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Belgian
Poem | | 
I Love Horses: A--Z
A is for... Appaloosa. They have
blankets on their rumps.
B is for...Belgian. They work
hard and can pull up stumps.
C is for...Clydesdale. They're
BIG bays with white fluffy feet.
D is for...Dartmoore, a pony
from the moors--so sweet!
E is for...Egyptian, the finest
horse on desert sand.
F is for...Fresian: Big black War
Horse--a Knight's demand.
G is for...Gypsy Vanner, a rare
beauty like fairy tales.
H is for...Hanoverian. The best
all-round from England hails.
I is for...Irish Tinker. A loyal
horse that's black and white.
J is for...Java Pony. He's
Indonesia's working sprite.
K is for...Knapstrup. He's a
horse full of leopard spots!
L is for...Lipizzaner: Grey
leapers known in the Big Tops!
M is for...Mustang. Wild and
Free--roams America's West.
N is for...Nonius: Big-headed
black and drives the best.
O is for...Oldenburg. Dressage
ribbons just get bigger.
P is for...Palomino. Roy Rogers
named his, Trigger.
Q is for...Quarter Horse,
cowboy's fav'rite! Does
Everything!
R is for...Racking Horse. His
ride's so smooth it will make
you sing.
S is for...Spotted Saddle Horse,
Gaited beauty everyone loves.
T is for...Thoroughbred. Racing,
"The Sport of Kings", he does.
U is for...Ukrainian Riding
Horse: Beautiful born after
War's end.
V is for...Vlaamperd: Flemish
black stallion and true friend.
W is for...White Horse(Albino).
The Lone Ranger's 'Silver'--of
course!
X is for...Xilingol. He's
Mongolia's riding draft horse.
Y is for...Yonagui, a chestnut
pony from Japan.
Z is for...Zebra: African wild
but tamed by man.
A personal therapist long past
the end,
The love of a horse...is the
love... of a Friend.
deborah burch
02.28.2013
For Cyndi's contest
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Belgian
Poem | |
5:11am
I wake up to my TV blasting episodes of Woody Woodpecker.
I wipe my encrusted eyes, which had a field day in that dream I had
Involving two Swedish women, a Latin princess
With curvaceous hips that could save me if I ever fell from mountain climbing,
A Sony boom box made in 1984 playing Duran Duran,
And empty boxes of Junior Mints, M&M Peanuts, & Cool Whip.
I walk to my front door to discover hundreds of blood lettered Post-It notes
Slid under by my friendly Mafia neighbors,
“Turn that crap down or say ‘HOLA’ to my little friend! Woody sucks! ”
5:45am:
So, instead of apologizing, I grabbed my power drill
Which I bought off this Mexican guy named Bob
Standing in front of my local Home Depot,
I thanked each of my neighbors by drilling Wal-Mart smiley faces
Smoking Cuban cigars & holding Shotguns
Into their doors
At this point, I popped in some Belgian waffles & French Toast sticks
Into my Cookie Monster toaster oven and turned on the news.
What was I thinking?!
News reports on Sugar Daddies being harassed by stalking gold-diggers,
Another asinine Final Destination movie,
More teacher-student scandals,
Celebrity break-ups & pregnancies
Oh, how the sheep live vicariously through them
Where’s that damn noose I bought off Bob?!
610am:
To remove my early morning frustrations,
I turned on my Xbox 360 and popped in Guitar Hero
In which I jammed out to Stevie Wonder’s Superstitious
While performing Riverdance on my hardwood floor
The neighbors below me added a nice, rhythmic sound with their broomsticks.
7am:
After my Pilates workout, I decided to strip off my clothes
So I can feel FREE like a Tree-hugging barn swallow
And fill my bathtub with a bottle of Tickle Me Elmo Bubble Bath liquid,
Which I also bought off Bob
Shortly after, I yelled “THIS IS SPARTA!” and performed a belly flop into the tub…
2pm:
After waking up from my concussion, I laughed maniacally
With my face underwater
My laughs were heard through the popping bubbles rising to water’s surface
I passed out again with a drumming thud against my porcelain dreams.
7pm:
Second attempt at recovery, SUCCESS!
I gathered all my utility bills
A filled, plastic gas tank, another purchase from Bob
And a Jerry Garcia branded lighter
As inferno warmed my screaming loins,
Blasting John Lennon’s “Imagine” on my 8-Track,
The local Fire department sliced my front door
With titanium axe and an inscription: “Here’s Johnny”
As hundreds of angry firemen & neighbors stampede into my child-like day
*CLICK*
3pm, Day Unknown:
I awaken with lines imprinted on my Latin cheeks
From wooden office desk
Strange stares from coworkers
With “I’m all out of Love” playing on the faded, company radio
And a post-it note, “Come see me in my office”,
From Bob
©Drake J. Eszes
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Belgian
Poem | |
Let the paper be a canvas and the pen, a brush
The words fill the mind like a young girl’s blush
Every color on the palette of the imagination
Becomes a vibrant idea of luscious creation
Open a door of stained glass with swans of white
Made more brilliant by the glowing sunlight
Surrounded by a pool of sapphire blue
Water lilies afloat with teardrops of dew
Beyond the door a walled brick terrace of burgundy red
With a gray flagstone floor in which to tread
Terra cotta pots at the edges with mixed colored flowers
Above a dogwood in blooms like a canopy towers
Wide steps lead to a large flowing fountain
Three flowing tiers sparkle like a crystalline mountain
It towers within a large oval pool
A goldfish swimming like a small orange jewel
Beyond the fountain, a cobblestone path
Followed by a fence of latticework lath
An open field on the other side of the fence
Beyond the field is a forest, dark and dense
Two Belgian horses graze on clover patches of red
Near a large gray stone two-story shed
Nearby a pond of sparkling blue
Reflecting the clouds of a dusky pink hue
The blue sky fades into pink streaks of sunset
Turning the forest trees to a darker silhouette
And the grass to bright emerald green
All to create a tranquil pastoral scene
The words fill the mind like young girl’s blush
With the paper as a canvas and the pen, a brush.
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Belgian
Poem | |
From many connoisseurs, it has drawn mighty cheers.
This has earned the title of “The King of Beers”.
Drinkers have enjoyed its tasted for many years.
In numerous places, this beer is number one.
The flavorful brew has been rated second to none.
Where quality is concerned, it has established the benchmark.
A team of Clydesdale horses remains its trademark.
The company’s history is long and glorious.
The corporate headquarters is located in St. Louis.
Even during the brief period of prohibition,
the firm had never relinquished its top position.
Its status as an American beer is now in doubt.
To a Belgian company, they sold themselves out.
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Belgian
Poem | |
Copper metal is a valuable wartime commodity.
Something new was needed for the cent in 1943.
A strange composition the United States Mint would reveal.
Lincoln’s profile appeared on a coin made of steel.
It was plated with zinc to reduce oxidation.
They were struck at all three mints in the nation.
The three cities were ones that most people would know.
They were Philadelphia, Denver, and San Francisco.
Here is an interesting little trivia tidbit:
This coin is the only one that can be drawn to a magnet.
However, zinc-coated cents were made for just one year.
Afterward, familiar bronze cents would reappear.
The mint made a move two years before that was similar.
They replaced the nickel in five-cent pieces with silver.
A large “P”, “D”, or “S”, appeared above Monticello.
This indicated a silver five-cent piece so you would know.
The following year, production of steel cents would cease.
The mint used the metal to make the Belgian two-franc piece.
Therefore, this is what the United States Mint did for the war.
After 1945, we did not have to worry about it anymore.
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Belgian
Poem | |
Chocolate Indulgences (20150129)
If I really had no choice but to divulge,
In mountains of chocolate I would indulge.
I'm not just taking about Snickers,
Reese's peanut butter cups, Butterfingers,
Or other grocery store sweeties.
I'm talking about the expensive stuff, most from oversea:
Fruit and nut bars from British Cadbury,
Milk molasses chips from local Mrs. See's,
Fudge Easter Eggs from domestic Helen Grace,
Belgian praline Sea Shells from Leonidas,
Belgian Cote D'Or bouche pralines,
And from Germany's Ritter Sport--EVERYTHING!
Wallowing in glorious chocolate, I'd be so pathetic,
If not for the fact, that I'm a diabetic.
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Belgian
Poem | |
I once met a man at the local church,
Strangely enough in the children's ministry.
He was an older gentleman of sixty, perhaps,
And after I introduced myself, I thought him kindly.
When I asked him his name, he said something odd
To the ears, that I could not repeat. Smiling, he said
To call him "G.R.", which I assumed were his initials.
But I silently vowed to learn to pronounce his name.
We were good friends, G.R. and I, despite our different ages.
Together we watched over little children in Sunday school.
How fondly I remember those days;
We would talk as the children played.
He once told me that he came from very far away.
He hailed from the land of Belgium, he said,
And he added, a bit mysteriously, that he was a spy.
I didn't believe him then, of course, but now I think I might.
Because one fateful day, my family moved away,
And of course they took me with them.
I lost touch with many friends, including G.R.
I didn't even get to say goodbye.
When we returned, perhaps a year later,
I revisited my old church haunts.
I inquired of G.R. expectantly,
Only to find that he had died.
I was told by his family that he had taken
A gunshout wound to the head.
They said it was suicide,
But they couldn't quite explain why.
I still remember the days we talked,
The times we laughed, the paths we walked.
G.R. was like an uncle or grandfather to me.
I was greatly grieved when I was told of his demise.
Remember, I never got to say goodbye.
Now I never will. unless...that was just a cover story.
I can still pretend that G.R. is still out there,
My kindly Belgian spy.
And now I can pronounce his name.
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Belgian
Poem | |
Twelve men
Sporting frayed,
Burlap sacks
And white knuckles
Grind their teeth
As they
Hang loosely
From thick
Willow
Trees.
Their stiff necks crack,
And twist
In the rope's loving embrace
Like the whips
That once ruled them.
Their limp limbs swing
And sway
And stab
At sticky,
Summer air
And sharp blades of grass
Like lonely poppies
Dancing carelessly
In calm
Belgian fields.
Their burnt feet arch
Like the scarred backs
Of their ancestors,
Angling off toward the wood chips beneath them
As the final seconds of their life
Are forced from their lungs.
Red flags
Embraced by Xs of blue and white
Float without worry
Above a field of white robes and sheets,
A wash in a sea of corn
And vacant night.
Cheers greet the dozens final moments,
Transcending into a roar of victory
And triumph.
The world is now a better place,
The world is now a better place.
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Belgian
Poem | |
Walking along the warm sands of the shoreline
My black Belgian shepherd by my side
Sea lions barking, sea gulls flying, towards the sailboats beyond the inlet
Pondering the solipsism, amid soliloquy divisions....
While the winter sun, shines down its solace
As I glance toward the southeast, and beyond its distant horizon
Knowing, within my pulsing raspberry heart, which pounds for her, these melodies
For it is somewhere there, beneath the whispering wooded trees
Where she wakes, she creates, she believes, and, she breathes....
In this maya of a moment I can see her
White silken dress, atop her golden pristine flesh
Blowing gently in this breeze, like an Angel within a dream....
Her rubious red lips, and her glistening strawberry auburn hair, flowing
Within this deja vu premonition she smiles, this certain, glowing gleam
As her endless chocolate eyes, blink, beneath her heavenly painted lashes
While bluebirds and red breasted robins gather, with all of nature, roundabout her side....
Solomons-seal upon my palm, holding the infloressence, as the Parus bicolor begins to sing,
its lullaby
Tinnitus sounds that twinkle in time, calling, as Tinkerbell, slowly fades away ~
Beyond these tangerine skies so close, inside, these blueberry wanting scenes
Where her words chime, to a longing heart that beats, resounding, from this rising sea....
I bleed, as I fight this space which lies between us
For in my soul, today, she is all that I can see!
Dare I tell her that I love her?
Dare I ask her to join me, within my own world?
Walking along the shoreline, my shepherd by my side, boats beyond the inlet, sea gulls in
flight
Pondering the solipsism, amid soliloquy divisions....
While the winter sun, shines down its solace
And I smile, within this deja vu premonition, of what dreams, may someday be?
Tinkerbell dancing, dressed, in blueberries tangerine
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Within, the deepest ocean....
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Belgian
Poem | |
In this land remote from the rest of the earth,
a man can live for centuries after his birth.
Mallinson, it is without a trace of a doubt I know
that the High Lama himself is really Father Perrault.
The Belgian monk found his way into the valley.
The lamasery he founded is this place we see.
How can you explain the exquisite beauty all around?
The pristine weather and fertility of the ground?
Where else could a place like this be found?
Mallinson, I’m convinced everything is not a lie.
If you and Lo Tsen leave here, you will die.
Based on the 1933 novel "Lost Horizon" by the late James Hilton
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Belgian
Poem | |
Sadie went to a dating agency,
And told them of her plight,
They took down all her details,
So they could get it right.
Sadie wanted a new love,
To share her lonely life,
She’d sent the last one packing
When she found he had a wife.
‘It’s not about the money,
Doesn’t matter if they’re poor’,
Yet the first was nice, but on
the dole,
So he got shown the door.
The fisherman was a real good
catch,
He smelled of the sea and salt,
But he never once, took her out
to eat,
They only ate the fish he’d caught.
The electrician was a bright spark,
His knowledge she could use,
A real live wire to say the least,
But then he’d blow a fuse.
The clergyman wanted to altar her,
And was much too well – behaved,
He just wanted to save her soul,
But she didn’t want it saved.
The banker, nice by all accounts,
Bought her an expensive gown,
But she lost interest straight away,
And he moved out of town.
When she nailed the carpenter,
She thought she had it made,
But he was only interested
In getting the new floor laid!
The magician was a tricky guy,
And Sadie lived in fear,
That he would wave his magic
wand,
And make her disappear.
She liked the earthy gardener
Whose turnips won first prize,
And whe she saw the size of his
Brussels sprouts,
She couldn’t believe her eyes.
But the baker, was the icing on
the cake,
Although an ugly so and so,
Not only did she like his Belgian
buns,
But he also had lots of dough!
BY
DARRYL ASHTON
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Belgian
Poem | |
the
day a
Belgian
Dane+Dutchman
met
they
made an
initial
impression on
art
cobra=COopenhagen;BRussels;Amersterdam namely
expressionist artists..Appel/Corneille/Jorn
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Belgian
Poem | |
Rwanda
And man will fight with murder and destruction
When peace and negotiation can go no further
Heaven shed many tears; to see that man
Does not even try to find peace if he can
For man has turned against each other
Heaven is full of sadness; and brother against brother
Humanity await his greatest fall
While heaven pray for us all
In the midst of this madness and pain
Everyone should remember Abel and Cain
Save six thousand;one man, General De Lare
Risk his life, has love to share
As Belgium rules Rwanda, the child
The sibling rebels, revolts and runs wild
The Rwandan president is dead; his plane is shot
All hell breaks loose and the temperature gets hot
The Hutus,supporters of the foreign government
Decide to bring genocide on the peaceful Tutsis without armament
Men women and children,are mowed down with machete and guns
And so instead of helping, the Belgian army runs
France, Italy, Belgium and the Vatican see the massacre of a peaceful people
The catholic church loses its steeple
They turn their backs, turn up their noses
The people die and their families are forced to smell the roses
To take their ex patriots, the French, Italian and Belgian appear
And after they leave, hardly a Tutsi is found standing there
The United Nations Pull out, no diplomacy, no oil, no solution
Things turn seriously grave, the Tutsis are swallowed up in this revolution
When eight hundred thousand Africans dead
All across the world, not a tear is shed
In every nation, love leaves, and enters hate
Atlantis revisit, as man does not see his terrible fate
.William Morrissey 1/28/07
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Belgian
Poem | |
Oh pretty snowflake
Gentle on my face
Oh delicate beauty
Like Belgian lace
Oh pretty snowflake
Thing of grace
You were here
Now not a trace
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Belgian
Poem | |
It's impossible to step outside of alcohol.
It's like finding a new road map, curious and invigorating,
Until you wake up to the old, brighter consciousness.
The binging of drink is Life Immobile.
The non-creative dream-state of
Fools and heart-ache.
I write such a thing in such a state.
Art in rum and Belgian beer.
Art with chamomile and wounded cheer.
Art underground and minted and cold.
Art in heaven with cellulose toes.
Art in art with hearts and charts.
You get the picture. Of a car.
It's just a bunch of parts. On the ground.
You make your shape and I'll make mine.
You stay sober, I'll get the wine.
We're all swimming together anyway,
Some just smile as they drown.
Others breathe, wearing a frown.
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Belgian
Poem | |
Bastogne 1944
It was cold, so cold because they hadn’t given
us warm clothes for the winter, or to die in:
Germans and SS surrounded us and
the aroma of their hot food and Heil Hitler!
warm fur coats drifted by us
as the freezer closed in, my Thompson was
a cold block of ash and black metal but
working well, so well, so very well
and the drum magazine (music to my ears )had
a hundred rounds and I started naming each
bullet Fritz, or Franz, or Helmut, or Adolf
then stopped at eight when I ran out of names
and when they attacked we took them away,
from their mothers and lovers and their pastors
and brothers, made widows of their wives and
whores of their sisters
but all this was a long time ago and I remember
the cold and the wind as they charged at us screaming
“ AAAGGGHH!” which sounds the same in Hindi or
Belgian or Yiddish or Scottish, as their warm chests exploded
and bearded faces imploded and their meat and their teeth
spread like confetti in the loud Thompson flashes ,
(like a party strobe)
which was kind of unsettling to see them die like men
for what they believed in:
and the SS came out and shot all the wounded so they
danced like devils to the tune of my Thompson gun
(oh what fun)
we caught one in braces with Lieber standarte
sewn on his arm and we kicked him in rage and in pain
then spat in his eye, until the Captain said,
” information!...enough, we don’t want him to die!”
and the SS man let out a sigh as long as the sky
then the morning came and I blew up my nose and blew up a tank
then collected the dog tags from the blood soaked soil
(watches from their dead and a dagger or two)
then it hit me, the cold, like a spike in the dawn,
so I put on a German coat of leather and fur
not caring if the owner was dead or alive,
(I had become a monster)
but now I’m old with hands of paper and veins,
when it’s warm in the womb of my den, I hold
the things, I filched from the dead and remember
the flash of the warm Thompson gun:
and I’m cold inside ( will it ever be gone?)
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Belgian
Poem | |
My Father Took me to the Menin Gate
lest I should not know that lives were lost
to make me free.
Then at the cemetery I fell asleep
while he walked along the rows on soft grass between the crosses
Then I heard the tanks roll around
a heavy grinding hell raising sound
that crunched the gravel.
Before the echo died came boots of soldiers.
I seemed to see them travel
along the road ahead all brown
and swinging trouser legs
Above the sound of boots
and breathless gasps of marching men
were wheels and wheels
and rumbling trucks
the swish of lighted flares
gunshot glow and bombard shoots
I could not wake myself, I had to hear
those boots upon the gravel
Then as I woke myself it seemed like blood red rain
was falling down. But through the mist
those white crosses rose, arms out, began to fly
above the cemetery up into the blue sky.
Like flocks of swans they rose
with strange gladsome sound
and disappeared into the blue-grey sky
time passing as so many joined
the upwards wave of spirits
above my exhausted self.
Soldiers of the Commonwealth lie here
black and brown and grey and white
in peace, I hope, not hearing what I heard,
the rosary of sorrow, Passchendales site
that kept off foreign troops from Belgian Soil
until another night.
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Belgian
Poem | |
My Father took me to the Menin Gate
lest I should not knot that lives were lost
to make me free.
Then at the cemetery I fell asleep
while he walked along the rows
on soft grass between the crosses.
Then I heard the tanks roll round
a heavy grinding hell-raising sound
that crunched the gravel.
Before the echo died came boots of soldiers.
I seemed to see them travel
along the road ahead all brown
and swinging trouser legs.
Above the
sound of boots
and breathless gasps of marching men
were wheels and wheels
and rumbling trucks
the swish of lighted flares
gunshot glow and bombard shoots
I could not wake myself, I had to hear
those boots upon the gravel.
Then as I woke myself it seemed like blood red rain
was falling down. But through the mist
those white crosses rose, arms out, began to fly
above the cemetery up into the blue sky.
Like flocks of swans they rose
with strange gladsome sound
and disappeared into the blue-grey sky,
time passing as so many joined
the upwards wave of spirits
above my exhausted self.
Soldiers of the Commonwealth lie here,
black and brown and grey and white
in peace, I hope, not hearing what I heard,
the rosary of sorrow, Passchendaele's site
that kept off foreign troops from Belgian soil
until another night.
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Belgian
Poem | |
Perturbed in sleep the beast is awaken
Old blood’s scent brings forth a raised cunning brow
Commenced search of unwake prey, the Belgian
With eyes closed entering her dreams somehow
The tip of a whip nips a bleeding slit
Now three days gone, the flower’s inviting
Rose hip’s a ship, nectar drips from those lips
It’s accepted in exchange for biting
Once a blossom, then ripe fruit now rotten
Ascension denied in dismal darkness
The harvest taken tossed and forgotten
Base, Rank and gross becomes natures starkness
Rip out her heart and pierce into it thorns
So that she may mount upon the beast’s horns
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