Best Betide Poems
I am poet with a priceless pen
born to burnish the beauty of men.
I wonder what mortal mirrors reflect...
For me, all races deserve respect.
I often hear the splashing of rain,
and flood rushing down the drain.
I see the petals of the morning bloom
and dawn peeping into my dusky room.
I strive to forget the tales of ages long gone
when dreams died as deeds undone.
I am a poet with a priceless pen
born to burnish the beauty of men.
I pretend to be a terrific tree
sapping the tears that betide me.
I feel old scars opening each time
my heart tends to commit new crime.
I touch the heart of the gentle moon
and worry if the Sun will shine at noon.
I cry for the youth and aged in need
and for gluttons in the grave of greed.
I hear the whispers of wealth and wisdom
flowing freely from the field of freedom...
I am a poet with a priceless pen
born to burnish the beauty of men.
I understand the chains of our choices;
frailties of our fate; our darn differences.
I say let us not preen on what is not ours,
we will leave them in the six-feat towers.
I crave a world without woes and worries;
the mortal mall of matchless memories
where everyone trades a lasting legacy...
and love is shared on the platter of mercy.
I long to see gray skies turn blue
and my sweetest dreams come true.
I am a poet with a priceless pen
born to burnish the beauty of men.
Young Mirran lived in Calder wood
all of her spells were for the good
in helping out where e’er she could
But Mirran had a plan
And oft times she would sit and brood
about a mortal man
‘It’s not allowed,’ the elves all cried
‘Against our law, and woe betide
a witch who’d wish to be the bride
of mortal human men.
The bell will ring like you have died
and what will you do then?’
Her case was heard and tossed about
The coven’s vote... to cast her out,
No more a welcome here about
Bold Mirran must be gone.
‘Close the book,’ went up the shout
and so the deed was done
‘We must ring the bell, close the book,
quench the candle,’ declared the rook
The hills around in anger shook
for Mirran was revered
but none would brave the Wizard’s look
his power ever feared
With no more magic in her spell
And fear to hear the tolling bell
young Mirran left sweet Calder dell
in sadness to depart
But mother blessed and wished her well
and peace came to her heart
So light the candle and rejoice
The man she wed was Mirran’s choice
Fulfilled with love we hear her voice
She sings so soft and sweet
A song of thanks, rejoice, rejoice
Her mortal life complete
A Scottish stanza
Margaret Foster Oct 7th 2011
Come hold my hand and tell me lies
Infuse the hate and woe betide
Tooth for a tooth, pluck out their eyes
A soldiers duties exercised
Let's kill the child, from the inside
The spirits of the netherworld
Scream loudly to be freed
Within this world of politics
This cage of hate and greed
I'm right you're wrong
You're wrong I'm right
Whose turn is it to die tonight
A bloody ****ing massacres
The only end in sight
Not for the strong, to sit upon the fence
Let's take the hate and killing to their door
Self righteousness screams out in our defence
Christ knows it's hard to take this anymore
The spirits of the netherworld
Scream loudly to be freed
Within this world of politics
This cage of hate and greed
I'm right you're wrong
You're wrong I'm right
Whose turn is it to die tonight
A bloody ****ing massacres
The only end in sight
A girl called Lucy loved to trumpet lies
And idle gossip laced her lips with ease.
Tall tales tripped off her tongue to tantalise
Those twitching ears which reddened by degrees.
This filled her honest Mother with despair
‘You wash your mouth with soap’ she often cried.
Young Lucy shrugged it off and did not care -
To those who would do likewise, woe betide!
One day, when she’d amassed an eager crowd
Who circled round to hear the latest slur,
She stood there in the limelight, feeling proud,
When suddenly a fly buzzed near her ear.
How everybody gaped to see it dive
Right into Lucy’s mouth poised open wide,
Then heard her splutter, gasp and vainly strive
To cough it up - she choked and promptly died!
The moral of this tale is do not lie;
When tempted move your upper lip down south.
Then Lucy’s fate will surely pass you by,
Nor fly, nor lie invades a fastened mouth.
18.08.19
Scarecrow Addict
Gritted and dusty
Powered by flack jacket eyes
Bootsteps through grey puddles
Flotilla of cigarette butts
Trash kicked aside
In a desert of litter
Seeking the soulless of death
Chattering on split lips
The grimy irk of air
Festoons the rink and rack
The floating black
Sucks unbidden
Horses into battle ridden
Scream through his lungs
Broken weapons
Filled with empty bullets
Enemies in their colours run
Demon angel
Of the iridescent metal
In the bars of sculptured hell
For the hot choke of alcohol
Has squandered his nights
And burnt his will
The vengeance of mirrors
He cannot defy
He has become
The man with the gun
And rabid dog bark
Is the music
The fang gangster rap
Chews on his pride
Coughs back and spits
Too many drugs
To fill his hate
As he seethes through the alleys
The ricochet sound of poverty
Slaps hard at the cold
Whistle through the doorstep
The vicious snide crack
Scavenges his chest
Scarecrow buckshot
Trammels his lungs
And coughs up plastic
Iron girders against shattered walls
Where the whole world threw up
His sick
Chokes on the disgusting chuck up
Of need
So full of promises
But still lets in the freezing winds
To whined up urine stained
In the pallor
The colour
Of his sky
Bandit warrior and loser
This brave young man
Watched this driven and ploughed memory
Eat away
By iron vice drag
Devastate his pale haired wench
Leaving blood trailing on her breast
Pimped
She was
And hate in grey battered uniforms
Drove the callous on
And lifted him from the reeking cans
Of his desolation
Bled him through nights of sweat
And cold turkey chewed regret
The plaster wet billboard and pealing advert
Have no idea
What they have unleashed
Brittle as long dead bones
And screaming head
No longer hates
But still sneers revenge
In tattered loose rags
He staggers from the vomiting pit
Emaciated wolf
The grinning scarecrow eyes of merciless
And the jagged teeth of candle lit
The reek of vendetta
Hangs ever about his lips
And woe betide the gun smith
Woe betide indeed the needles
Wet prick
Nothing left to fight for
Other than
A long dead
Lover
Sunday roast
A meal I loved
for some time not partaken
When Ma was here
Well ~ oh my dear
Served on the dot at one o’clock
And woe betide if we were late
it would be on the table
upon our plate
and steaming hot
Whether we were there or not
Nowadays it’s just for one
Has somehow lost appeal
To sit alone now on my own
I really don’t enjoy
Those crispy roasted spuds
with golden Yorkshire puds
buttered carrots ~ roasted parsnips
on my plate roast leg of lamb
a generous dollop of minty sauce
with thick meaty gravy piping hot
Three cheers for the cook
Three cheers for the host
I can almost taste it ~ I can almost smell it
Ma always cooked the best Sunday roast
Now my grandson is a vegan
his girlfriend she is too
my granddaughter a veggie
oh what am I to do
I cannot beat them
so I will join them
nut roast now my Sunday roast
but I'm still yearning for the taste
of Ma’s on the dot at one o'clock
her Sunday roasts delectable
each mouthful unforgettable...
Written 4 July 2021
Contest A BRIAN STRAND JULY 4
Sponsor Brian Strand
FIRST PLACE
A conversation overheard between Shakespeare and his former muse.
"So many things hath turned to utter folly over the ages.
Hundreds of years since I've penned pages and pages.
What these ancient eyes of mine doth now conceive
plead, 'Return to thy grave, Bard, for here you'll grieve."
"In sooth, fair maiden muse, I know not why I am so sad.
Perchance to dream, is this a scheme or have I gone mad?
Enlighten me as to what's become of life as I once knew it.
Bitter dregs are coffee? Bring me tea or I shall lose my wit!"
"Fie to you and the darts of scornful glances from the eyes
of natives half-dressed. Is modesty held in compromise?"
It's accepted attire by everyone, nothing like in the past.
"I shall not rudely stare, but I find myself quite flabbergast.
What of the churl who spits venom into that man's face?
Doth women in this day act like shrews? What a disgrace!
Is not thy husband honored as both her lord and keeper?"
Women are equal. She looks at him like she's the grim reaper.
"The lady doth protest too much. That's what me thinks.
A goblet of ale tis what I need, and then forty winks.
That minstrel sings gibberish. Has he no pride in himself?"
He sings a Christmas song about an elf who sits upon a shelf.
"O, teach me how I should forget from whence I have come.
I do not belong here. I need a draft to sleep and benumb.
Romeo's poison was quick. Thus, with a tender kiss he died.
To chamber I betide to cleanse this stain I shall not abide.
Out! Out Damned spot! Thy splotch besmirches as if blood.
Begone fore I hear my heartbeats pounding with each thud.
On the banks of Stratford-On-Avon tis where I long to be,
rewriting Romeo and Juliet so in the future he will decree...
To Juliet when she says, Romeo. Romeo, wherefore art thou?
The lad shall reply, "What do you want from me, you cow?"
Dear Bard, you mustn't change a word of what's been written.
For centuries women have read your lines and were smitten.
"I shall nary breathe a word of this ill journey to the future.
Thine lips are sealed forever more without need of suture.
Back to the grave where I belong, most gladly shall I return.
In eternal sleep, ne'er to dream of such time I did spurn."
Written: October 05, 2023
___________________________________________________________
Where the paradisiacal angels reside.
A myriad of creatures, ebony and betide
A dinkum dissolute and a discreet divine,
A degree of dexterity, a denizen decline
Amidst the mahatmas and zeitgeist calls,
An indweller quests for lyricism thrall.
A martyrdom route, an incubus chase,
Eristic battles in the realm of grace
A proponent of verity, a wraith of anile,
Sought to indwell the hearts of enamel.
A sip of soma, a savor of seraglio supine,
Agnostic beyond, for the geist did shine.
Destructive metempsychosis, a mortal plight,
Internal battles, seeking inspirational light.
In the realm of the departed, desolate cries
A crybaby tears, but awe-inspiring skies
Departed souls, once heartsick and heartsore,
Find solace in the trust they restore.
For in the internal depths, a spark ignites.
And as the decedents rise, their souls bear flight.
Absolve afreets, the anxiousness abides,
Embrace the beatitude; sublimity resides.
Rawness of a sentimentalist, troubadour song,
The immanence of duende is pantywaist wrong.
In the realm of the spiritual, the snarl of sin,
Is replaced by beatitude, the soul's win.
Spotless and unsullied, cleansed of all pain,
The spiritual journey is the ultimate gain.
They sully the cosmic force with opulence.
Yet, the sunny glow of bliss starts radiance.
A troll in the netherworld, forlornness abounds,
In the cognition of theosophy, the soul rebounds.
Lord, You have given me so much,
The will to see, compare,
The things that just make common sense.
You've shown me that You care.
So I believe.
I believe because You've given me,
The curiosity,
To search for truth in history,
To search until I find it;
And I believe.
You've given me Your Book Of Love,
To read, research, compare,
With other books that other's wrote,
Your wisdom Lord, You share.
So I believe.
It's all laid out before us.
Laid out in black and white,
And we make our own decision,
To choose to see The Light,
And I believe.
You freely share it all with us,
And You let us decide,
Who will be our Leader, Lord,
Who will be our Guide.
And I believe.
For we all serve a Master,
Whether we now it or not,
And Who we choose to follow,
Determines what our lot;
And I believe in You.
Because You listen to my prayers.
You're always by my side.
You give me courage, lend Your strength,
And give me peace inside.
So I believe.
And when my time is come Lord,
I fear not what betide,
For You are here beside me, Lord,
And You will be my Guide.
This I Believe.
Form:
He opens learners’ hearts with the key of kindness;
passionately plant in them the seeds of success
and watch them grow in the garden of greatness.
Talk about a terrific teacher.
He wields words from the wellspring of wisdom
to water worm-wheat in the field of freedom...
and shield them from the throne of thralldom;
Talk about a terrific teacher.
He tells his students the lore of love and life,
and the right use of rocket, rifle and knife
to save them from baseless storms and strife;
Talk about a terrific teacher.
He wakes up each day with this golden goal:
To tenderly touch each pupil's spirit and soul,
and make their broken bones worthy and whole.
Talk about a terrific teacher.
He prays for each pupil to have an honourable heart,
out of which will flow the beauty of eternal art
so they can be sincere, sensible and smart.
Talk about a terrific teacher.
He is a mentor with a matchless mission,
practicing what he preaches with pure passion;
his friends are spurred to have a vibrant vision.
Talk about a terrific teacher.
When winter’s wool and whirlwind betide,
and the streams of life roar in stormy tide;
he gives warm words to guard and guide...
Talk about a terrific teacher.
Examination is not just a test of intelligence;
it is also a test of creativity and confidence...
his students enjoy inspiring independence.
Talk about a terrific teacher.
In poor pupils, he see a pool of great possibilities,
he teaches them to tap from the oasis of opportunities
springing in their desert of difficulties...
Talk about a terrific teacher.
Some folks are only interested in high income;
he looks out for inspiring inputs and learning outcome...
his job is to make the future bright and awesome.
Talk about a terrific teacher.
“cat o' 9 tales”
Like a cat has 9 lives
every witch in every Lilith
lives to write another day
woe bedtide the poor oaf
who gets in Her way
like Heathcliffe he’ll be tortured
from here to kingdom come
and back under the Hades rug again
where all good sinners
and their sordid secrets stray
to die another day -
roses placed just so by the fresh roadkill
let hungry eyed vultures have their wicked way
don't you know?
the broomstick’s not just for sweeping floors clean each day ...
Dorothy has Her way
like a cat has 9 lives
every witch in every Lilith
learns to fly strong again,
lives to write Her grimoire spells forever
each and every other powerful day
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even of a very unremarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet, of some mute and inglorious Jane Austen, some Emily Bronte who dashed her brains out on the moor or mopped and mowed about the highways crazed with the torture that her gift had put her to. Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.”
(Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own)
“What fresh hell can this be?”
(Dorothy Parker)
"If the doorbell rang in her apartment, she would say, 'What fresh hell can this be?' - and it wasn't funny; she meant it."
betide. :)
The dark man rides throughout the land,
true servant of his Queen;
and follows he, her stern command,
to fetch the sweetest seen.
He never speaks, this silent man.
His gaze is straight ahead.
But mortals understand his plan,
and let themselves be led.
The dark man he will play his part.
He’ll whisk them clean away.
Tho’ if the Queen feels kind of heart,
they’re home again next day.
But woe betide the ones who speak
of such a fairy game.
The dark man once again will seek
to blind, strike dumb or maim.
Then as the hallowed e’en draws nigh,
let mortals all beware:
When witches ride the midnight sky,
the dark man will be there.
October 12th 2011
See about this poem
O muse ... the lauded poet Homer called
to Odysseys 'cross time enthralled
please tell the tale of warriors lost
of Troy's fall, of heart and of pride.
'cross the vellum pressed, Homer cried.
"Set course for Greece and damn the cost,"
Odysseys on his black ship bawled
orders as his crew there oars hauled
for windless were the seas criss-crossed.
The Siren's sang and woe betide
the men who heard them died wide-eyed
as to the mast Odysseys tossed.
All with him died the tale recalled
on Ithaca the King arrived,
to battle for his Kingdom most lost;
his Queen to claim, his long lost bride
he'd win her now with bow well tried.
The scroll retold and was embossed.
Woe betide the lightning tree
the guardian of the sacred stone.
Devoid of life and leaf alike
as even the ivy creeps elsewhere.
Woe betide the lightning tree
the silent watcher of the north.
Mastered by the winds of change
and the scapegoat of the ruthless skies.
Woe betide the lightning tree
the keeper of the ancient grove.
Once a mighty bellowing giant
now fodder for the relentless fungi.
Oh, look over there!
There's a button that makes life easy,
wait, what's that?
There is no easy button!
Someone forgot to mention,
self-destruct is a straightforward path.
Like a yellow brick road so simple to follow.
Deviation from a path so obvious.
Woe betide the one that takes the easy way out.
No one said it would be clearly marked,
no one said that there would be directions.
Cookie cutters, patterns, all to simple.
Follow in a footstep, follow a tide.
A whirlpool can drown you as fast as life.
Follow the road less traveled.
Make a mark of destination, not a footprint of regret.
k.chun 2013