The following I’ve written in blank verse, iambic pentameter. I entered poem in a contest but won nothing so now allowed to publish it. My inspiration for the poem: Richard, after lying beneath an old car parking lot in England for 500 years, is discovered by an archaeological dig. I become fascinated with the ‘politics’ involved and outrageous funeral service afforded Richard despite his ugly history as a ruler! The English love their Monarchy, good or bad and especially the ceremony, pomp and circumstance. Richard Third was ambitious and ruthless. His two, young nephews, age 12 and 14, were in line for the throne. They were murdered, their bones buried between the walls of the Tower and not discovered for many years. They were later buried in Westminster Abbey. Richard is newly entombed in Leicester Cathedral and what a show that was! You can watch it online.
The word unleashed, the Council Chamber’s packed!
Our archaeologists, meticulous,
their analytic brushes set aside
now eagerly proclaim with brimming pride
the brave results of Leicester’s latest dig:
“It seems we’ve dug down deep enough to find
old Herrick’s garden near the friary
where modest virgins still lay waste their time.
We’ve dug on past King Henry’s century
who’d rid church edicts should he disagree.
He’s here! He’s found beneath an old car park,
a left and thorny leg adjacent tomb.
King Richard with his relics in the ground;
his scoliosis near his skull, intact
with battle scars remaining on that dome.
He’s bootless, sigh! We see he’s lost his feet
that once did run to ruin in Bosworth Field.”
The news King Richard Third is found abounds.
Historians now treat their find with joy.
But from that darker past young voices heard.
From London’s Tower groans two muffled cries
as now Westminster holds their smothered plight.