Best Rood Poems
I feel privileged.
I have been chosen by the Government
as part of a group testing something called
Edible Clinical Marijuana.
Honestly I half expected it to look like a Burrito
because the name sounds sort of Mexican.
It actually looks more like a brownie.
I’m am about to take a bite so hold on.
Yum,
tasty!
So here is the point
I am suppose to consume
one half of a brownie
then fill out this sheet
giving them my feedback.
Hold on
I am going to have a few more bites.
Okay,
no wait,
milk would go great
with these babies.
I’ll be back.
(after a long while)
OK, sew sorry I was gonna while
I was staring inside my fridge\
for a while'
tying to remember
I think I wanted a glass of ink%
aktiually I’m dinking from the bodle@
I am eating my forth brownie
as I was instructured to do;
Did they say four or? ate
cause these. are tasty
And/
aaaahhhhhhh,,
tasty^
tayysstee^
hahahahahahahahaha""
a program on my compuwhatyoucallit
keeps underlyning my words
with read squiggles=
hahahahahahahahaha
but it diidn’t underline squiggle#
hahahahahahahahaha
wel dats stoopid
squiggle isa perfect lee
good underlying word*
stoopid Bill Gated^
hahahahahahaha?haha
sorry I ment Will Gated~
so watt was I saying ]
oh yeah+
fill the sheet)
hahahahahahahahaha
I don wanna sheet,
tha is gaross[
heeres a pen
quesshun= Sex
easy!
ansir; yes- please)
hahahahahahahahaha
?why m i bein so polite
hahahahahahahahaha
queshun!
oh wow Blues Brothers on my TV
what was I spose? to do
oh yeah watch tv
why am i so angry hahahahahah++
hahahahahahahahaha
i mean hungary
haahahahahah
h u n g r y
dere hungry>
hey look
brownies?
those look good
hahahahahahahahaha
i con't tipe with mai mouth
full dats rood/rood
i'll get bak too dis later..
sew as they say
hahahahahahahahaha
two bee contitnude
Yikes, all I feel is attitude with zero Christmas mood.
Blessed am I for Jesus’ birth and sacrificial rood,
but Santa and his deer had best just skip our roof
or I might very well rage out on every furry hoof.
All my Christmas feel of unique is long past its peak.
Do color me aloof, uncouth if you choose, or bleak,
but my entire entirety still feels yuletide fatigue
from the Christmas I’m sure we just had last week.
Makes no mind to me if stuffing that gleeful day
stirs relatives into a finger wagging, yapping say.
I’ll show critics red and green done fist proper,
Christmas-awe land them on their tree topper.
I would rather hang with the Grinch and Scrooge
than endure another round of Santa subterfuge.
Aint no way I’m buying, baking, craftily stressing
while wrapping, decorating or glee impressing.
Ho, Ho, Ho can ever so jolly just blow, blow, blow.
I flat out dare Santa to plan to show, show, show.
October ochre sage writhes betwixt winter’s loom and the summers gone astray
Chartreuse spilling out of season’s way to darker afternoons bewitched by greys
Tainted tinge of hints upon newly painted trees and then plumes are plucked and fade away
Ocarina songs of birds once heard in winds becomes ossia as only silence plays
Brood does the bitter frost to traverse across the earth to lay
Evening into stronger shadow, where the lunar clutches hallow skies to longer stay
Reigns the fall in crowns of pumpkins and Indian corn, until the snowflake flood rains upon autumn parades
The night would steal his love away
across the bridge of the moon.
He knew that it might try one day,
But it has come that bit too soon.
It cut itself a creature,
From its own satanic cloth,
And a rider plucked from Hades
Did bestride this behemoth.
Oh hear the sound
Of pounded ground
Beneath its fissured hooves!
See the craven ravens
Seeking highest high-up havens!
And the dizzy weak-kneed witches
Hiding timidly in ditches.
The bats, the rats,
The mice, the owls,
The creatures that slink through the night;
The foxes and stoats
And blubbering toads,
My, how he puts them to flight!
Evil will fear greater evil,
more than it fears good;
And even the daemons and dusky elves
Risk refuge under the Church’s rood.
Oh hear the churning of crumbling earth,
The turning helpless ravaged turf,
The creaking croaking breaking trees,
The rivers sprinting to the sea,
The children crying,
The weakened dying,
And the distant hiss of burning hope.
My prince, my prince, wake up, wake up!
The gate is opened, the drawbridge down!
Where is your armour, where your sword?
The lady will give you just reward!
The night has stolen his love away
across the bridge of the moon.
He knew that it might try one day,
But it came that bit too soon.
Not on the streets where one would fear for safety.
In a home where nobody is rood.
Not under a bridge in search of a place to sleep.
A bed upon a pedistol for a wonderful night of dreams.
Not digging in a dumpster seeking warm food after a restraunt had closed.
Soaking up gravy with the last bite of a bisket upon a shiny plate.
Alone and lonely not knowing where to go.
Driving home to a family whos waiting to see me.
Clothes dirty and no shower or bath to use.
Bubbles glistening in a tub of delightful essance.
A cold winters night will take ones breath away.
A home with a wood burning stove gives warmth to the lucky ones.
Yet a poor poper am i.?
Words to write and why.
Aww for I am not a poper but one of wealth beyond ones dreams.
For i have been given a gift that no money nor fame shall taketh away.
A poor poper is not me.
Blaise Pascal awaits his last call
beneath Saint Etienne-du-Mont's tall
columns and old rood screen. God's nature,
pray, ups the odds on his last wager.
The singer sang from beyond the grave,*
Or in his grave, to be true.
His voice reached up to the architrave
And vibrated in every pew.
The vicar called on the choir to sing
As loud as loud they could.
But the voice had an even louder ring
Sending quivers down the rood.
Oh Lord, they sang, oh mighty God,
Gloria in excelsis deo.
But the singer sang of life’s hard rod
And of Hell's undying blow.
The women looked up the pillars tall,
While big-eyed children cried.
The singer had them in his thrall,
But was not to be descried.
The vicar read his sermon out,
As if proclaiming from the mount.
The singer responded with a voice so stout,
He sang of fear’s rich fount.
The congregation lost relation
To the good man’s godly word.
They stood in helpless trepidation,
Their souls so far disturbed.
The church’s doors swung open wide,
To a cascade of chattering leaves;
The screams and panic and terror inside
Shook the church to its very eaves.
And then, oh then, oh horror pure,
The spectre appeared at the door.
His bloodied hair, his sombre allure,
Chilled the living to the core.
The vicar clutched up bible and ran
Through a hidden door to the side,
The singer opened his cloak like a fan
And wrapped all the children inside.
The women bemoaned this cruellest loss,
They wailed to the crucified Christ.
But bound and weak and nailed as he was,
There was nothing he could do.
* This Poem should be read in conjunction with 'The Pauper's Grave'
A Homophonic Incident of Her Life
It’s knot a ferry tail butt an incident of a pour girl’s life, weather you believe it or knot. Hare goose the tail—
She war a guys and one
ate plane idle witch seam two bee a waist,
so she side and sad inn a week sound
knot two give her those dam idols fore
she wanted a cell phone or a wring or a purl,
may be cheep ass she didn't halve money
two by them on her own, or she will cell those idols
to urn money and make prophet write under there nose.
Hole public stopped , sum laughed
and sum pitied at the made
who sat stationery and waited
for there decision.
She was shore that the sun of the manager was a reel kind sole
and he would bee bowled enough too convince his dad
two change his mind.
But the father was to rood .
He rows from his seat and
blue a whistle too call his buoy
who showed his shoo to the suite little made
who then flue and vanished from their,
knot too bee scene again.
Not: British-English homophones halve bean used..
Dt: 28/04/2015
For the contest: Only Homo's Allowed The word *****is from the Greek word meaning same by Jerry T Curtis
The Crucifixion Of the Christ
Lo and behold, on this rood
On it once lay a great sacrifice
Of God’s only Beloved son
With his blood spilt on the wood
He washed away every vice
The cuffs of all our sins undone
A prince of peace rode on a borrowed colt to conquer sin's spikes of pain
A redeemer set aside his reverence and bled to erase the mark of Cain
A King ceded glory and a gold throne for mockery of a crown of thorns
In the moment of pain he saved a criminal and gifted a mother to John
The temple split like the red sea, swallowing wickedness into an abysm
God blinked, the sun dimmed, dark covered earth for the cross to beam
In the shade of a this rood-tree
We’re solaced and we’re free
Our eyes are wide open to see
The crucifix as a Mercy Seat
His anguish was fated by death
A death was fated by a rebirth
Reborn to harvest blessings
From the seed of his suffering
For one to deny thyself for us
Is a love no man can surpass
We’re unfit to lace his shoes
But he washes all of our feet
How much of us can we lose
If salvation has a face of defeat
What is worthy of this price?
One life or to be born twice?
Putting a lid on earthly vanities
Opens a door to godly verities
Death is a numb symbolization
Resurrection a vivid realisation
The only price lies in ourselves
A soul blossoms from sin’s shells
A revelation of an inner presence
An exhumation with aliveness
A demise overcome by our trust
To relive the passion of Christ
11009
CharlaXFabels
HOW ROOD
They took a cart with four wheels scootered by me just to almost hit my foot they
tried to run between the bus stop and the bench where eye was standing waiting
for the bus just missing one that left me almost got the dust she flipped at me
with her middle finger she had to knoe that eye was there she meant to make me
feel bad so what she said he was not there at the stop yet this old man found
and scrounge is better than a gang and take this poem is for FOUND things
sarcasm is lost inside a deep dark hole I don’t want to take it with me overheard
and listened to the conversation all anew again in my imprinted memory as I
pen, this; ODE to rudeness, eye have been told there is NO LAW against cell
phones or decent public conversations Its hard to see he is my poor brother eye
keep my own needs simple and eye travel light,
And keep all of Egypt on my back, but some people need the even more security
a four wheeled
Shopping –cart can afford them the demonic teachings of the classroom just
made me realize that eye would leave my education in the great wastebasket of
the sky eye would learn some other thing eye would leave the classroom without
thinking never embracing death and the mark of the rejection of the lord the
millennium mark the 666 mark of the beast called SATAN.
Rood rud - Show Spelled Pronunciation [rood] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA
Pronunciation,
–noun
1. a crucifix, esp. a large one at the entrance to the choir or chancel of a
medieval church, often supported on a rood beam or rood screen.
2. a cross as used in crucifixion.
3. a unit of length varying locally from 51/2 to 8 yards (5 to 7 m).
4. a unit of land measure equal to 40 square rods or 1/4 acre (0.10117
hectare).
5. a unit of 1 square rod (25.29 sq. m).
6. Archaic. the cross on which Christ died.
________________________________________
[Origin: bef. 900; ME; OE rōd pole, crucifix; c. G Rute rod, twig ]
Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1)
Based on the Random House Unabridged Dictionary, © Random House, Inc.
2006.
Not on the streets where one would fear for safety.
In a home where nobody is rood.
Not under a bridge in search of a place to sleep.
A bed upon a pedistol for a wonderful night of dreams.
Not digging in a dumpster seeking warm food after a restraunt had closed.
Soaking up gravy with the last bite of a bisket upon a shiny plate.
Alone and lonely not knowing where to go.
Driving home to a family whos waiting to see me.
Clothes dirty and no shower or bath to use.
Bubbles glistening in a tub of delightful essance.
A cold winters night will take ones breath away.
A home with a wood burning stove gives warmth to the lucky ones.
Yet a poor poper am i.?
Words to write and why.
Aww for I am not a poper but one of wealth beyond ones dreams.
For i have been given a gift that no money nor fame shall taketh away.
A poor poper is not me.
11009
CharlaXFabels
HOW ROOD
PARTTWO
The decadence of Society, RUDE, has finally sickened me; the only thing to do is
pray to GOD to quicken me when he bumped me and all eye did was make the
references to his ancestory his intentions were just nominal he wanted to survive
and they think that they are GOD the man was nice until eye started to converse
with him it rally hurts there feelings when eye have a less terse verse the Mexican
bumped my bag and actually hit it with his arm in an effort to move it out of his
way HOW ROOD is that he was in my way and no where for me to go the traffic
was thick and the curb was near my foot
then the boy looked super surprised wiping the glaze out of his eyes Oh, he had
surmised it He said this to the Driver “I am not even listening to you I am talking
to someone on my Rude Cell Phone
and he pointed to the window with his cup so carefully held up to keep from
spilling and he gestured at the man to sit somewhere else just go away eye am
so rude eye am the rudest man alive today the man was trying to dominate
someone that will not be ruled over by another man and so he lost his battle plan
his rude was wasted then eye almost let it go but had the last word out the door
One thing was certain they never even noticed me
never saw me as a person they just played out their ruminations
just giving me the benifit of their public conversation the girls talked non plussed
non pulsed and non stopped they never cared for anyone but them they kept the
confab going even into coffee time THAT stuff that you are wanting me to have
just keep it with you and take it with you please just SHUT your mouth like that
and then she left another string of profanity pointed back in my direction and the
damage had been done now here's this poem.
Springtime is more than just flowers and sun.
April is drenched, and bees will have much fun.
Swarming insects frighten with bites and harm.
A staining sludge swamp and stinky silt farm.
Sneeze and hay heat-stinging eyes are a curse.
Lands that loom like orbs, yet deceits are worse.
Yet, we must not squander sight of quaintness
with the rigors that spring brings or faintness.
Berth booms boost pollination burden rood.
Spring is spasmodic, apart from the mood.
White snow morphs into mushy rolling hills.
And sprinkle down verve up till the dale spills,
Flowers rising from snowfall restore hope.
Were we blithe beyond the zenith and slope?
3rd place contest winner
Written: February 05, 2023
Spring Is Not All Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Michelle Faulkner
One cross
Left side
Silent bore the shame of cursed
Guilt, with scant remorse and no
Small scoff
Unfearful of
Dying breath.
Middle rood
Central one
Focus of the centuries distant yon
Condemned to die for all, Godson
Giving weak
Lost souls
Eternal life.
One cross
Right side
Afraid to pay earned shameful debt
Seeks absolution for crimes of theft
Pleads now
For saving
Unmerited grace.
Written January 2, 2021
For Joseph May's Trinet Contest
My angry words
Half choked out in the hot mist
Are lost in the torrential downpour.
They hit the rood of iron clouds
I am shut off from all you are.
My soul’s broken pieces scream
Tears leak from my heart
Which was smash between rocks when the
Earth shook
Buildings fell
Sea rose and terrorized your precious ants.