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Best Belgian Poems

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The Best Belgian Poems

 
Details | Belgian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Courage of Youth, Battle of Ypres, Flanders Field

Courage of Youth, Battle of Ypres, Flanders Field
(A Tribute)

Tough as nails young man with a red right hand
red-fire and whiskey ran in his blood.
Courageous seed of vast and cold hard land
quick temper, power of a surging flood.
Seeker of life, its promised mysteries
rash gambler with all he would ever own.
Born on ship in high wind swept, roaring seas
toughest warrior his town had ever grown.

Met his fate by volley of red-hot lead
buried on ground scared and battle blasted.
Aye boys, fodder that machine guns were fed
fools marching to death, long as it lasted.

Now flowers cover up and Time denies
scenes of battle torn soil and blood-red skies.

R.J. Lindley
April 23rd, 1975

SONNET-(DEATH AND WAR'S FUTILITY)
Tribute to Courage of Youth-- Second Battle of Ypres, April 22nd 1915 .

Note- added - 8-26-2017

Wiki-
The name Flanders Fields is particularly associated with battles that took place in the Ypres Salient, including the Second Battle of Ypres and the Battle of Passchendaele. For most of the war, the front line ran continuously from south of Zeebrugge on the Belgian coast, across Flanders Fields into the centre of Northern France before moving eastwards — and it was known as the Western Front.

The phrase originates from a poem titled In Flanders Fields by Canadian Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae, inspired by his service during the Second Battle of Ypres. The fields were not maintained for years before they were made into a memorial. Today Flanders Fields is home to thousands of poppies.

--------------------------------------

Found this while rummaging through some of my old poems. Decided not to edit it. Leave it as it was composed over 42 years ago..
Added the note for those not familiar with that battle and its horrific carnage, primarily from the insanity of large bodies of troops marching into direct machine gun fire.


Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2017

Details | Belgian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

I Love Horses: A--Z

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 (Albino) Horse.
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


Copyright © Deborah Burch | Year Posted 2013



Details | Belgian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Irresponsibility Day

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


Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013

Details | Belgian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

A Painting of Words

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.


Copyright © Jeanne Berger | Year Posted 2007

Details | Belgian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

At Dunkirk

At Dunkirk, where thousands of stranded men lined a bloody beach, hope was draining with each air strike delivered by the unrelenting Germans’ aircraft. Cold, starved, and injured men watched from shore - their few rescue ships being bombed and sunk. How must they have felt knowing their homeland was so close – and yet so far away? Horrific days passed when at last brave civilians came with boats, so it was that ten times the number of those not expected to live were instead - SAVED. Aug. 16, 2017: Double Etheree written for JPContest 6: WAR AND HEROISM Contest
From Wikipedia: The Dunkirk evacuation, code-named Operation Dynamo and also known as the Miracle of Dunkirk, was the evacuation of Allied soldiers during World War II from the beaches and harbour of Dunkirk, in the north of France, between 26 May and 4 June 1940. The operation commenced after large numbers of British, French, and Belgian troops were cut off and surrounded by German troops during the Battle of France. In a speech to the House of Commons, British Prime Minister Winston Churchill called this "a colossal military disaster", saying "the whole root and core and brain of the British Army" had been stranded at Dunkirk and seemed about to perish or be captured. On the first day only 7,669 men were evacuated, but by the end of the eighth day, 338,226 soldiers had been rescued by a hastily assembled fleet of over 800 boats. Many troops were able to embark from the harbour's protective mole onto 39 destroyers of the British Royal Navy, 4 Royal Canadian Navy destroyers,] and civilian merchant ships, while others had to wade out from the beaches, waiting for hours in shoulder-deep water. Some were ferried to the larger ships by what came to be known as the little ships of Dunkirk, a flotilla of hundreds of merchant marine boats, fishing boats, pleasure craft, yachts, and lifeboats called into service from Britain.  In his We shall fight on the beaches speech on 4 June, Churchill hailed their rescue as a "miracle of deliverance".


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2017

Details | Belgian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Chocolate Indulgences

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.



Copyright © Mark J. Halliday | Year Posted 2015

Details | Belgian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Budweiser-500th 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.


Copyright © Robert Pettit | Year Posted 2012

Details | Belgian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Seven Dog Lives

It is easy to forget that in the main we die only seven times more slowly than our dogs.
Jim Harrison (1937 - 2016) - The Road Home

 
First Bobo, a cocker spaniel, 
I remember only from pictures.
He ran way before we moved 
to Canada when I was four.

Second Kizzie, a cockapoo, Mom got
when the family  moved to Texas. 
I only saw her on holidays and such
as I stayed in Canada. She lived 
long and was with the folks when they 
retired to British Columbia and was 
into her teens before they put her down.

Third Sadie, 3/4 Newfie - 1/4 Bernese,
a big black dog, with a big appetite
for apples from a special tree and 
the socks our daughter, a toddler
cast off around the house. 
I still chuckle remembering 
the scattered remnants lining
the farm lane that spring. 
She was over ten, and in pain 
when we put her down.
Her ashes remain in an urn in the garage.

Fourth Rizzo, a fencejump cross of 
Gordon Setter and Belgian Shepherd,
my wife and daughter got him from
a friend, while I was off on a canoe trip.
A headstrong dog who would take off after 
a scent or car to return when he pleased.
On leash, he'd almost pull you off your feet.
With age, he grew territorial and
after the third biting incident, I took
him to the vet to be put down.
But she gave him to an older lady 
with a fenced yard who put thirty
pounds on him and he lived to
fourteen or fifteen.

Fifth Hailey, who was five when 
we got her from the shelter.
A Border Collie - Shepherd cross 
and definitely our daughter's dog. 
She'd bounce foxlike through the fields
and on evening beach walks, loved
to fetch sticks we'd toss into the waves.
She was over fifteen and failing when
we put her down, days before
our daughter's wedding.
No urn this time.

Sixth Xena, a Shepherd-Collie cross 
and beyond doubt a  princess 
but more sweetheart than warrior. 
She has the canine equivalent 
of ADD and a bark first policy
when something new appears 
and will retrieve sticks or balls 
until your arm falls off .
At over eight, she's running strong.

Seventh, Sam, a mostly Shepherd mix, 
she's  our most 'rescue' rescue dog,
smart, loyal and obedient 
a wantobe lap dog with a feral streak.
She responds in kind to aggressive 
dogs and we muzzle her on walks.
Now five she'll be with us for a 
good while to continue the tally.


Copyright © Dave Will | Year Posted 2016

Details | Belgian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

A Gun in Every Home

Two fine films: The Lost City and Blood Diamond.
I joined Blood Diamond during a village massacre
and said to my wife A gun in every home.
Those devils would think twice
before razing the village and seizing the boys.

A well-regulated militia.
The local militia the most interesting moment
in a strong film with motive (economic, emotional), action (chases, fights)
      and a sexy, sexless love story.
Use of violence by the local militia for a limited purpose: protect the
      community, the young
from the janjaweed. The crop from the weed.
Limited scope and defensive posture
but armed and coordinated, cooperative, the men (and the women) side
      by side.
Warriors at the gate, you will not run, you will not bargain.
Just violence = limited scope, defensive posture.

Great music. Cuba, Africa.
The Lost City, when the communists tell the club owner under threat of
      violence
No saxophones in the band. The saxophone!
Invented by a Belgian -- Look what the Belgians are doing in the Congo!
When the state's violence is turned against the citizenry
for non-violent acts.

This quiet neighborhood, July,
undergirded by violence, force. That's a given --
any farmer, custodian, EMT will tell you that.
Without just violence
Gandhi's scope, and King's, might be vanishingly limited,
negligible (but not non-existent)?
                                              Regarding King
the matter is simple -- he was non-violent but dependent upon
federal force to counter the South's violence.
No doubt without the larger force, the non-violent would be
      overwhelmed by southern violence.
Here, non-violence was a tactic, not an ethic.
Gandhi, however, had no violent partner to protect him from the British.
      Or did he?
1. There was the potential violence of the population, which Gandhi
     restrained but could release which the British feared, and
2. It was the restrained (limited scope) violence of the British that
     allowed Gandhi to exist rather than be extinguished -- this restraint
     was a (British) cultural imperative (limited scope) as well as emanating
     from Britain's view of India as a protectorate and valued citizen of the
     United Kingdom (defensive posture).

What about violence or threat of violence to compel compliance with
      community
as in mortgage foreclosure, driving without license, drug possession.
Perhaps it is necessary violence to maintain orderly commerce, the
      common space, and preempt bad behaviors associated with
      otherwise neutral, private acts.
The defensive posture is the common good; the limited scope is forgoing
      deadly force.
But the citizen, too, must maintain a disciplined, armed non-violence,
in case the state (the janjaweed) engages in an unjust, autoimmune
      violence.
Hence, a gun in every home.







Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015

Details | Belgian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

SADIE - THE SINGLE LADY

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


Copyright © Darryl Ashton | Year Posted 2014

Details | Belgian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Menin Gate at Ypres

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.


Copyright © terry vannecksurplice | Year Posted 2014

Details | Belgian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

bastogne 1944

                   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?)





 


Copyright © Peter Lewis Holmes | Year Posted 2015

Details | Belgian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

1943 Steel Cents

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.


Copyright © Robert Pettit | Year Posted 2010

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The Slovenly Slovene

In an attempt to establish an uncertain linkage between 2 parables,
Ivo Torena resorted to impress his colleagues all night long; hence,
awkward as a cow on a crutch, he was cowed into pilfering bananas,
and when he was caught red-handed by the deputy, his eyes showed
no response even though his arteries were friendly. Thus, a series of
tribulations took place inside his troubled mind for outlandish
reasons, and his whereabouts were commended by one of the top
enemies of the state: The twerp from Antwerp. On a serious note,
a cabal of notorious hotshots devised an agenda to unnerve Ivo
until the cow comes home. Still and all, Torena has a truly unique
composure, unlike the belligerent Belgian, and his mannerisms
can't be reciprocated with ease. Furthermore, the notoriety with
which he prattled and sprattled was momentous! His uneventful
birth can't hold a candle to any cinematographic invention although
his water bottle company is a candle in the wind and the pieces
begin to assemble duly without second thoughts whatsoever.


Copyright © Ivo Cosentino | Year Posted 2016

Details | Belgian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Armageddon

I stood atop the fortress Megiddo
plains in the Jezreel stretching all around
from John's Apocalypse believers know
this site where the last battle will be found.
Through God's wrath seventh Angel is unleashed
by quake and fire, hailstorm now levelled ground
wailing from the followers of the beast
earth and man laid waste by trumpet sound.
But now I think that we knew all along
as murder stalks the French and Belgian streets
that in his Revelations John was wrong
here, now, in present times these armies meet.

As words become fulfilled, then by and by
I pause and wonder- could the end be nigh?


Copyright © Viv Wigley | Year Posted 2016

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Rwanda

                            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
                   





Copyright © William Morrissey | Year Posted 2012

Details | Belgian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Deepest Ocean....

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....


Copyright © John Rhinem | Year Posted 2009

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Kim Daybell

“Anything can be achieved if you set your mind to it.” 
Kim was born with the rare disease Poland’s syndrome, 
Which means that he has abnormal or missing muscles, 
On the left side of his chest wall, but surgery did tone. 

A student of Medicine and Surgery at Leeds University, 
He was a proud junior, the Under-13 level World No. 2, 
In the sport of table tennis, ‘cos it's speed and closeness, 
Instantly excited him when he tried it at nine, it had hue. 

He made his international debut in 2008 at age sixteen, 
And won lots of gold medals, came fourth at the Euros, 
In 2011, which took him onto the London Paralympics, 
Which are set in him as his epic, life-changing clothes.

So at the Slovenia Open in 2013, Kim won the bronze, 
And then at the European Championships in the singles, 
He made the quarter finals, but then at the Belgian Open, 
He took the gold in the class 10 of the singles with ingles. 

2014 saw him win a silver at the Slovenian Open again, 
And then when he travelled to the Cote d’Azur to compete, 
In their International, Kim consolidated his choice talent, 
By stylishly taking the gold in the singles, a victory sweet. 

Kim took a year off his studies in 2015 to prepare for Rio, 
And in 2016 at Italy’s Lignano Master Open, determiner, 
He secured a bronze in the singles, so Rio was certain, 
There he reached the singles, team quarters: a winner.  


Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2016

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Sir Raymond Smidrick


Sir Raymond Smidrick
He always walked with an air of royalty,
gaining entrance by tapping doors
with his finely carved, mahogany wood, walking cane
On the top of the staff was a sculpted silver lion,
he said it signified the lineage of kings
Most everyone in the neighborhood regarded him as a ghetto prince
A bit eccentric perhaps,
but he was a soft-spoken, interesting fellow
Wore his silk Windsor ascots always tucked perfectly
inside his checkered Belgian dinner jacket
People who grew up with him said he used to be simply called Ray,
but now he preferred to be called by his be-knighted title:
Sir Raymond Smidrick
Sir Raymond, if he chose to be addressed less formally
Word on the street has it,
that as a young man, his all-black Army battalion saved a French village
during WWII
This same village had previously been bequeathed to the queen of England
as an honorary gesture of the two nations' friendship
The story goes on to say that their whole battalion was invited to visit the
queen, and they had tea and crumpets, and she regaled them with
colorful tales of her ancestry
At the end of that auspicious day, the queen gave the men 
the honorific knighthood title, Sir
That was a day that was held on to with pride by this peacock strutting man
Sir Raymond Smidrick
True ghetto royalty
He was later duly rewarded for those years of courageous service
and unquestioned loyalty,
when most of his government pension benefits were
unceremoniously reduced or cut


Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2016

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The Menin Gate at Ypres

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.



Copyright © terry vannecksurplice | Year Posted 2014

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I Get Along Without You Very Well

My life's been fine without you -- really has. 
A Belgian bar has opened in the square, 
and weekends, we do beer and tapas there, 
then Malcolm and Elaine's place, for some jazz 
and Jamieson's. May in Cortes -- what a blast! 
Right now, I'm growing sideburns! Summer hols, 
we'll all dress up as bandits and their molls! 
I've never laughed so much. Who needs the past? 

Yet sometimes, when the lake frowns in the rain, 
or April squalls tug blossoms from the trees, 
I think of you. This sadness preordained, 
like plane trees pollarded, proud amputees 
shorn of their plumes, emerges, stark and strange: 
and I know then. Some things will never change.


Copyright © Michael Coy | Year Posted 2017

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Ekphrasis CoBrA

the
day a
Belgian
Dane+Dutchman
met
they 
made an
initial
impression on
art

cobra=COopenhagen;BRussels;Amersterdam namely 
expressionist artists..Appel/Corneille/Jorn


Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2011

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Shangri-La

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


Copyright © Robert Pettit | Year Posted 2012

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Art In Rum And Belgian Beer

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.


Copyright © Matt Caliri | Year Posted 2008

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At the Green Bistrot

(In 1870, the teenage poet Arthur Rimbaud ran away
from his family home in northern France and wandered
around the Belgian border as a vagabond.  Here is a
sonnet he wrote, translated into English.)

For eight long days I'd wrecked my boot soles, trudging 
those stony roads. I got to Charleroi - 
the Green Bistrot. They brought me bread, grudging, 
and meat that was distinctly under-par. 

Sheer bliss! I stretched my legs out by the fire, 
and ran my eye across crude wall designs. 
Things bucked up when the laughing girl-for-hire 
with ample chest and lively, knowing eyes 

came in with proper food (there can't be much 
that that one hasn't done!) Warm buns(!) and butter, 
roast ham with garlic, on a dainty platter. 
And then she filled my mug (delightful touch!) 
with frothing beer. Late sun flared through the door, 
to bless my supper. Who could ask for more?


Copyright © Michael Coy | Year Posted 2017