Best Welsh Poems
The mining villages of Wales
are steeped in history and tales
of sons and fathers, duty-bound
who earned a pittance underground.
For generations miners toiled
with picks and shovels, faces soiled.
Their throats parched dry and fingers raw,
black gold the aim, etched scars the score.
And mountains whisper tales of men
who failed to re-emerge again.
Or nevermore could breathe with ease;
Sad victims of black lung disease.
In valleys shaped by pride and grit
within the black and hostile pit,
black powder prowled and took its prey
but brotherhood did not give way.
11/11/18
'Black powder poetry contest' : Sponsored by Anthony Slausen
Your Choice (3), sponsored by Brian Strand
old saw
scissored shades of Betsycoed
taste of yester youth's sweet tones
splashing sound of forest water
kissing shining sacred stones
Dreams of swirling druids dancing
in the faery water's rill
flash reflective thoughts of flight
The dragon tears yet spill
The druid hymn of waiting
for greed to die of want
a constant scream of tortured winds
belie the curse of can't
What matters ought to those who fought
and died that I be here
to stand beneath a blazing sky
and gaze upon the Western sea
moments of reflective thought
pondered on expressed and caught
to feed an ever growing need
To dig and rap and plant a seed
That blossoms in another mind
Repeated as the finest kind
to be forever sowing seed
To seed
And time to spend with thee
He never once mentioned the pressure of his blood
or his Mam
I found dead on the floor
his Dad’s cancer
or his younger brother
not once, during the best years of my life
he fixed cars
with a pipe slowly smoking
a magician with gauges and valves
he drank small amounts of beer
most nights
talked of governments,
jays, woodpeckers and herbs
and fishing
he once caught a 200lb conger
he threw it back, no big deal
walked his dog over a hundred years old
until she died too
he never once mentioned it, but we noticed
the angle of the briar
the bedraggled churchwarden
the butter in the beans
that one extra potato
the few extra pounds
but not once ever
did he bring up our grumbles
our impoliteness
or our dirty shoes
through fleeting visits
he just smiled, understood us like Buddha
he gave without receipts
or IOUs
would it have mattered
if we’d found the tablets in his drawer
or deciphered the consultant’s scrawl
papered vaguely on the wooden table?
he wasn’t expecting guests, I guess
and then one random Sunday,
memories of mountains
and meadows
and fox cubs
and bullfrogs,
warm summers
and the scent of tobacco
went out
from 'Sawing Fallen Logs For Ladybird Houses' 2011
http://amzn.to/seDv8w
Mae hi yn yr un
hi yn yr un i caru
hi yn unig un
A pretty Welsh girl in Caerphilly
Was invited to play ball with Willie
One kick to his ball
Caused Willie to fall
So she thought the game was quite silly!
Welshcakes
Stolen straight from the bakestone*
Was a taster we all proclaimed
* cast iron griddle
Penned 5 November 2015
Rhiannon gives birth.
Dark flees at point of roughness.
Light grows strong again.
A Welsh New Year
The night's dark shadow
creeps softly over the sky.
Dark, soft fingers pull slowly at the light,
fully engulfing it into it's dark mass.
The wind whips off the sea.
Snatching and releasing,
pushing and pulling.
Rough and unforgiving.
Wild as our hearts,
beating quickly in the night.
The wooden walls groan in around us.
A ship,
forever docked,
deeply into the cliff.
A yearning spirit hides in anticipation
behind each eye,
quivering in excitement and childish glee.
When finally,
one scuttling figure jumps from the couch
and out the door.
We chase him,
fleeting feet and unruly rain jackets,
across the courtyard and towards the wild sea.
The wind's intensity grows with the seconds.
We stop,
finally,
when we reach the light.
It flashes,
giant and glowing.
The sea roars far below us
and the wind thrashes and screams in our ears.
I feel as if it could lift me off my feet
and carry it as far as it pleased.
Clinging tightly to whoever is closest,
we stand in silent awe.
But it only last one flickering moment,
before we're dashing back
to the warm safety of the indoors.
But when the morning comes,
and all putter around the kitchen,
little fragments of the night still remain.
A crumpled flag of the living room floor.
Muddy shoes scattered
on the cold entranceway.
The quick sprawled footprints in the sand.
And a lone wine-glass of water,
on a disheveled bedside table.
Gentle smiles pass through the house,
and the steady sea beats rhythmically on.
related link:
http://thearyan.com/category/poem/
Where Lud gave wing, Blessed Bran doth sing
true oracle the visions bring,
from midnight’s land, bear burning brand
the Queens of old, gift Druid hand.
Shadow depth seek, sharp sable beak,
pierce psyche veils when prophets speak,
messenger calls through ancient halls
where Raven reigns the Tower walls.
Fey healer fly, the night-world sky
initiate Ovates nigh,
beckoning deep, iconic keep,
hark Raven calls to dreamless sleep.
Where Lud gave wing Blessed Bran doth sing
true oracle the visions bring,
from midnight’s land, bear burning brand
the Queens of old gift Druid hand,
the Queens of old gift Druid hand.
I know what you want to order for dinner, Welsh Rarebit.
But if you order it again, I swear that I'll have a fit.
You sleep in the buff and the Welsh Rarebit makes you walk in your sleep.
As you walk through the neighborhood butt naked, the men always peep.
When you last ate Welsh Rarebit, you got your gun in your sleep and blew off two of my toes.
I cried like a baby as I called 911 because the Emergency Room was where I had to go.
I have a short fuse and if I blow my top in public, you won't like it.
But that's exactly what is going to happen if you order Welsh Rarebit!
(This is a fictional poem)
I guess we missed chapel again
But rugby is never a sin!
We pray for the ball
If that don't beat all
We pray our opponents won't win!
High home summer hill
Straining, sucking, sitting
Staring, stopped and stick-
A pit-prop tight and gripped.
The trees across the valley
Much higher than he can go now.
I pant to reassure him
In time with his withered eyes.
His tongue, tombed gritty green
He’s faithful, though he’s fading
Bones in death-grey jumper
Where will he lead me next?
from 'Layer Cake' 2009
http://amzn.to/vXCEFa
My life flashed before my eyes as I sat in the driver’s seat
I clung to the wheel for dear life
my face was as white as a sheet
Would this brave man named Dale
live to tell the tale?
Had he written out a will
Drafted Out in great detail ?
I was petrified you see
But he had confidence in me
His fantastic sense of humour
Acted as a diffuser
He calmly talked me through it
With the patience of a saint
How he coped I’ll never know
As Michael Schumacher I ain’t!
He had a scientific brain
And as we drove he would explain
Tell me random facts and stories
As we ventured through welsh lanes
Now I really can’t deny
That one manoeuvre made me cry
But with his tolerance and charm
My frustration he did disarm
When I finally passed my test
His relief was well expressed
He turned my life around
Now freedom I have found
Favourite Teacher or Professor contest
Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke
20th October 2019
Two fair lassies, Mary Lou and Betty Sue
Took a stroll in the woods of Honolu
Got lost, of course; they had no clue
When -- oops! -- they bumped into
Winnie the Pooh and Tigger too
Wouldn't you know it? They fell in love
As skies grew ever-blacker above
Pooh-bear and Tigger took the girls' hands
Led them to familiar land
How grand!
Where'd they go?
How'd they get there?
You'd ask, of course. They rode on the back
Of Mr. Ed, the horse, who saw them back
to Honolu: Mary Lou and Betty Sue
Winnie-the-Pooh and Tigger too
And what'd they do in old Honolu?
They up and married -- said "I do"
Feasting on fresh Welsh rabbit stew
Followed by cantaloupe and honeydew
melon, that is, for Winnie-the-Pooh
You may rightly wonder how this
turned out -- Young lassies marrying
a Pooh-bear and a Tigger so stout
...Well, I've got extremely
pleasant news for you
Mary Lou and Betty Sue just loved
to cook Welsh rabbit stew, with
cantaloupe and honeydew... so
they all lived to the ripe old age
of 102!
And now this fairy tale's
quite rightly through
January 30, 2019
A pub that's typically Welsh
Has music the English can't squelch
Hymns and arias rule
But, like any gene pool,
The loudest is always a belch!