Long Nordic Poems
Long Nordic Poems. Below are the most popular long Nordic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Nordic poems by poem length and keyword.
I have descended down from the mountain
From being another one
A man whose errands were Norwegian snow
To one whose role I now not know
I have fallen far from a midnight fountain
To spring from work and work alone
Whose parole to parley silence
Now must insight some other sense
To be someone and then another,
A bit here, there, but never anywhere,
Is to hide from you so you can seek,
The winter that makes me more than bleak
Courageous but also seeking cover,
A secret grove gives light to wear,
The tree whose soul makes me weak,
Into her hands my tears are meek.
The snow, white and grizzly in my beard,
My chiseled hair wild in the fierce north,
Now tamed, refrained and differently framed,
What lies in the brush but civility tamed.
My dishevelment is certainly not to be feared,
A finer figure will soon come forth,
Whose mimicry will appear contained,
To settle down with mind pertained.
Down, down we all must someday go,
For to stay around too long up high,
Is to bother new shadows who need their space,
From your ashes they too must build a face.
Tell me brother that all this you know,
That the hull of summer makes the winter rye,
The Nordic way is like man’s big race,
To leave this earth with a skier’s grace.
Back to the heights I soon do trek,
Here below I breath but just barely so,
The sea in the north is not the sea of paradise,
For fish indeed but surfers please think twice.
Miles high beyond the hills lies a sleeping wreck,
A day dreams carving a downwards flow,
Under a layer of snow a family feasts on salted mice,
A wasteland refuge for solid people made of ice.
These moors and hills bring the Yorkshire chills.
Beauty and awe combined galore
Open skies fill these Yorkshire eyes
Something magical can be seen here in these mists so still
The folk here that can call this home
Some feel it in their blood and the shire will always call them home.
Hamlets, villages, cities and towns with many dialects creating many beautiful sounds.
Dry stone walls with so many steeps and falls
Ancient woods with their ancient tales and moon light calls.
Footpaths that go on over crags and dales.
Celtic tones in its history winds, Nordic change see the blood lines thinned.
But there’s no other place on earth that can claim this majesty. A nithering wind they may allus be! But Ow-do and Si-thi we’ll say to thee.
Yorkshire is warm even when it’s cold. My heart will be forever a Yorkshireman’s in a Yorkshire soul.
Green has an empowering richness of vibrant color,
it evokes those spring meadows beneath bright clouds...
where pretty fair-haired girls pick up emerald shamrocks
for Saint Patrick's Day to adorn their dresses and hair.
Why did the happy Irish pick this dazzling color one asks?
It must be the shamrock that grows wild in the low hills,
among the grass blades flapping in the crispy Nordic breeze...
under the birches, the aspens and the Scots pines in the haze!
Green symbolizes Earth, happiness, stability and boldness
these four elements the conquering Celtic people instilled
in the Irish hearts that celebrate them to remember days of old;
mingle with them: green is not for the Irish only, be their friends!
Wear a green ribbon, a hat or tie: it's Saint Patrick's Day!
Hear the bagpipes, see Irish smiles and flags everywhere!
Everybody can be Irish for a day; stand on Fifth Avenue:
watch girls dancing, boys playing in the band...hurray!
Seven Mossad Agents came to Norway a winter day
when a snow drowns the needs of the homeless
asleep in a shop's doorway absorbing the sarcastic smell
of coffee and the aroma of a Napoleon cream cake.
Their mission was to assassinate a man called a terrorist
by them, but freedom fighters by others.
The target had been located, a man of 47 bearded, with
prematurely gray hair, Semitic features, and a nose somewhat bigger than what is the norm in a Nordic land
He works as a waiter at a cafe, and take the bus home
a quarter past ten in the evening, to his bed-sit, about ten minutes ride from the town.
The group needed two taxis to take them to a hotel called, “Larsen's ski lodge” a pleasant little place with
modern IKEA furniture, giving rooms an airy ambiance
the group went to work at once, the leader carrying a
heavy mobile phone, trying to make contact to base, one presumes an embassy, but failed.
One of the women donned a blond wig, walked to the cafe to be sure their target was there
a quarter past ten two men entered the bus, one of them
who spoke a few word in Swedish, asked for two ticket to Husly which was the lat stop before the bur turned around and back to town
when the “terrorist” alighted the bus the two assassins followed.
No point going into details here, but they got their man
and hid his body in a snow drift.
Cooley, they stood by the stop to catch the bus on its return trip, smoking cigarettes of a foreign brand oblivious eyes saw them at the bus stop
The assassins had overlooked one thing, the man had a girlfriend and when he didn't appeared as usual she went out looking for him with the help of neighbors
Her boyfriend was found in the snowdrift
the police quickly knew what they were dealing with
but since they, the local police were not armed, they waited for reinforcement, when in the morning the assassin group came out to go to the railways station
the group were arrested.
Then the bomb dropped, they had murdered the wrong man, another Arab, they quickly insinuated was a terrorist too, what else was he doing in Norway
The court case took a long time, one of the prosecutors
fell in love with the woman with a fake wig, tried to
say she was an innocent bystander, it didn't wash
the case dragged on, in the end, and since the holocaust
was invoked, the guilty only got a few years.
May Mjölnir's might strengthen you.
May your thoughts flow from Runic streams.
May your chosen path feel miraculous,
And may the northern winds uplift you,
So that Yggdrasil fills you with kindness!
May Frigg ignite your divine visions!
May Freyja summon fertile dreams.
May Magical Mead pour freely from above,
Letting your courage lead to valorous action!
Walk the forest's path, where unique trees and flora thrive.
Listen to the wildlife 'round the trees.
Meet your inspirational animals,
And live boldly as one who ventures forth with courage,
Allowing the vines and flowers to entice you---
That they may be your good companions.
The elf seemed a bit off, the rest of us thought.
I think he’s Scandinavian, and pretty well sought.
Sought by the St. Lucia pageant, and maybe the bazaar.
So, he’s travelled a bunch, and he’s come very far.
The last time I saw him he was at fellowship hall.
They have a potluck - there is Nordic food for all.
The songs, the costumes, the fashion show is great.
Let’s pick up that elf and ask him to tell us straight.
What is he about? Who is his mom? And his Dad?
Will he share his Scandinavian secrets? Is he big and bad?
There he goes, someone said. Let’s catch him for luck.
We tried really hard, but he drove a truly fast truck.
I have the touch of viking in me
The spirit of the wild and free
I am the waterfall cascading
Across all nordic kingdom
My sovereignty undenied
I render lush abundance
Assuring joy to a parched land
Pride and glory to its clan
I am the gurgling source of life
That will not ever wither
I am Lin of the winds
The goddess of the meadows
I bring forth springtime’s magic
And the song of meadowlarks
I am Lin who hails from lands of reverie
Of the many crosswinds I am Lin
Read on air by invitation ~ January 9, 2022 'POETS HARBOUR'
AP: 3rd place 2026, Honorable Mention 2026, Honorable Mention 2021
What morning mysteriously unfolds is
the rugged cliffs that kept away men
in silver armor; they were those impregnable fortresses
that massive armies tried to conquer with archaic intellect.
And the fury of the roaring sea, steadfast and cruel,
was their threat, but seagulls were the guardians
when their ships surged from the clashing waves;
the conquerors did not see a knight with vigilant eye.
After the fall of The Empire Of False Gods,*
any land could be taken for possession;
the sturdy boundaries built with stones
no longer existed, fear was too rampant.
The fortresses that still stand are a reminiscence
of battles echoing with clanking swords and violent roars;
I can hear them by reconnecting to the distant past.
On this cliff of ancient grey stones, I lay down staring at clouds,
but the absence of green trees offers no shade, nowhere to hide;
only the comfort from the Nordic cool wind that anticipates winter.
What I behold now, will soon vanish into the thick mist of twilight;
awesome sunset looking over the beautiful shore, remain a while...
let me admire the exuberant beauty of this passing day: I may
die tomorrow without having beheld the painting you've created!
* The Empire Of False Gods: Rome
Anna Belle 1619 (Part One)
She set out to Jamestown in 1619
She's a Nordic ship on the sea
She's purple in shades in streams
She bathes in the Caribbean breeze
She needs no bard's flattery
No barroom cajolery
Only God with His love sets her free
Along the Levant coast, Aqaba, and Red Sea
My Shulamite who longs for me
She whispers softly, a euphony
Her chestnut flowing glory
Cascades oh womanly
And shaded for only me to see
A music-box dancer
Flawless she prances
Her beauty captured in Renaissance fancy
Reciting "I do"
My bride in June
My beloved in truth
As we walk together towards God
Anna Belle MMVI (Part Two)
Streetlights lead the way from home
Into the distance I drift and and I doze
Off to sleep where I meet Anna
On the coastal retreat out on the veranda
I hand her a poem and it reads:
Anna Belle
You have a lover's light
It is a beacon to this traveler's eye
You are grace and life
A sunburst shining Christ
Luminosity on this day which God has made
I m-i-s-s-i-s-s-I miss your kiss
When you're away
She sighs, what a look in her eyes
I desire to know as she ponders each line
In her heart unfurling more woes
A cascading of tears and hopes
Holding hands, we share our dreams
Of a journey together, the valleys the peaks
Our eyes meet, we momentarily hesitate
Then univocally say "You are my soul mate"
Goodbye Anna Belle (Part Three)
Preacher by day, poet by night
This hero's weakness is iron pyrite
A ship among ships
I sail on by moon eclipsed
No stars or astrolabe
To navigate me me towards my babe
The captain of the Eternity
Has set course and ushered me out to sea
With memories of her and dreams of home
I seek the shore in the sad poem
As I roam and comb Rome
I see faces from pages I've written in tome
Familiar, I see her everywhere
In the euphemistic flower and cascading hair
I ponder the thought of all thoughts
Why did Jesus endure the path and the cross
Out of love, a love that leads step by step
Through a mystery of enigmatic depths
I say my goodbye in this melancholy ode
I mourn, but not as one with no hope
Rant: Inevitability
by Michael R. Burch
This is a prophetic poem about the triumph of real poetry over its current poor imitation.
There is change in the wind; there is change in the sea
preternaturally strange with her myriad eyes—
stars mirrored in waves. Compelled by the moon,
whipped to foam, she is drawn into restive tides
rising and cresting as kestrels flee
shrieking, “Passion is all!” You are nothing to me.
What will be, will be.
There are words to arrange; there are tongues to employ;
there are songs to engrave on each vellum leaf.
But the gold will not hold lacking passion or joy
and the gilt ink fades without rage or grief.
All your high Latin hymnals bind spineless belief,
and your mild incantations mean nothing to me.
What will be, will be.
Emotionless arrows impale no meat,
leave no prey blood-splattered, no white bone staring,
no pale breast shattered, no lamb’s soft bleat ...
but a table barren, an ear uncaring.
And your listless denouements mean nothing to me.
What will be, will be.
There are souls’ riven screams, there are blind eyes staring—
imploring the sun or the moon or the sea
for an inkling of meaning, a morsel, a shaving ...
and your pallid dispassion means nothing to me.
What will be, will be.
There is much that is lost, and yet much to be gained
in each dark starless night, each advance of the sun.
We have so little time to wrestle your meaning.
Stars trestle the heavens. Wind haunts. You are done.
And your temple bells’ tinklings mean nothing to me.
What will be, will be.
All my cruel Celtic henchmen, my bold Nordic bards,
will shatter the canes of your cripples to shards,
impaling pale corpses on blood-slickened staves,
tossing leprous white limbs to the wild-drooling waves.
For your steaming viscera are manna to me.
What will be, will be.
No Iscariot kiss, but a Jubilant Hiss
you will get from me. What will be, now is.
Keywords/Tags: poetry, poets, poems, write, writing, words, romantic, romanticism, wind, sea, waves, moon, stars, tides, foam, passion, strange