Best Old English Poems
Her grace, she moves in poetry,
Tread cobbled path of wandering heart;
She speaks in moonlight spirit,
Thine treasure chest come undune,
'Till I lose mine feathers,
Frozen by her sole divinity;
She, found to mine lost,
Twixt these street exile redefined by her golden glory,
pounding on my chamber door;
I must forego the counsel of my twisted devils,
Rise from lay 'pon this brow beaten soul;
Swell into her wonder... lift love anew!
Heaven restore mine black gloom;
Her grace, she moves in poetry,
Spilleth' over, soothing matrimony.
~JSLambert
© PoeTTreeZ Publishing
Art thou the wicked deceiver- who cometh dawn or dusk
Dweller in the heavens- who wrought scorn unto thy Creator
Cast aloft- becoming caddish as cag-mag- a drab locked away in Bridewell’s gaole
Grinder seeker- who stood a midst the knowledge tree and offered nary but one
One bite will make thee greater than He- one taste shall wit thy mind
Maker of gray betwixt black and white-a savory eater of men’s souls
Syllan thy lies for the Christ did rise for thou shalt tarry no more
Mote thy forkth tongue- shake-down thee to ever more hell
Henceforth to dwell ever the more ye will- in mere of fiery waters
Waiter of the wittle of Good and Evil- Forsooth! Forsooth! Thy dream
Dost not the coddish fear and tremble while thou holdth Bilbo high
Hearth lay thy saber- blood stained pudhly with the souls of mankind
Monstrous shadowed deceiver- no longer doth the grave highly boast
Beautifully bequeath a love of mankind- a son of David- the Christ did rise
Resist not the righteous-the judge of Adam sits at the Creator’s right side
And thy kingdom shall tarry no more-no more
And Thy kingdom shall tarry no more
Thou didst not make me come
I came of my own accord
now you tell me that you're bored
how can I improve on my sweet Lord
Thou art a ruffian - unskilled in the
art of lovemaking, no tantric sex
more like Titanic with a hex
I always know what's coming next
Who wrote my script and said that:
I wouldst love you no matter what?
maybe it was you more likely than not
I must be thankful, pretend at what I've got
Now thou art coming again - never mind my pain
Why is it that my loss has to be your gain?
What wondrous beauty lies within these eyes
Fairest creature in face and Divine form
Thy vision lovelier than summer skies
In thee, my true happiness now reborn
Lay with thine loving hand upon my heart
Breath of love whispered soft upon my cheek
Please, fear not that we shall be torn apart
For our love be strong, not shallow or weak
Hold my love close, keep it forever near
Clasped in thy sweet beauty, thy shining light
Draw upon its strength, to silence thy fear
To guide thee through shadows in darkened night
Oh beauty, until thou art mine once more
Remember my love be steadfast and pure
Thy young maiden,
Peck her Lily flower a shake.
A brittle sound of break,
Sobbing till tears make.
Bare feet on wet grass.
Alas, her life, soon ‘twill pass.
The blade buried beneath the burning.
Old hopes lost, back in the lash of battle.
One man walks along the winded mount,
Turning slowly, the sun-silvered seas
Draw his heart horizon-ward, his eyes
Focus in search of the lone fluttering sail,
The boat that bears his bloodied King
Away from heavy war forged ruin and waste,
Across the widening waters. Taken to
The healing houses of the Holy Isle.
Once flowing banners torn down, bitter flood
Of his enemies' hate hastening to undo
The loyal legacy. One still loves.
His fate not to fight hard, and fall
At the side of his sovereign Lord.
Ordered and honoured to keep heart-hope alive.
Over gorse crowned cliffs he carries away
The heavy stewardship of the infant prince.
His ward now to watch and rear, until
His time is full ready to revenge his father's fall.
In the historic district of an Old English Settlement, I came to a house with a porch lined with hundreds of ferns covering it. I couldn't believe what I was seeing, I'm a historian and knew immediately what I had stumbled upon. As I walked carefully up the old wooden steps and under the roof hanging above me, I came to the door with a carved stone rosette that encased the 8 ft. double doors before me.
I did not know if I would be able to open it, so I gently tugged on it, it came open and to my surprise was an old grand staircase that a royal English family that must have once lived here. As I stood in the lobby of this grand staircase there was a window over looking a garden filled with rose bushes everywhere, what a sight!
The house must be from the 1400's, this decaying structure still had a lot of life to it, under the dust and dirt, I wonder who must have lived here and so with curiosity I moved up the elegant staircase, and up at the top to my left I noticed a door along the hallway and it was almost as if you could hear the whispers of the past and the life that once had lived there, in their beautiful gowns and men in their suits and top hats, where a once beautiful home was full of life and color.
Behind the door when I opened it there sat a desk with a bunch of old papers and a letter in the drawer. I started to read them and it was the lady of the house with her name on it Lady Stratford.
I brushed off the front of it covered in dust, it there had been the a deed to the house. I cheered at the thought finding it. That meant I could claim it and bring the Old English Home back to its original beauty.
There I sat in the garden after two years of renovations completed, sitting there on the garden bench watching my young daughter and son playing joyfully running around with my husband sitting there by my side, he gently kissed me on the cheek and said great job.
Hard to bear and heart breaking,
The bitter sight of the shining One,
Broken in body still bold of spirit.
Spite driven nails gnaw the wrists,
Brow torn open by hard twisted thorns.
Our glorious King crippled on the cross,
In open naked shame ordeal nerve shredding.
The wounded heart wrung out by hate,
Still lavishing forth love's pure force.
Voices spitting scorn, savage fists shook,
As the crowd rage in great crazed hate,
Before His mother's grief flooded face.
The eyes close only ease and cease
Of bone grating pain, now passed and gone,
As His breath falters and fades soft away.
The crowd scatters, silence clears the hill,
Disciples in sorrow, decriers still scornful.
His blessed body taken down by humble hands
And placed in the hollow peace of
The garden tomb. Three days gone,
The seal set, soldiers stand in watch.
Now shook hard, hearts shrink and seize,
As the bright bearer steps down burning,
To roll the heavy stone, hard hewn, away.
Even the angel light is eclipsed as
He stands forth to bring the shining birth
Of the waiting world's ever reigning hope.
The Wanderer, Part III
The wise man contemplates these ruins,
considers this dark life soberly,
remembers the blood spilled here
in multitudes of battles,
then says:
“Where is the horse now? Where, its riders?
Where, the givers of gifts & treasure, the gold-friend?
Where, the banquet-seats? Where, the mead-halls’ friendly uproars?
Gone, the bright cup! Gone, the mailed warrior!
Gone, the glory of princes! Time has slipped down
the night-dome, as if it never were!
Now all that remains is this wall, wondrous-high,
decorated with strange serpentine shapes,
these unreadable wormlike runes!
The strength of spears defeated the earls,
lances lusting for slaughter, for some glorious victory!
Now storms rage against these rock-cliffs,
as swirling snows & sleet entomb the earth,
while wild winter howls its wrath
as the pale night-shadow descends.
The frigid north sends hailstones to harry warriors.
Hardships & struggles beset the children of men.
The shape of fate is twisted under the heavens
as the Wyrdes decree.
Life is on loan, wealth transitory, friendships fleeting,
man himself fleeting, everything transitory,
& earth’s entire foundation stands empty.”
Thus spoke the wanderer, wise-hearted, as he sat apart in thought.
Good is the man who keeps his word to the end.
Nor should a man manifest his breast-pangs before he knows their cure,
how to accomplish the remedy with courage.
Keywords/Tags: Anglo-Saxon, translation, Old English, wanderer, wise, wisdom, ruins, runes, war, battles, time, travel, travail, wall, winter, ice, snow, sleet, storms, night, shadows, life, friendships, loss, lost, sorrow, dark
The Wanderer, Part II
Awakening, the friendless man confronts the murky waves,
the seabirds bathing, broadening out their feathers,
the hoar-frost, harrowing hail & snow eternally falling…
Then his heart’s wounds seem all the heavier for the loss of his beloved lord.
Thus his sorrow is renewed,
remembrance of his lost kinsmen troubles his mind,
& he greets their ghosts with exclamations of joy, but they merely swim away.
The floating ones never tarry.
Thus care is renewed for the one whose weary spirit rides the waves.
Therefore I cannot think why, surveying this world,
my mind should not contemplate its darkness.
When I consider the lives of earls & their retainers,
how at a stroke they departed their halls, those mood-proud thanes!,
then I see how this middle-earth fails & falls, day after day…
Therefore no man becomes wise without his share of winters.
A wise man must be patient,
not hot-hearted, nor over-eager to speak,
nor weak-willed in battles & yet not reckless,
not unwitting nor wanting in forethought,
nor too greedy for gold & goods,
nor too fearful, nor too cheerful,
nor too hot, nor too mild,
nor too eager to boast before he’s thought things through.
A wise man forbears boastmaking
until, stout-hearted, his mind sure & his will strong,
he can read the road where his travels & travails take him.
The wise man grasps how ghastly life will be
when all the world’s wealth becomes waste,
even as middle-earth already is, in so many places
where walls stand weather-beaten by the wind,
crusted with cold rime, ruined dwellings snowbound,
wine-halls crumbling, their dead lords deprived of joy,
the once-hale host all perished beyond the walls.
Some war took, carried them off from their courses;
a bird bore one across the salt sea;
another the gray wolf delivered to Death;
one a sallow-cheeked earl buried in a bleak barrow.
Thus mankind’s Maker laid waste to Middle Earth,
until the works of the giants stood idle,
all eerily silenced, the former joys of their halls.”
Keywords/Tags: Anglo-Saxon, translation, Old English, wanderer, winter, ice, snow, frost, sea, ocean, seabirds, heart, heartbreak, loss, loneliness, alienation, sorrow, death, ghosts, dark, darkness, wise, wisdom, war, bird, birds, wolf, giants
Ways to pep up the pulpit and pew,
gave way to ennui.
The clergy went away to get help
and never came back.
Eventually, thundering sky's cracked
stone, spire, and gable;
neglect and cold winds
nibbled at sculptured arch and buttress.
Where once was a stained-glass light,
weeds and tree-bones reach.
Where once cassocks swept
mice now nest
while above, priestly owls perch.
Eventually, walls crumbled
into niche and cranny.
Amid the spacy ruin
Jackdaws laid their speckled eggs -
angels fan danced by moonlight.
Many of word from mouth and quill
Non too sacred than mind still
Look unto ones deepest of eyes
One cannot see whats hiden inside
A wiseman once told I
Never utter what thy thoughts hide
For one has thy power to behold
Power of stories untold
From enemies we may fight
To thy dear beloved wife
Nor thy fellow countryman
To thy one trusted hand
Not a single soul doth hear
thy mind doth keep so dear
Old English Rescue
My dearest love, my glory
The bearer of this note
Is but a trusted servant
Can read not what I wrote
But knows how much I love thee
And how on thee I dote
Tis folly you should think of me
A rouge and treacherous man
I pledge eternal love to thee
And I’ve a rescue plan
Thy father and thy brother
Pledge their full support
I sail with the morning tide
To thy prison port
The minions of my father
Care naught of what I do
For they too know of true love
And support my love of you
Clothe thee thus in black
On the morrow’s moonless night
The tower’s door will be unlocked
Thy guards not in thy sight
My servant then will guide thee
To our rendezvous
We’ll sail before the morning light
Together, just we two
Henceforth know my dearest
My prayers and thoughts are thine
And though it be a fortnight
Thy future lies with mine
Mdailey 3/5/12
when Merlin
knelte to Æthelstan
he bid'th wealthe
acrosse the lande
an' lo thy King
giveth his hande
presidin' o'er all Albion
from Alfred
in whose shadowe ran
emerg'd the court
of Æthelstan
an' on to rule
the state-ly man
for all the souls of Albion
Shall I liken thee to a sunrise?
Thou art the sunrise of a fall morning's glow.
Thou art the oaken breeze that bids you "hello."
Shall this describe to what I liken thee? No.
Shall I liken thee to a sunset?
Thou art a gold sunset, from the hills only seen,
To orange ribbon atop the city's crystal beam,
Reflecting heavenly diamonds, infinite gleam.
But no, this shall not be to what I liken thee.
For words fail to describe what thou meanest to me.