horton Poem

Matchstick Bikes

Matchstick Bikes 

To tinkers and toilers 
     I salute, 
From mending boilers 
     to weaving jute, 
Man and boy 
     for generations, 
I will unemploy 
     your occupations. 

To brewers in sheds 
     I sink a few beers 
To wet the heads 
     of our engineers, 
From flat cloth caps 
     to matchstick men, 
I will see the collapse 
     of pushers of pens. 

To bakers, tailors 
     I wish you well,
To the soldiers and sailors 
     who fought and fell, 
From doctors, nurses 
     to hobnail boots, 
I will give your purses 
     to thieves in suits. 

To the grieving docks
     I drink a toast, 
To tackle and blocks
     and shipyard ghosts,
From warehouses, workshops 
     to fishing trawls, 
I will flick my mop
     in empty halls. 

To union dues 
     I shake your hand, 
To cleaning loos 
     and farming land, 
From railway gauges 
     to industry, 
I will turn the pages 
     of history. 

To factory lines 
     I raise my glass, 
'Neath abandoned mines
     of times now past,
From overtime 
     to austerity,
I will frame the grime 
     for posterity. 

To the silent mills 
     I tip my hat, 
To what ever ills 
     and this and that,
From a steelworks spew 
     to a builders hole, 
I will stand in a queue 
     to draw my dole. 

To finance, the city 
     I bow in awe, 
To show no pity, 
     to flout the law, 
From sellers, buyers 
     to pickets and strikes 
I will slash the tyres
     of your matchstick bikes. 

© RJVHorton2016

Details | Robert Horton Poem

To Catch a Butterfly

To Catch A Butterfly

I stand beside 
a wilderness
    to gaze upon 
    unfamiliar shores
where life once 
appeared so intimate
    midst the savage 
    lion's roars,

Yet I'm detached 
from this reality
    with my neatly 
    packaged food,
standing draped
in shameful skins
    while nature is 
    running nude,

And as I scoop 
this alien soil
    I flinch at 
    creepy crawly things,
except to catch 
a butterfly 
    to marvel at its 
    beautiful wings.

This land was teaming 
with creatures
    who flew, who crawled
    to catch, to kill,
so I learnt how 
to make weapons
    and control
    this world at will.

Yet it's been so long 
since I wandered here 
    among nature 
    and my roots,
I have crushed them 
inadvertently
    with my industrial 
    hobnail boots.

Now I kneel beside 
this wilderness 
    to brush the earth 
    away from the sky,
where the fossils 
of man and butterflies 
    catch my tears 
    too late to cry.

Details | Robert Horton Poem

A Bag of Dreams

A Bag Of Dreams 

A wonderful life, 
In it was me, 
Above a cloud, 
Below the sea, 
Breathing slow 
With angels about
But I couldn't move
Nor could I shout. 

A stranger spoke, 
I knew him well, 
Of a distant light, 
A tolling bell,
And I said yes,
I know that place 
And I followed him 
Into empty space. 

Where corridors raced
Yet I was still, 
As if pinned down 
Against my will, 
Tingling limbs 
And feeling cold, 
I surrendered my body, 
Heart and soul. 

Where I met myself 
In another guise, 
Older than me, 
Grey and wise, 
But he didn't glance 
Nor knew my name, 
Like different people 
Who looked the same. 

He collected things
Like love and hope, 
Wrapped in beauty 
And tied with rope, 
Passion, humility, 
Empathy and pride 
And a million desires
All stuffed inside. 

The closer I got 
The further he ran,
Then my teeth fell out 
As a nightmare began, 
Everything beautiful 
Ripped apart 
The tiny fragments 
Of my broken heart. 

One by one 
They disappeared, 
Apart from the deformed, 
Grotesque and weird, 
The hours passed
Til morning arrived, 
"Thank God!" I said, 
"I'm still alive'.

And as I awoke 
My hair was grey, 
A wise old man 
Lay where I lay, 
He knew of me, 
From my sleep, it seems 
And by his side 
Was a bag of dreams. 

© RJVHorton2015

Details | Robert Horton Poem

Femme Fatale

Femme Fatale By A Wishing Well 
  (In The Wastelands Of War)

Warm as breath on placid skin,
Soft as gentle summer rains,
Loud as natures angry clouds
That gather in ambushed lanes,
To confer with the wounded boys
Whose blood on artillery stains,
Etched with the faded epitaphs
Tattooed on her mortal remains.
  Drop a pebble 
    In a wishing well,
      If it splashes
        Kiss and tell,
        Touch the ripples
      Of those who fell
    Into the depths
  That lead to hell.
Bright as a second harvest moon,
Hostile as the reapers command,
Silent as a wispy, mournful soul
Who wept upon a troubled land,
To kneel beside the enemies gun
Where heroic men should stand,
Saluting to the pipes and drums
Crushed in her seductive hand.
  Shine a penny
    Make a wish,
      Reach inside
        The waters swish,
        With fickle hearts
      And silver fish
    That nibble souls
  In the dark abyss.
Parched as a crimson sunset
Dark as burnt as ashen oak,
Lost as a wayward albatross
Who rode upon plumes of smoke,
To soar above the battlegrounds
Where fearless soldiers choke,
Thirsting for the tears of grief
Her odes to conflict will evoke.
  Swim in pools
    Of fatal love,
      Where broken hearts
        Have seen enough,
        Where one embrace
      Can lead to a shove,
    To silently drown
  In the sky above.
Sleepless as the lifeless limbs
Tormented on a captive throne,
Homeless as a wartime refugee
Who wanders the ruins alone,
To rummage through the corpses
Where kings have turned to stone,
Beside the statues of our heroes
Carved from her flesh and bone.
  Drift with angels
    Who sing so loud
      Their choral dirge
        For the baying crowd,
        Who in their victory
      Stand so proud,
    Casting rainbows
  Just to catch a cloud.
Black as a pond of liquid pitch,
Laying still as a stagnant mire,
Dead as a feild of burning poppies
That perished in the crossfire,
Where rows of scarlet bouquets
Hang limply on the twisted wire,
Woven into the crimson tunics
For her lustful eyes to admire.
  Blackest billows 
    Full of dread,
      Ride the wind
        That blows ahead,
        Then go to sleep
      On a feather bed,
    Under the wings
  Of the angels that fled.
Calm as a sultry midnight sky
Barren as the frozen sea,
Nervous as autumnal leaves
Clinging hopelessly to a tree,
To fall as mighty nations fall
Precariously existing as free,
Devoid of any reasonable doubt,
Only agreeing to disagree.
  Then ravens flock
    In stormy skies,
      To peck her heart
        And kiss her eyes,
        To see a prophet
      Old and wise,
    Who tell of soldiers
  With tearful eyes.
Ruthless as a spiders web
Perfumed with an orchids tear,
Reliant on the seasons end
To harvest the fruits of fear,
The ravages of war smell sweet
As friends and lovers appear,
Between the haunted vestibules
With the ghosts of yesteryear.
  Look to the east,
    Look to the west,
      The archers arrows
        Will pierce her chest,
        All her dreams
      Were laid to rest
    Behind the ravens
  Empty nest.
Worshiped as non-specifics
Revered as an unknown thing,
Insidious as the fallen angel
Who sewed on her broken wing,
To fly between the gravestones
Just to lure the spirits to sing,
The hymns of desperate faiths
To which her heart will cling.
  Lunge her sword
    With a victory cry,
      Who will love her
        If all should die?
        Make a wish,
      Say goodbye,
    Men will fall
  From the empty sky.
Mysterious as a femme fatale,
Innocent as her poetic ink,
Destructive as her fickle rhymes
That tempt men to further think,
About those glorious victories
Which left humanity on the brink,
Drawn toward the bloody abyss
Where she, without pity, will drink.
  Cups her ear,
    There's a tolling bell
      Echoing softly
        Where spirits dwell,
        Comedy, tragedy
      And a magic spell,
    Are all just pebbles
  In a wishing well.
Relentless as the wrath of time,
Enchanting, distorting eternity,
Perfect as the elusive metaphors
Which are too beautiful for me,
Like the conscientious objector
Who will sing "what will be will be".
To her infant and our ancestors
Dying on her bloodstained knee.
  Recite to them your poem
    Still, so much to tell,
      Words on pebbles
        Like soldiers fell,
        Femme fatale
      What price is hell?
    I tossed my last penny
  Into your wishing well......
.......Plop!......
   ....... 
    ... 
 .. 
.

© RJVHorton2013

Details | Robert Horton Poem

The Man In the Moon

The Man In The Moon 

Follow the crooked path 
     through a frosted gate
And hide in the shadows, 
     where the streets are straight,
Look for me in a doorway, 
     it's there that I will wait, 
Marooned in the same darkness
     that will, one day, be my fate. 

Imagine a light shimmering 
     and distant voices muttering
As I carve the brick built skies 
     with flimsy silver guttering,
And there I am, a halo'd face 
     upon a heart, a fluttering, 
Imbetween the chimney stacks, 
     gasping, choking, spluttering.

I am the mumblings of a lunatic 
     forgetting what to recall, 
Memories of you distorting
     despite the thrill of it all, 
I am lost among the shadows 
     that are holding up the wall 
So I'll pause for a moment 
     to let another empty bottle fall.

As it rolls down the sober kerb
     like an eerie, muffled scream,
I hear my own hollow footsteps 
     echoing in a dream,
I am the man in the moon 
     and upon your eyes I beam, 
Lighting up discarded wishes 
     just to watch your essence gleam. 

Appearing and disappearing 
     in the windows and in puddles 
Where all my loves once gathered 
     in their cruel and taunting huddles.
Where I am often found confused 
     in a myriad of muddles
Suffocating, like an unwanted child 
     in a world of loveless cuddles. 

My eyes will still shine as bright 
     as a winter's fearful stare, 
Reflecting in my melancholy 
     as if I wasn't there,
Not wanting to embarrass you 
    nor indeed, do I mean to scare,
Just to blind you with my love 
     if I could only dare. 

Yet my icy breath is hesitant, 
     the dawn has come too soon,
To whisper to you sweet-nothings 
     or to catch you if you swoon, 
And there you are, such beauty, 
     in your summer bridal cocoon 
Never to love, nor know my name, 
     I am only the man in the moon. 

© RJVHorton2015

Details | Robert Horton Poem

Boxing Day

Boxing Day

Christmas over,
Boxing day,
Snow replaced by rain,
Turkey eaten,
Presents opened,
Bones and wrapping remain.

Silent carols,
Muted bells,
The candles all burned out,
Bottle tops,
Nutshells
And gift tags lay round about.

Glittered cards,
Ribbons and bows,
Tinsel, baubles and more,
Unwanted gifts,
Stale perfume,
All strewn across the floor.

The tree bare,
Bulbs blown,
Forgotten cracker jokes,
Empty bottles,
Hangovers
Santa just some bloke.

Party poppers,
Paper hats,
Plastic Jesus in his stable,
Fallen cards,
Holly leaves
Litter the festive table.

Melancholy 
Mistletoe,
The anti-climax seems sad,
But in my heart
It will always be
The best Christmas I've had.

Details | Robert Horton Poem

The Fire of London

The Fire Of London

Oh I perused those dirty streets 
with cane and pomander a must, 
scuffed knees and nasty wheeze, 
poor urchins begged for a crust, 

I could not touch them with charity, 
the rats had given them sores, 
between the rings and sneezes 
red X's were painted on the doors.

Oh mothers and your poor fathers 
were never to rise from their bed, 
they slept on the cart that night, 
to the calls of "bring out your dead".

Those alleys of cobbled stone 
where houses of straw and wood 
touched the sky and each other 
where the bakery proudly stood.

Pudding Lane, I remember, 
the fragrant waft of fresh bread, 
a brick oven was primed and lit 
disguising the smell of the dead.

Drunk on rough gin the baker slept 
while sparks ignited the dry straw, 
fire spread, as keen as the plague 
to inflict some misery once more.

Oh my ode to London town; 
"Red, gold and orange flames, 
will you forever reflect 
upon the silver Thames?"

An eerie silence then befell 
the streets as the fire consumed, 
I stood among the flimsy ashes 
where acrid billows plumed, 

Oh I perused the smoking embers 
and took comfort, well earned, 
the satisfaction, that in the fire 
ten million rats were burned.

Details | Robert Horton Poem

Invisible

Invisible 

I see you,
     And all those people 
Rushing about,
     Going here, 
                           Going there, 
     Going somewhere 
                That 
                    isn't 
                        there,
As if time 
     Was running out............
Or perhaps you might 
      Miss           something,
It must be important, 
You've forgotten 
     To notice me.
Blinkered vision,
     One direction, 
          Autopilot, 
               Sat nav,
Kiss the wife,
Kiss the kids, 
Kiss reality goodbye. 
Thinking..........
     Always thinking, 
          Work,
          Sales,
          Work, 
          Shopping, 
          Work,
          Lunch,
     Work
Yourself 
Into 
     The 
          Ground, 
It must be important work, 
     You've forgotten 
          To acknowledge me. 
          I'm the quiet one 
     Sipping coffee, 
     Eating cake, 
          Watching 
You,
          Watching 
                    People 
     Rushing      about. 
          I am contemplating 
     A crossword;
Seven across,      busy, 
Two down,            urgent, 
Eleven across,      blinkered,
Ten down,             robotic, 
One across           the street 
Someone across the street 
Stopped and looked at me, 
I'm not sure if you saw me, 
     "Hello, it's me!
      Don't you see? 
      I am here!
      I am here"
I am the one you ignore,
I am conversation you never had,
I am the child you smacked,
I am the person you live with, 
I am the friend you don't see,
I am the life you had, 
I am the stranger 
          You've become, 
I am com pli cated, 
          Compassionate, 
     Empathic,
                   Lonely,
                             Existing. 
Sometimes..........
          I'm important, 
Sometimes.......... 
           Not, 
Sometimes.......... 
          I think I'm an alien, 
Sometimes..........
          I am,
Mostly..........
          I 
               Am 
                    Invisible.

Details | Robert Horton Poem

Circus Clown

Circus Clown

Roll up! Roll up!
The circus is in town,
"Damn the weird and wonderful,
 we've come to see the clown".

First, ladies and gentlemen
An amazing double-act to see,
Two fat ladies codgitating
Psychedelic Imagery.

Bearded children flying,
On a razor sharp trapeze,
Just an awesome spectacle,
As screams can only please.

For your delictation
Escape artistes tied tight,
Immersed in boiling liquid,
Horrors to delight.

Unicyclists stacked
Maybe seventeen tall,
The crowds secretly wishing
Chrome and flesh would fall.

Screams and gasps levitate
Stilted jugglers on high-wire,
Kaleidoscopic wizardry
As they breathe out rainbow fire.

Feast your eyes on the impossible,
A conjurer with no sleeves,
The audience vanishes
And still no-one believes.

A menagerie in formation,
Performing whips crack loud,
Tumbling through rings of fire,
To the delight of the beying crowd.

Midgets packed in suitcases,
Wrapped in chains and locks,
Boing! burst on laughing springs
Like a hundred Jacks in a box.

Acrobatic mystics,
Tiddly-um-tum-tum the band,
Narrow minds appreciate
The greatest show in the land.

A hush befalls the bigtop, 
Then drumrolls, the shouts of more,
The spectacle isn't over;
"This is what we've been waiting for!"

Into the ring Mr. Ridicule,
The funniest man you'll see,
Comedy and tragedy,
How sad.......they think he's me.

His painted smile's a grimace,
The humiliation is cruel,
The taunts he wears with gratitude
For always being the fool.

Children sit in the audience 
Laughing at what they fear most 
Dressed in their Sunday best, 
Their faces white as a ghost. 

Applause, applause, applause
How hilarious his disguise,
To all the world the joker,
Inside........his heart has died.

Slapstick and squirty flowers 
Are all just pies in the face, 
He exits in a puff of smoke 
Yet leaves no worldly trace. 

The show is winding down,
Soon to be leaving town,
Memories of extravaganza
But not for the circus clown.

The flattened, browning grass
Where the big-top stood so proud,
The tombstone of a broken man,
Safe from the madding crowd.