I sat down to study the Netherlands tried to gather all the scoop
Entering every contest cause I'm new to Poetry Soup
I read all the poetry masters to grow I must surely invest
What I've discovered in almost no time is why Soup poets are the best
Zerbst wrote an anthem with some amazing poetic twist
Made me wish I was from Freisland this sprawling sealand really exist
Dr. Ram wrote a history thesis he even quotes the great Shakespeare
The Netherlands in an Italian sonnet another masterpiece was here
Cornish obviously did his homework in couplet form he holds command
Displays the heart and pride of the people when I read his words I want to stand
Andrea's the Soup contest master so you knew she'd draw her pen
With perfection her ode to Freisland, Ms. Dietrich has done it once again
I could go on with the works on Netherlands a shout out to John, Ralph, and Tim
A descriptive write by Huberta van Akkeren, these odes will make sweet Elly grin
So I learned all about the Netherlands another ode wasn't needed from me
To be proud of this majestic country... May she ever be beautiful and free!
Sponsor: Elly Wouterse
Contest Name: Your ode to 'my' Netherlands and/or 'my' Friesland
*Happy Birthday Elle!
Your buildings were burned,
Your walls they were torn,
And just like that Priam's Kingdom was no more.
Your damnation was brought on by the lusts of a young man
For a young woman named Helan who was declared the fairest.
This is what brought to your land the Achaeans other wise known as the
Their soldiers,slaves, and their king,
To destory the trojans is what they did seek.
For ten long years there was blood,sweat and so many tears.
With no relief or gains,
Just more deaths and battle pains.
Untill Achilles and his shield,
Killed your bravest son Hector on the field.
The gods themselves were divided,
Ones on each side fighting,
All this for one young couples desire's
And so your buildings they were burned,
Your walls they were torn,
And the life of Priam and his kingdom and sons were no more,
destroyed they were,
All for one girl.
She swept away the tired day
with purple broom that stained the sky
and the sun swept under the rug
was the sparkle in her eye
She walked on a bridge of cloud
with such glowing presence and luminescence
that it left crumbs of stars in the sky.
This new born day I celebrate your souls release from guilt n’ captivity since that day you
felt a carnal touch of sin within as your hands played poetically upon the curves of your dead
lover’s silken skin…
I know now you made your way to the top of the rocks to plant a tree to guard this sacred
place where I fell from thee n’ you repeated the poetic chant of love’s abandoning to follow
me into our karmic destiny…
On that fateful day your soul bled away at the top of this crest by a solitary juvenile tree,
your body of words fell to the rocks at the base of this cliff, embroidered into the blood of
The one who would hold a feather to her face on this crest by the sea n’ remember finally
the days gone by of you n’ me, our deaths from love’s abandoning when you my love were
lost to this world n’ me for ten centuries…
I now await destiny as we will love forever more with immortal hearts…
I woke up this morning with tears in my eyes,
your face was in the morning paper;
they shot you dead like a dog,
hunted you out all day and night.
They said you'd always been a bad seed
and youths were dying because of you;
they said you're a criminal on the run
with a dirty face and shaggy head.
But I know you better than they do,
you preached love to all the people;
you fought for them, young and old,
you lit up their nights with your heart.
And now as I see you lying dead,
it seems my dreams have vanished as well;
they can call you names, any names they want,
but I know there's only one like you,
there's only one like you,
there's only one Che Guevara.
You lit up their nights with your heart,
you lit up their nights with your heart,
you lit up their nights with your heart.
His message to Mankind was divine love, much louder than
the desert wind hissing through the tall palm trees;
they heard Him, but sadly contempt built up when
they defiled the Temple by selling and trading instead of praying on their knees...
so Jesus got the whip and the lame and the blind cried out the word, " Hosanna! "
Christ was the faithful servant who was scourged, derided and crucified,
now, is the friend of all who believe in Him, not in a sinful world....
the Redeemer who carried the heavy cross to Calvary and died;
His resurrection was a victory over death making Him the eternal Lord!
Who besides Him is more worthy of God His Father, are we?
Anytime Jesus prayed, He finished that prayer with this holy word, " Hosanna! "
Nothing has changed...it was an unjust and mean world, and so it will be;
they lived for lust, power and money getting greedier than Judas who chose death;
find that good soul that resembles Jesus...is it that poor man who seeks mercy?
We can gather much gold, make him a crown and place it on his bruised head!
And while he sits there waiting for compassion, his feeble voice proclaims," Hosanna! "
All nations strive for supremacy, making useless and massive weapons so destructive,
they have no love for their neighbors...they hate peace and every beautiful place;
we have made it to this century...will others see a tomorrow not dark and delusive?
Pray like Jesus did and put your fate in the hands of the Almighty who's grace!
No joy or possession is greater than faith...get up, look up and shout, " Hosanna! "
Alms Inn, there is the place again, and here
I, far away, muse in the house I grew
O this village of my love, has grown too
The golden hills with lilacs filled, the sweet
Soft of morning dew, and my dusty feet
Leaving his brighter sun for school and care
Whilst he with poetic dreams filled the air
And orange blossoms buzz with fragrance fair
And O, orange blossoms buzz when
In my mind I hear his voice again.
Father, fragile though festive fold of hills
Where drought walks dissonant on dribbled dreams
Your memory abides here still, and bright streams
Of laughter where you paced or sat unveiling
History and poetry and farmed feeling
Of the world. Like a nightingale's voice spills
Through the village gate, sublime as sacred thrills
The organ dissipates, and crannies fills
With thy deep eloquence and pride
And thy wide eyed child by your side.
Regal of an African line, birth low
Amidst the Maroon bramble, up you came
Out of the German mire of blood, a flame
Carrying bushman and midwife through night
The falcon feathered for the frolic of flight
Over foreign spires, in the bright rainbow
Father, still your footsteps that path does show
Mud deep, bright towards the future we go
Athlete, scholar, tempest and mist
Man above men will foes insist
And I today churn in praise my new lines
Waking like a womb of fresh beginnings
A virgin voyage of my form, deep gleanings
Of the mind's creativity. I bring
It, tribute to you, blush before my king
For whose awesome form my love matchless pines
Seeking your worth in joys of new designs
To carve your honor on our human minds
First of our black place to unfold
Upon white space petals of gold.
This proud veterinarian, this wave
That pulse across the Caribbean's shores
This first in rank in all the shackled chores
This noble patron of the arts, this child
Of business, that upward through nights here toiled
To say I am free, stir now gloomy grave
You shall not hold him forever a slave
When jubilee comes, and our God shall save
For of all the joys that is known
He loved his God, and grace was shown
Time and us are leashed memories
With time I tell love's true stories
And so its oft, when love in fancy strays
I to Alms Inn, where my boyhood still plays
In St. Elizabeth, behind the brimmed drays
Here in white pattern of dust I reclaim
The glory of my father, all my name
For we are nothing who have no past, sir
No identity the shard soul to stir
Shorn from the traditions of father's ways.
The were the three Magi with mantels and beards, traveling
on strong camels as far as Bethlehem and having
seen a wondrous star, they began their long journey
by bringing precious gifts, but they warned Joseph and Mary
of Herod's malicious intent...so they fled to Egypt
on a donkey that never complain of a sore hip!
They believed in the Savior as Herod himself full of pride,
and being very wise, they never returned
to tell him what kind of child they had found!
They brought their gifts and knelt at a child
whose fate as foretold was to die for us all,
and he gladly accepted them hearing His Father's call!
Not having heard from the Wise Men who had lied to Him,
Herod sent his soldiers to kill all children under three: screams terrorized Bethlehem;
no, they weren't moved by their mother's painful cry
and shedding their innocent blood they revenged that lie!
O mothers of Bethlehem, Jesus knew that they were slaughtered because of Him!
O mothers of Bethlehem, you wept and moaned as they bled as a sacrificial lamb!
They believed in the Savior from what they had read,
and wanted to see for themselves the glorious event that Daniel spoken of:
the brightest star shining over Bethlehem as angels sang,
announcing Christ's birth in a small town groping on a hill of citrus and clove!
Written on December 16, 2012
" Hail to courageous Patrick! "
The Christian Irish loudly sang,
taking their chant to all Ireland...
and that made Milchu very sick!
In his veins ran pure blood of Roman nobility;
at that brutal era, Druidism was Ireland's religion,
and he, the follower of Christ, felt much contention...
but armed with determination Patrick fought it fiercely!
" Hail to courageous Patrick!"
As a saint he never accepted defeat;
he was bread and water for the weak...
endless fear for the High Priest!
" Pagans, you shall not worship neither the Sun
nor idols, Christ is your true Lord! "
He preached in all villages ignoring any frown
from that warrior waving his sword!
Would he had never been captured
and sold into slavery, all Ireland wouldn't have known liberty;
his task was to tend sheep as David,
but choose to give his entire soul to God to wipe out idolatry!
" Hail to courageous Patrick! "
Every man, woman and child shouted without being afraid;
they knew that God had sent this holy and kind man to them
to teach prayers of fervent faith!
The year is1762 and a tale of murder or mystery they boast
A teenage girl, a drunken parish clerk and even a ghost
About hordes of aristocrats and wealthy men assembling
Crowds rivalling Covent Garden Theatres were now descending
To a house near St Paul’s on a road named Cock Lane
Although three stories high one room on each floor it had for its fame
Owned by Richard Parsons a clerk with a passion for drink
Forever in debt borrowing money, but to repay it he never did think.
He evicted poor Fanny and her partner William Kent
Even though he borrowed money from them and they could pay rent
A short time later smallpox took poor Fanny Lynns from this world
But her 'said to be' husband engraved no name, and then this story unfurled
He explained in truth that they were not wed
He didn’t want her family knowing poor Fanny was dead
She left all her goods to her partner William Kent
He didn’t want to share them not a penny not a cent
Two years later a report on Fanny hit the news
It seems Parson was Kent’s character now going to abuse
Through Parsons daughter it was said that Fanny had spoken
The ghost of Fanny Lynes with a scratching sound had awoken
From the lips of the poor deceased Fanny Lynes
The tales of murder and scratching begins
She says she died not of smallpox, but of murder most foul
And she wants her revenge and is now on the prowl
Kent denied murder he loved his Fanny so
But of the scratching of Fanny now most people did know
To the house in Cock lane the crowds rallied round
Entrepreneurs learnt how to make a quick buck, a quick pound
Selling food and drink and seats by the door
As Fanny was said to tell of her murder and more
But it seems there may have been trickery and lies from Parsons not Kent
As it was to his daughter Elizabeth that Fanny’s messages were sent.
Parsons was found guilty of lies, a fine he was ordered to pay
As he did not pay to jail he went and spent there many a day
The case against Kent dropped and Fanny’s ghost did now sleep
But years later maybe her revenge she finally did reap
As the years passed more investigations were made
Her coffin was dug up and her body displayed
On poor scratching fanny of Cock lane it was observed
No smallpox was found but her face was preserved
Was it then arsenic that killed poor Fanny after all?
Whatever the truth in the house of three stories tall
No one knows now as the grave held no engraved name
But still there exists the tale of Scratching Fanny in Cock Lane.
© GG 30/1/2014