Poem | |
Since the 19th century, she stands looking out to sea
A guardian of the sailor, a survivor of tragedy
The Captain lost his pregnant wife and son and five members of his crew
Now she waits just like her sister when a sailor's return is overdue
Her sister stands in Moss since nineteen sixty two
They stand and face each other across the ocean blue
The Dictator, a Norwegian vessel, aground she did run
Nine people died off the shore in eighteen ninety one
The Captain returned to Norway when his healing was done
In Elmwood cemetery he sadly left his wife and son
On thirty seventh street in Virginia Beach the Norwegian Lady Stands
A monument to all who sail and walk on foreign sands
Poem | |
I once had a ring, or should I say, it once had me...
it made me vanish, isn't it good, my precious ring?
it asked me to wear it and make way to its masters cave,
So it drove me mad and its my precious for me to crave,
I lived in a cave, biding my time, eating like swine,
We dwelled until time and then bagginses came, took what was mine.
They took me to Mordor and burned me, So I started to talk.
I told them I didn't and spoke off to Orcs, shire is the path
And when I awoke, I was alone, Frodo had flown
So he left from shire, isn't it good, my precious will be mine.
Poem | |
My mother always told me that I
looked just like my dad.
A true Norwegian was I, all of his
features I had.
I guess I really had no right
except all through school all the kids
made fun of my last name.
Don't get me wrong, I always liked
my blond hair and green eyes.
I just wish we Vikings were known
for smaller thighs.
My dad always told me that with my
heritage I was stuck.
And that all of the women in our family never
had to worry about having a small butt.
I said to him, “Those are two things that
I never chose.
But I think the thing that bothers me most,
is this dang Norwegian nose.
I even had a friend that once made up
a song about mine.
He sang it to the tune of a John Lennon song,
and he made each and every word rhyme.
All of my children always thank me for
giving them knock knees.
But I always tell them they can thank their grandpa,
not me, for these. .
I guess I really shouldn’t complain . My dad
lived to be 93.
And I guess that’s one of the parts of him that
I hope will be passed down to me.