Best Dutch Poems

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New Dutch Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Dutch poems are below this new poems list.

Did Call Pennsylvania Dutch by Horn, James
Good Friday Gratitude To Settlers: Especially British and Dutch by Deo, Anil
DUTCH DELICACIES suggestions of reality by Strand, Brian
EKPHRASIS TIEN Dutch realism by Strand, Brian
Broke Dutch by Da Yah, Krisallah
Dutch Treat by johnson, randy
Double Dutch by Stan, Remi
THE DUTCH IS MY FATHER by Zamalea, George
Dutch Hospitality by bauer, ilene

View all new Dutch Poems

The Best Dutch Poems

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An Abecedarian for Spring Flowers

Apple blossoms in abundance; sweet aroma in the air.
Begonias burst with brilliance. Blue bells pop up everywhere.
Cherry blossoms cheer with pink; corn flowers cluster blue.
Dandelions dance with wind; Dutch Spring flowers (Daffodils) dance too.
Easter Lily, always early, blooms exquisite white.
Forget-me-nots, fresh-picked by tots, are a Mom’s delight.
Geraniums, garden-fresh, are growing graciously.
Hollyhocks I plucked when young my heart is blessed to see.
Irises with leaves like swords paint rainbows on the lawn.
Johnny-jump-ups have their purple yellow clothing on!
Kangaroo paws, so exotic - come to us sun-kissed.
Lilac bushes, lush with lovely flowers can’t be missed!
Marigold, like its friend the Sun, is glowing too.
Narcissus, so many types of it, now bloom anew.
Orchids of the warmer climes, one-of-a-kind are they!
Peonies, so pretty, and perky poppies are at play.
Queen-of-lace with gracious face, how elegant is she!
Ranunculus, a Buttercup, greets us radiantly.
Sweet pea, looking precious, up the trellis climbs
Tansies, yellow buttons, also love the temperate times.
Uva-Ursi, on long stems, in late spring's breeze will sway.
Violet’s vibrant color gives its name away!
Wax flowers help fill up bouquets on spring wedding days.
Xeranthemum, a sunflower, flaunts her sunny ways.
Yellow wood anemone starts flowering in May.
Zinnia comes later. For Zinnia and others, the sun just has to stay!

Written April 20, 2016 For the Contest of Shadow Hamilton. All flowers checked for growth in springtime. a Few exceptions with permission by Shadow. 

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2016

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Girl with The Pearl Earring

That pensive look on her sweet face 
Just like a child of mine.
Her eyes seem to follow you with
Dominion that's divine.

Northwest light on soft blush hued cheeks
Her grey-green eyes lay bare
Perhaps a secret rendezvous 
In enigmatic stare.

Wet lips stained as if with cherries
Delft blue scarf hides her hair...
In penchant blossom of her youth
Portrait of beauty rare.

From her left ear hangs gracefully
One solitary pearl.
Melancholy hints, she may be
A woman, yet a girl.

May 3, 2017 

Johannes Vermeer's 'Girl with a pearl earring'
c.1665 Mauritius Museum, The Hague.
The Dutch artist was born in Delft in 1632-1675.
One of the key paintings in Vermeer's oeuvre,
this portrait resists all attempts at the precise 
identification of the sitter. It's charm, perhaps,
lies in the fact that it is an evocative expression 
of timeless female beauty. I viewed this masterpiece
in 2009. She has the entire wall to herself.

Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2017

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South Africa

Listen to the jazz instrumentals of Masekela,
as you take red wine outside a thatched
shelter in a beach in the Western Cape.

Enjoy a hearty meal of bobotie (meatloaf), 
chakalaka (a spicy vegetable relish),
tomato bredie (a lamb and tomato stew),
potbrood (pot bread), 
melktert ( dessert)......
and other forms of cuisine;
have a siesta in the canvas tents,
then you visit the misty mountains
of the Magoebaskloof.

To feel at one with nature,
visit Limpopo, and get lost in the awesomeness
of sighting elephants, lions, rhinos.....
You'll see baobab trees stretching their branches
to the red, setting sun;
get dazzled by the Limpopo river's majestic
flow to the Indian Ocean.

Introduce yourself to all kinds of dialects and people;
Africans, Dutch, Indians, and Malaysians.
Watch their traditional dances,
and listen to their folklore - it will remind you
we are from the same Womb; Earth.

See Nelson Mandela in people's smiles and way
of doing things in the cities, streets, and towns.

Listen to South Africa's unifying anthem,
as you take a ship back home......

Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2017

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My back against your chest, I smiling sigh I fit so nicely, small between your legs You cross my gimpy legs and hold both my Ankles in your firm grip, I grin and beg You whisper words of love against my hair I cannot do the same, this is not fair! Ouside it's cold, inside this lair lives love I stutter heated words in Dutch and more You feed me cherries, chocolate and above all, you feed me you: all I want is your sweet love, your life, your eyes, in which I see I love you just as much as you love me *** January 16, 2017

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017

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Dutch Hill Park

I took a walk down Columbia Street
Back to the place where we used to meet
Where we played as kids until after dark
And hung out together up at Dutch Hill Park
Although alone, I could hear the sound
Of laughter coming from the merry go round
Sometimes we'd meet there in the early dawn
The dance hall, pavilion and the swings are gone
I saw those pine trees and I thought of you
And all the crazy things we used to do
Like sleeping out underneath the stars
Hanging upside down from the monkey bars
A swing made from  a rope and an old tire
We baked potatoes on an open fire
Squirrel nut zippers and an RC coke
Transistor radio and we'd have a smoke
We walked in the woods and we climbed some trees
We scratched our faces and we skinned our knees
Never dreaming that it would ever end
If I could, I'd do it all again my friend
Those memories I have will never part
I carry Dutch Hill Park inside my heart
And all those memories of yesteryear
Heading back home now I shed a tear.

Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2012

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Driving past our old home on Glenwood Avenue
Memories came to life from my childhood days
Going over the park, Mom. I'll be in before ten
Got a game of hide and seek. Everyone plays
We'd take a bottle of yoo-hoo  or nu-grape to drink
In winter on Clark Street there was an ice skating rink
A pack of luckies in our shirt sleeve thinking we were cool
The Bungalow was our community pool
There were Friday night dances in the gym at Saint Jerome
Maybe a stop at the Coffee Cup while we were walking home.
Movies at the Majestic and Victoria were great
Fan buses for away games. We'd get back late.
American Billiard Academy was where the balls were racked
No seat at the home game because the stadium was packed
Under the state store, the Y M C A
At the Vic a Saturday matinee
A baseball game with a sponge ball and fist
In the school's gymnasium, doing the Twist
Middle Ward playground, the movie was free
Adjusting the picture on the old T V.
A class trip on  school buses to Hershey Park
Sleigh ride down Snake Hill in the cold and the dark
Walking the coal bank by Number Fourteen
Stopping at Mike's to play the pinball machine
On Biddle Street, we'd sit on the cemetery wall
Jumping into piles of leaves in the early fall
Then I stopped at Dutch Hill Park for a while
Memories of Tamaqua always make me smile.

Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2013

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Helga Deen ,1925-1943

Helga Deen  (1925-1943)   (Sentanka)

Mit achtzehn ermordet
Helga Deen im KZ Sobibór
Nur Tagebuch und Briefe

War alles was von ihr blieb
Ihr Andenken aber bleibt 

Murdered at eighteen
Helga Deen at Sobibór 
Only letters and diary

Was all that remained of her
But her memory remains

Helga Deen en Sobibor
Asesinado a dieciocho años
Sólo cartas y un diario

Fue todo lo que quedaba 
Pero su memoria sigue siendo

Note: Helga Deen, born in 1925 in Stettin moved with her parents in 1933 to Tilburg in the
Netherlands. She was a talented young woman not only in writing but also in drawing. Her
mother was a German Jewish doctor and her father-Willy Deen- a Dutch chemist. Helga Denn
had a brother -Klaus- and both visited school in Tilburg. The family had to move from
their house and Helga an her brother had to leave school together with other ten Jewish
pupils. In July 1943 all were deported to the Vugh concentration camp. From there they
were transpoted to Westerbork concentration camp and from there on July 13th  to Sobibór
(Poland) concentration camp. She died from gas there on July 16th 1943.

Copyright © Gert W. Knop | Year Posted 2011

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Suburban Summer

riddles N' rainbows paintbrush the day
summer's heaviness invades
rain circumvents geraniums 
ant's N' azaleas dance through sidewalks 
where tiny green grass creep 'neath weeds 
to see sun seed grey with bright 
frogs N' grasshoppers flop along
best friends 
when storm clouds bend beyond old oak trees

boys N' girls skip rope, 
Double Dutch N' such 
up N' down the cul de sac curve

moms N' dads pretend everything's ok 
when they've long since strayed away
from light N' love
gloves come off
when lights go out 
they scream N' shout
the children barely notice
yet they'll feel the coldness N' cold shoulders 
as it's gets colder N' colder
just not days N' nights like now
fuss N' fights have no place 
right here N' right now
along these roasting roads
where ticky tack homes 
crowd suburbia 

where riddles N' rainbows paintbrush the day
summer's heaviness invades 
as nature n' naïve children play...
today , 

~JSLambert 2014

Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2014

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Haunted Brothel

Her bony fingers stroked my hair,
I shuddered at the icy touch,
And when I turned no one was there.

I felt the hatred of her stare,
My heart was frozen in its clutch,
Her bony fingers stroked my hair.

I’d walked into the open snare,
My curiosity too much,
And when I turned no one was there.

I stood alone inside her lair,
The murdered prostitute was Dutch,
Her bony fingers stroked my hair.

The room was full of such despair,
I tried to flee but dropped my crutch,
And when I turned no one was there.

How stupid was the double dare,
I’d suffer now for playing butch,
Her bony fingers stroked my hair,
And when I turned no one was there.

For Paula's Unease contest

Copyright © jack horne | Year Posted 2012

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My Ode to The Netherlands

Hook of Holland arrive by the ferry
Meeting our good friends Ans and Jerry
The pancake house is where we love to eat
Being our with our Dutch friends – what a treat

Zwarte Piet will be visiting soon
Children crowded into the living room
Waiting for the black hand around the door
Sweets are freely scattered on to the floor

Visiting the haunting Anne Frank museum
Makes me think of the phrase carpe diem
Walking along the stunning cobbled street
Our trip to Amsterdam is now complete

I would love to return again one day
Meet Elly Wouterse on lands far away

Submitted to Elly Wouterse’s Contest
My Ode To The Netherlands
~ Awarded 2nd place ~

15th April 2014

The poem is written from very vivid childhood memories- its been a trip down memory lane  - it is also my first attempt at a sonnet

Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2014

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Chow Time On The Range

"Rise an' shine you lazy cowpokes!  Time to saddle up yer hoss!
Time to move them moo-cows to summer range!" yelled th' trail boss!
"You've lolled around here all winter, now it's time to earn yer pay!
Jump in yer jeans, pull on them boots an' let's git 'er underway!"

All winter long they'd grown fat in th' bunkhouse eatin' Cooky's fare,
But knowin' that on that long, dusty trail, grub could be mighty spare!
How they'd long fer good ol' gut-fillin' grub as they wuz mendin' fences,
An' roundin' up them wily dogies roamin' over God's vast expanses!

Come supper time th' cowpunchers would lounge about a blazin' far,
Smokin' roll-yer-owns, chewin' th' fat an' nursin' cuts frum bobbed war!
Thankin' th' Lord fer their grub, Cooky yelled, "Come an' git 'er fellers!
Ain't much, but me an' my ol' Dutch oven done purty good!" he bellers!

Th' menu never varied but they knew better'n to complain about his cuisine,
Er Cooky could be as grumpy as a rattlesnake er a disgruntled wolverine!
Ever' supper consisted uv th' same ol' thing - a classic case uv deja vu:
Beans, spuds, bacon, sour dough biscuits an' a dollop uv mystery stew!

Frum across th' valley a harmonica's melancholy tune wuz heard,
As th' night guard kept a wary vigil an' soothed th' restless herd.
Th' cowpokes dreamt uv a hearty breakfast but they already knew,
It'd be beans, spuds, bacon, sour dough biscuits an' a dollop uv mystery stew!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2011

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The Wily Goat

The purple on his chin was tellin'
there was just no use to lie.
That pesky, good for nothin' goat
had eaten Mother's pie.
She  had set it on the porch 
jist to cool it down a bit,
and don't you know that goat had come
and calmly eaten it.

My little brother looked as if
he was inclined to cry.
They'd warned him things
would have to change
or Billy Goat would die.
I got a rag to help him scrub
that bright dye off his whisker.
He could appeal to Mom's good side,
but didn't want to risk her.

That goat had climbed on everythin'
from our new car to house.
He'd eaten nightshirts off the line.
No wonder Mom would grouse.
I'll kill that goat", our mother said
a dozen time or so.
Of course she didn't mean it but
our brother didn't know.

Now little brother'd come along
when most of us were growed.
He never seem to learn the ways 
the rest of us all knowed.
He didn't learn to work around
our mama's laws and such.
He had no wiles to pertect him.
His goat was sure in dutch.

Bein' so much younger must be tough
and not too easy sailin'.
His best friend was this pesky goat
and that was fast a failin'.
He guessed the only way to go
was take his goat and run.
He didn't think to take a coat
and weinies and a bun.

The rest of us when we run off,
we knowed enough to take
some warm clothes and some
sandwitches 'n even choclit cake.
We were all scared when brother
didn't turn up for a meal
and we could see the worry our
mama began to feel.

So Daddy got his good horse Dan
and took the dogs along,
and said he'd just go scout him out;
be sure nothin' was wrong.
It seemed a good long time before
we saw Dad ridin' back
with somethin' on his saddle.
It looked much like a sack.

But it was our little brother
and he was sound asleep.
Dad found him in the orchard
with apples in a heap.
His cunnin' goat had climbed up
in the ole apple tree
and flung down the ripe apples,
as nimble as can be.

So brother wasn' hungry
but he was mighty weary.
Our mother grabbed him in her arms
and all of us were teary.
That wily goat was smart enough
to prove himself a winner.
He'd saved our brother and himself
from becoming our goat dinner.

By: Joyce Johnson

Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2009

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What If A bedtime poem for kids

What If?

What if guppies and goldfish could swim through the air?
What if birds could only relax by sitting in a chair?

What if spider webs looked like charming bungalows?
What if cheese sticks had to be hunted out in the jungle-os?

What if curtains were carefully hung up in the Maple trees?
What if cookies only came from buzzing little bees?

What if horses were allowed to take rides on our backs?
What if skateboards could take a ride on the rail road tracks?

What if Saturdays came more than just once a week?
What if at your birthday presents you could take a peek?

What if alligators played music every time they’d sneeze?
What if teachers taught Algebra to the chimpanzees?

What if delicious gumballs grew out in the yard?
What if scoring soccer goals wasn’t all that hard?

What if arching rainbows were something you could touch?
What if with each of the colors you could skip Double Dutch?

What if the medicine that the doctor gave you tasted like ice cream?
What if you and your best friend could go to sleep and dream the same dream?

What if all of these things were completely true?
It wouldn’t matter at all to me because I would still love you.

Copyright © Tony Lane | Year Posted 2011

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The Park

Saturday afternoon with a few moments to kill
Took a ride by the park up on Dutch Hill
My mind went back to a time and place
When I wore a little boy’s smile on my face
So much had changed since those innocent days
I drifted back through the years where a child plays
I played in the sandbox and rode the swing
Climbed the monkey bars in the Early Spring
I remembered church picnics and being there after dark
Playing cowboys and Indians with my friends in the park
We rode the sliding board and climbed in the trees
Spraining our ankles and skinning our knees
Sometimes we gazed at the stars while we lied on the ground
Or tried to see how fast we could push the merry go round
We learned from each other as we grew up back then
And drifted apart as we became women and men
We played from sun up until it was dark
The best years of our lives were spent at the park

Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2008

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We stood hand over heart as the flag was unfurled
We were sheltered from the real world
All men are created equal is what they did teach
Never realizing, they don’t practice what they preach
Who said poor? We were rich beyond our dreams
Working to make ends meet, endlessly, it seems
There were Italians and Jews, Lithuanians and Greeks
Puerto Ricans and Poles, Germans and Dutch
No matter what your nationality or color was
We were neighbors. So, it didn’t matter much
I have memories of neighbors walking in our front door
Nobody knocking, just dropping in
I have memories of children playing on the parlor floor
Nobody judging the color of skin
Our riches were neighbors. Affluence carried no weight
We were sheltered from bigotry, sheltered from hate
God bless the children who knew neither hatred nor fear
God damn the people who brought those things here
When there is acceptance beyond what the eyes see
Then perhaps we can call this the land of the free
When there is truly no master and truly no slave
Then perhaps we can call this the home of the brave
We need to see the unity we’ve not had in the past
If we continue to hate, our country can’t last
If the American people can stand side by side
Then we can restore our American pride
When we stand together, again we’ll be strong
And we can be sheltered from all that was wrong

Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2009

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heaven on the water

trawlers steam out from dutch harbour
patroling the frozen waves
serching for gold under the sea 
to feed my family

in the wheelhouse the stars shine in
skyes dark and air so thin
no mater where this vessel takes me
my heart is yerning out for you

heaven on the water
is where im dreaming of my love
i see your face on the misty spray
as im calling out your name
heaven on the water
it wont be long my love
for a few more days i know you`l guide me 
guide me home to you

icey winds shiver my spine
as we bring out catch abord
empty net and broken dreams 
as the waves come crashing down

storms break loose with a crash of thunder
rolling across the bering sea 
up and down around then under
but still i dream of you

heaven on the water
is where im dreaming of my love
i see your face on the misty spray
as im calling out your name
heaven on the water
it wont be long my love
for a few more days i know you`l guide me 
guide me home to you

i see you face as the boat goes down
sea whispering my name
beconing me to the river
where we first found love

heaven on the water
im still here my love
watching you and our daughters 
from the stars above
heaven on the water 
calling out your name
calling out your name
heaven on the water
calling out your name

Copyright © Matt Doe | Year Posted 2007

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Fear of Not Loathing

I wasn't completely sure who I just was, so 
I counted off three-chimes of the bell in the
clock tower.... I'm out late.... Nighthawks swoop
and Crickets hush their tensile ratchet, until I
pass by.

He pushed by me, cutting me off, as I pointed
towards the Hotel on the hill.... he could stay
there, but I would need to remain alert, focused
on matters close by..... like, why is pink my
favorite color? .... and, why are Dutch People
in art, always painted blue?

Doesn't seem fair... with no expectations, rewards,
or pressure, would humans naturally be of a giving
nature? ...... or selfish?

Copyright © James Marshall Goff | Year Posted 2009

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a woman of substance

A woman of substance 
I`m sceptical of the Dutch
One of them stole my beloved
He was a painter
Made her beautiful on canvas 
And she fell in love
I wrote a poem on a torn 
Piece of paper-
And I’m not a Lutheran-
Nailed it on her door
The usual stuff of the aching heart
The painter got arthritis
 In his hands   
Could not hold a paint brush
She sent him to nursing home
And now she smiles at me 

Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2017

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I am putting out a beacon on the A-M, I Am Legend morning double-dutch
Pepsi cola, paranoia, post-exilic high school drama. Stop.
Is there anybody out there, I’m hoping you can hear me
Break the door, cover down, but most of all believe me
I haven’t seen another human being in this God forsaked oasis
who wouldn’t place me in his iron-sights just to bury me with the faceless
tasteless, and all around degenerate in-animates
that beheld the new millennium and become some pickled-plastered shits.
50 milligrams of trapazene and a metric ton of ritalin
with any luck will keep me from burning down New York like a Marvel Movie villain
Like ninety percent destruction, like the news on nine-eleven
like the peter parker web net, catching mary jane to save the day
top story at eleven.

Back to you Jen! Thanks Bob.

We are on the precipice of New World Order, but not what we were promised
by the inside job, swiss bank, illuminate, and Rothschild alarmists
This is not the Black Pope signing off on Masonic acts of terror
But a voluntary waiver to exclude yourself from error
Like bubble gum “POP POP”, likes oops that wasn’t me
This is merely just an act of infallible insanity
Temporary numbing off the senses til it lingers
Let the beasts in his cage lick the cheesy powder off your fingers
In the year of 1980 there was a scientific discovery
indeed the researchers were baffled by this nihilist anomaly
They kept a scaly monster locked up, Isla Sorna penitentiary
But they didn’t tell the people what the spectacle was meant to be
The monster was a man, and the man an animal
I don’t believe I’m ever getting out of this dirt hole.
The monster was a man and the man an animal.

Copyright © Timothy Johnson | Year Posted 2014

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Ode to my son on his 28th birthday

When I looked up at you the other night
I saw you coming through the door
Framing it with your amazing smile
steadfast, self assured, a happy man
A happy Dutch life with Irish sea-kissed roots
Not just a European but a world class man
As you stood before me, I felt such pride.

When I think of you, I see my little boy blue
Forever young, blond mop, those winsome sky eyes
my spry child, intelligent, forever questioning
hyperactive,  mischievous, a little dare devil
your smile, a mile wide in times of trouble
I see you holding your teddies Ruby and Rupert
Tractors, diggers, broken engines brrrrrrrmm.

Your love of engines, paid off after all
as you shifted gear to driving instruction
For a guy who showed no interest in being a scholar
Now you are the teacher, with a flurry of pupils
I think it works better, this way around.
Your greatest gift is your love for people
Your greatest asset, your winning smile

Keep on living and loving as you do
You view life through a positive lens
Becoming a mother hit me with a new perspective
An appreciation of life, when I gave you yours
Together we grew, and continue to grow
In love and respect, now and forever.

Copyright © Eiken Laan | Year Posted 2011

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 The king sits on a wooden throne on a turf of
dry land, his country has been swallowed up
by the sea, turns to his premier and says; why 
didn´t you ask the Dutch for help, their flat 
country has been beneath sea levels for many
years... and as a result they have grown to be
the tallest people in the world, this so they 
look over dikes and keep an eye on the ocean.

The king takes off his green wellies and asks 
for dry socks, a flunky puts them on, but sees 
the king has webbed feet and wonders why.
The monarch knew his country would sink, 
and was prepared, his kingdom will be big and

Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2014

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Ode to my daughter on her birthday - 26

My Sarah
When I looked at you last week trying on your new boots
Those almond eyes sparkling at something new, a gift
I saw my little pink girl, a princess, playing dress up again
Your long hair draped your high cheekbones
Life still a game, tinged with drama and theatre 
As you look for fun in all your pursuits!
A player in life with a passion for cooking and music
You have become a kind, loyal, vivacious young woman
Self assured, grounded with a love of tradition
I looked at you and felt an overwhelming pride.

Sunday’s child is ' bonny, blithe, good and gay' they say
Befitting my Sabbath girl, a model child of few demands
Your bedroom a vast sea of Barbie and friends
A Passion for story-time and books
Your Dutch life with Irish sea-touched roots, 
You are a real continental
A great scholar with degrees in Law and Psychoanalysis
You have found your true love with Luis, a Spaniard
As you both prepare to leave the Emerald Isle
I wonder at the achievement of you!

Copyright © Eiken Laan | Year Posted 2011

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Pie Eyed

The trees have pumpkin-pied themselves
they're dipped in orange butterscotch.
The squirrel's nests of pick-up sticks
hide acorns stores which plink-plop.

Below the apple trees bowed branches
mother harvests windfalls for pies.
Father takes a old buck down
for mincemeat pie, bye and bye. 

The corn field's full of children small
gathering ears for Dutch Corn pie.
A cider smell of cinnamon
reminds of crispy crusts on standby.

Mother's at her best this season
and all those pies-- why its the reason!

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2014

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Endless Love

Endless Love

In its symmetrical beauty lies the vivacious void
Where stars and moons have been deployed
For within love there is neither time nor space
Only euphoric eternity in its perpetual peaceful place

Starlight of twilight in a twinkle of an eye
Love keeps expanding as we microbially multiply
There is more to love than what we know
No binding boundaries in its everlasting glow

Where angels silently scatter to idolatrously intensify
That tangible touch that love can losslessly liquefy
In its loving light you are comforted beyond measure
In its saliferous shadow there is great displeasure

For the lachrymal cries of love's controlled
Hell awaits in its deception like fool's gold.

I'm not putting down love...but sometimes it can be a bit deceiving lol

FOOL'S GOLD - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward

Painting...acrylic on canvas by same poet
This painting was commissioned by my mom...she is ill at the moment
Reproduction of Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema...Ask Me No More
A Dutch painter of special British denizenship. 1836 – 1912
Slightly altered...I hope he won't mind lol...

Copyright © Winged Warrior | Year Posted 2016

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

What is in a Name

“Susanna” is the traditional name
The first granddaughter who came

Shared with my grandmother and mum
Named “Suzette” – confusing to some

My school chums called me “Suzie”
I’ve never been known to be a floozy

The teachers called me by my surname
For my sisters’ errors, I took the blame

Proud of my family name, “Myburgh”:
“My town”, pronounced “(Chris de) Burgh”

An impressive family crest adorn
The hallway – from titled family born

The wine farm, Meerlust : “Pride and joy”
For ten generations is has been their toy

"Honour" is the byword of our kin
To break it is frowned upon – a sin

I got married at the tender age of twenty
Suitors to choose from, there were plenty

From a very noble Dutch stock I came
With English blood I had tarnished the name

Alas, as foretold, this union did not last
I had become in each family an outcast

When I mentioned the word “Divorce”
My family recommended a different course

Shame on the family name I must not bring
To their piper I must dance and sing

Thirty years later I plucked up the courage
I left an abusive marriage before carnage

My parents by then dead and buried
The Divorce Degree successfully carried

I plucked up the courage to be alone
For the loss of my identity I now atone

Freedom never tasted so sweet
With open arms I rushed to meet

All the things I could not freely express
My worth and measure of being less

Being able to read a good book
And to eat what I want to cook

To run at dawn on the cold beach
With sand and seagulls that screech

Laughter and love of all perceived
The loss of all that I have grieved

The sunsets have now come alive
To embrace love and a new life

“Su” is now my new given name
A poet who feels no more shame


For a FREE download of The Flight, which deals with the point of breakup, please visit:

Copyright © Suzette Richards | Year Posted 2013