Long Icelandic Poems
Long Icelandic Poems. Below are the most popular long Icelandic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Icelandic poems by poem length and keyword.
Oh now sad frog located on the sandy beach
Emotions raging around the body as an Icelandic volcano
burning holds in a vice grips deeply
Stranded in the cemetery of broken hearts
It is as if parts of the heart where torn out
shreaded from the body without an anesthesia
Deep arrow strikes in Golden Sunshine beams
Maybe he worry for no reason
Warm thoughts sail faraway yonder
An endless sandy beach, white as snow
washed with the blue ocean in brilliant yellow sunlight
Singing dreams kissing lips hold an oasis close
She drinks his kiss as if one could never get enough
In the hot summer sun burning heart yearns
It does not matter what it is
or where it leads them
as long as it creates an inner glow
Singing sizzles relighting loves croaking flames
Infatuation may be coming - but volatile
ignites when paper lips hold tears prisoner
Positively resonated does not appear out of the blue
Falling salt seasoned spice
Trail seeking light
This is a powerful and invigorating moment
Jumping angry to paradise
Shedding the green shirt of a Queen
She was cold, but the sun stroked her
soft and warm over the cheeks
Written by L. Mcdaid & A-L Andresen :) 26.06.2015
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Rob the Plumb Bob
True upright, Honest vertical,
Forthright citizen, If criticized, Unfair!,
Assured in Approaching Life's "Hurdle-cal",
Mich's husband devoted, likewise Lucas's Pere,
Spiritual thinker hardly heretical,
Kind, Kind, Kind, never one to scare,
Moral, principled always ethical,
For the NGA, Rob does contractors snare,
Pro at his roles, family & work, nobody's skeptical,
A well travelled road grows no grass...Rob's scalp's losing hair,
Rob's Icelandic blood belies his manner tropical,
Sharing to anyone in need, recipients just stare,
Always generous even when not economical,
Doubt Rob's convictions? Don't you dare!
An overnight flight, I couldn't sleep if I tried
Too excited to see what awaited outside
We stepped off the plane to be covered in rain
For an Icelandic adventure and memories to gain
In a motorhome we went travelling around
Selfoss roaring, geysir erupting from the ground
On golden circle, we stood in two places at once
No time to see it all, we'd have been there for months
Now some whale watching, so we hopped on a boat
A playful humpback was out, so close to our float
So majestic and huge, you'd believe it to see him
Especially after the visiting their phallological museum
An amazing place full of tucked away hotsprings
A small "hot tub" in the mountains, of all things
Cheers with an Einstock and the viking thunderclap
I'll be back one day, but for now, that's a wrap.
Oh now sad frog located on the sandy beach
Emotions raging around the body as an Icelandic volcano
burning holds in a vice grips deeply
Stranded in the cemetery of broken hearts
It is as if parts of the heart where torn out
shreaded from the body without an anesthesia
Deep arrow strikes in Golden Sunshine beams
Maybe he worries for no reason
Warm thoughts sail faraway yonder
An endless sandy beach, white as snow
washed with the blue ocean in brilliant yellow sunlight
Singing dreams kissing lips hold an oasis close
She drinks his kiss as if one could never get enough
In the hot summer sun burning heart yearns
It does not matter what it is
or where it leads them
as long as it creates an inner glow
Singing sizzles relighting loves croaking flames
Infatuation may be coming - but volatile
ignites when paper lips hold tears prisoner
Positively resonated does not appear out of the blue
Falling salt seasoned spice
Trail seeking light
This is a powerful and invigorating moment
Jumping angry to paradise
Shedding the green shirt of a Queen
She was cold, but the sun stroked her
soft and warm over the cheeks
Written by L. Mcdaid & A-L Andresen :) 26.06.2015
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Now see a fine display in market hall
Where fishmonger's stalls sell the freshest catch.
A world of wet white tiles and melting ice.
Seafood displayed, arranged in rank and file.
One Scottish salmon commands centre stage
Stretched out upon its own tray of crushed ice
And next to a few Icelandic haddock
Along with cod trawled from the Dogger Bank.
To one side are some plaice all flopped and flat.
Seems they are staring up with fixed focus.
A side display of small fry, placed parallel
And herrings heaped up in sad slump of grey.
Some calamari, tasteless rubbery squid
Are off stage with other seldom sold bits.
In the corner there's offal bin with heads,
Guts, skeletons and several layers of skin.
Take for your cat. Put pence in charity box.
A fine display we see in market hall.
fishballs and more
At the posh supermarket in Albufeira, it sells Icelandic fishballs harvested from
Ten-year-old cod fish. They are white and round, just like other balls in size, say,
meatballs, but they taste salty and tangy, perfect with chilled wine, almost like
Eating the Portuguese dish bacalhau de nata, the way it is made
Alentejo.
The wine at this supermarket is overpriced, but some of them have fancy names.
On colorful labels to make them more appetizing, like we were going
to eat.
The labels, too. 99% of the shoppers are British and strut around patronizing us
Locals who came to gaze at the frozen food one can buy here, as
The English housewife cannot cook and takes great pride in her
lack of skills
Men are hopeless, too; that is why they go to British restaurants
Eat pie with Chips and mushy peas.
I had friends, British – can you believe it- who lived here for years, when they
Needed cancer surgery, so they went to Britain to have it done. The waiting list was
So long that both died; the Brits do not like being prodded by a foreigner.
So what was I doing here at this posh place? I had been told they sold smoked.
Ox testicles here, it was fine for my flagging potency when I asked around.
The shop fell silent. No one knew. Insipid fishballs, but I saw men putting on their
Reading glasses for a closer look at the shelves selling foreign muck
Rat-a-tat-tat, it is the sound of the dreaded, Icelandic Yule Cat.
You have to get me a jacket or shoes or something else I plead
My mother rolls her eyes. That’s a faerie tale, she says. Her face is fat.
Come on! I say, it will eat me up, I will be ripped and bleed.
My father gives me an eye roll that says he does not believe.
Polish, what does he know of this notorious evil Yule Cat that’s near?
My grandmother told me. My chest begins to wail and heave.
Rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat. I can hear it and nearly faint with fear
Socks, a headband, a wrist, a shirt, a blouse, something I beg.
I can hear the masticating teeth, and I nearly die with fright.
I would get you jeans, but they will be long and narrow in the leg,
My mother says after a while, then she turns off my night light.
It is Christmas Eve, and I am too afraid to close my eyes.
I should have only asked for clothes, not toys or that autograph.
If she does not keep her promise, I will be one of many who dies.
Rat-a-tat-tat sound comes right up to my ear, hot breath, and a laugh.
Like a warm summer’s day
her infectious smile
can melt even the most cynical heart,
Like the boisterous south easterly
that clears away the city’s fog
her mood sways from jubilant to poignant,
Like a thunderous night
that holds the promise of a beautiful day to follow
her anger melts like a glacier to form crystal streams,
Like the Indian monsoon
her tears flow without warning
drenching all thoughts,
Like the autumn leaves fall
so does her reticence
Like the icy Icelandic tundra
her aloofness
can be felt when she is betrayed…
Like a full moon promises change
so does her demeanor
when it comes to love,
Easily hurt
but just as easily loved…
Contest: Tell Me About You
Placed: 4th
Are there ghosts on Hessle Road
Do the bell bottomed boys
Slide quietly into Rayners
For the pint, the craic, the noise.
Do their pockets still jingle
Until, having spent it all
It's again through the Bullnose
To pursue the ghostly trawl.
Do they wander through estates
Where terraces used to stand
A self contained little village
That bordered on dockland.
Do ghostly clogs clack and echo
As a gang of bobbers meets
To wander to the Fish Dock
Through the old ghostly streets.
Is there still a St Andrews
Where bobbers do their bit
Hand balling a slippery catch
Kit by kit by kit by heavy kit.
Do Big Lil and her Revolutionaries
Stand in lines by the dock
Checking on a vessel's safety
Before it slips through the lock.
Does the Lord Line Building
Once a building of pride
Again survey the scene
From St Andrews Dock side.
As I stand among the remnants
Of a weeded and silted Dock
Looking at what's left of
That once so busy old tidal lock
In my mind I hear rattling chains
As they ready the trawl
To prepare for sea once more
To chase the silvery haul.
I can go take a pint at Rayners
See history lined on the wall
Raise a glass to the Bell Bottomed
Boys who lived and died for the trawl.
3 days between trips, spending more than 300 days a year at sea, famous for their brightly coloured bell bottomed suits, and their ashore celebrations, known as 3 day millionaires, now just a memory in our City.
The Fish Dock now a shopping park, the dock filled in, and haunted by an air of decay and depression, the once proud companies offices sliding daily nearer collapse
Just a small memorial to the lost stands on the Bullnose, which they passed on the way out into the river and onwards to Icelandic fishing grounds, danger and, too many times, death.
Lost World
Wayward ships lost in stormy seas
Oceans of emptiness begging please
Ripples of tides in various degrees
Liquid cooled blue Icelandic freeze
Desperate land watered down trees
Capsized cruise on a beach unknown
Reality sets in now left all alone
Unseen distances of sand and stone
Island so empty with green overtones
Skeleton ship full of broken bones
Embracing life a castaways new home
Written for contest: World Cruise (Acrostic) 10/04/17
WON 3rd PLACE IN CONTEST RESULTS