Long Old english Poems
Long Old english Poems. Below are the most popular long Old english by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Old english poems by poem length and keyword.
~ Enjoy ~
(Hexaduad)
In life
There's strife
Check 'round clocks ticking fast
Life ends but His joy last
Feel love, praise, give him thanks right now
For time doesn't wait for us, that's how
Enjoy life, cope
With God love, hope
Goodness in him you'll find
Accept in soul, heart, mind
Just climb mountains
Open heart wide.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2015
August.30.2016
So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.
1 Corinthians 13:13 (NIV)
-For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life."
John 3:16 (NIV)
- But Jesus beheld [them], and said unto them, With men this is impossible; but with God all things are possible.
Matthew 19:26 (KJV)
- Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou [art] with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Psalms 23:4 (KJV)
~Author's Notes:
The " Hexaduad" is and Old English poetry form or style.
Day Blood (Old English)
By R.A
Day blood, thou shalt to run into
thy building.
Building of habbeth, twas once brilling
with life, now of extirpation.
Day blood, thou shalt to under hood.
One’s question of the rain was thy andwyrdan,
haust acwellan, thy rain.
thy rain is bealuhygdig.
thy life is black.
Day blood, thou shalt to under hood.
Thy place of bodian, of bletsian, and broga.
haust acwellan, thy rain.
with life, now of extirpation.
Cirice, place of cringan.
Day blood, thou shalt to under hood.
Thy cunnan of red rain, shalt thrive.
Building of habbeth, twas once brilling
with life, now of extirpation.
haust acwellan, thy rain
thy rain is bealuhygdig.
thy life is black.
Day blood, thou shalt to under hood.
Day Blood (Modern English)
By R.A
Day of blood, you shall run
into your building.
The building, which once shone brightly
with life, is now a ruin.
Day of blood, you must hide away.
The question of the rain was answered:
harvest is dead, the rain has killed it.
The rain is malicious,
your life is dark.
Day of blood, you must hide away.
A place of preaching, of blessings, and terror.
Harvest is dead, the rain has killed it.
With life now destroyed,
the church is a place of despair.
Day of blood, you must hide away.
The knowledge of the red rain shall persist.
The building, which once shone brightly
with life, is now a ruin.
Harvest is dead, the rain has killed it.
The rain is malicious,
your life is dark.
Day of blood, you must hide away.
23h
Reply
I do not speak your language I said to the ghost.
I speak a better one, fancier than yours, fancier than most.
I speak American, taken from English and hillbilly.
Your language is stuck up, decidedly silly.
The ghost was astounded, confounded, incensed.
Old English had served him well ‘til this fence.
What is American he asked, in a haughty, snobbish way.
I immediately thought “tea time” and decided to play.
Have you not heard of the Boston Tea Party?
It was the day we took over your ship, hale and hearty.
We threw all your tea in the sea, ignoring your taxes.
He ran for his wood shed, his chains and his axes.
He came back empty handed, for he was a ghost.
Could not pick up anything, a crumb, maybe, at most.
We decided to be friends, we talked into the night.
Me and the ghost, on my lap. What a sight!
I crept softly upon a dream today
in a wishful walk, my heart
filled with joyful play.
Soft green air plants, blooming in
the misty breeze.
Lush, rich and green was the path
that lead me.
The sky was evening touched, by
the creeping fog.
The trees were looming over the yard
and fallen scattered logs.
Encircled around it an old, wooden
fence. Amber lights glowing from its center
filling me with suspense.
A cottage shingled way down its long
peeks. Old English style, mirrored, stained
complete.
Rippled with a pebble, the water within
the well. Dropped gently my penny wish like a
bucket into the swell.
I understood the dream beautifully unfolded
From peeks to scattered logs, this was
my dream home.
Is there anything finer than mashed potatoes
That fluffy white mountain of joy
Scrumptious with gobs of bad-for-you butter
And sprinkles of parsley, oh boy!
Always dream bout this mouth watering delight
Sending me to the moon with glee
A slice of ham with a carrot and pea medley
And a blob of ketchup if you please
Don't give me none of that Beef Wellington stuff
That fine old English tradition
With boiled potatoes oh how uninspiring
Gonna pass it with your permission
Good old smashers as they're sometimes called
Can't think of another dish finer
Just a simple old guy with a simple old taste
A down to earth kind of a diner
So serve me them taters from dawn to sundown
Guarantees my friendship for life
Scrumptious with gobs of bad-for-you butter
Where's my napkin, my fork and my knife!
© Jack Ellison 2013
A life unto of ebb & flow
The Masters seated down below
Or high above
I cannot tell
Heaven may beholden hell
My heart cries out
but I think I died
It doesn’t pound that it did before
For where I am, I am not to sure
I did not bleed, I did not scorn
Where did this rath come forlorn
I thought I’d paved the way to free
Yet here I am, alone -
I cannot sea
Except a fair few off light that dwindles
I’m thwarted & it pains me so
To just feel pain and so much woe
I cannot sea
Am I on a boat, Am I on a yacht
These memories that not be forgot
I think I know what’s happening here
It is my turn to take the steer
I never wanted it this way
But now I’m steering all the way
Until the next one, next from me
Beholds from not is from the sea
That dwindling light, passage unclear
The ebb & flow is so near
It may be your time soon to come
That pounding heart that is now done
I cannot sea
Can you see?
The stench of endless days clings to my name;
My folly, like a rust, but stings not him.
A meek heart paid for by relentless blame,
Youth’s bitter wine- a draught forever grim.
Past twilights reel in cadences untrue,
I fall, a penitent within the flame;
Bound to repentance- ash where roses grew,
My voice, the echo of a sullied name.
O sickle, strike the valleys we once promised,
Lay low the ghosts that haunt my dwindled shore.
Let golden breaths on iron fleece be kissed,
And singe the thought that kept me wanting more.
So let the world unspool what once I wore,
That even ruin might return me pure.
Are otters so odd?
In Old English
Their name means 'water'
And it really ought to
As they live near the river or sea
Are otters so odd?
They sing like canaries
With clear voices
So happy and merry
Their high-pitched sopranos
A treat for you and for me
Are otters so odd?
They're really so cute
When they stand up
They look so much like
Little 'fish pups' --
(You almost expect them to bark) --
But they've whiskers like cats
Except for one thing:
Some of those whiskers
Jut out from their eyes
Which is quite a surprise
Are otters so odd?
Some might "Yes" nod
But I see not the need
For either a rod
Or an 'otter-swatter'
There's a little town in Ouyen Vic.'' Under 1200 people so
I'll tell you bout aspects; of it sort'a quick!
There's Clarys slate bush etching, in three d real fine.!
And a little hairdressers that comes to mind.?
The conveniance store.' And theres some more.!
Like the old English banknotes found under
Its timber hall floor.' Also Kingdon chickens thats out a bit'
Where I worked a time 'come to think of it?' There
Was that pet Emu..Dang! I've forgot its name?
It would steal your food, just take it plain.' Away
From your hand, on the way to your mouth!!
Maybe thats the reason i left the South? I reckon
I'll get back there one of these days..And lay a
A fresh sandwich upon that old birds grave.!
I opened the box with joy in my heart.
The label said in quaint old English lettering:
"Universal Instant Translator"
I pulled back the lid and there it was—
A tiny lapel pin, like a badge, or a nameplate.
And a tiny earplug.
I fitted both without delay.
The simple instructions said:
Ask your guest: "How are you?" or some such phrase.
When they reply—even a few small words will do,
Whether they've understood you or not—
I just need their voice to begin.
Now I have all I need,
to instantly translate for both of you.
Next time you speak, whisper softly;
You'll hear me shape the words aloud
in the listeners native language—
Instantly, and with no delay—
while your lips are still forming the sounds.
likewise, when they speak,
in their own language,
you'll instantly hear what they say
flow into your ears, in your native tongue.
The longer the conversation goes,
the better my translation becomes,
for both the speaker and the listener alike—
An instant “speak-easy,” if you please!
Stand by for the next update!
A full into the brain transplant!
Coming to Heads - In Real Time Soon!
So speak away, hear away—
the talking is so easy now,
Every border has begun to fade
We all speak and everyone understands, instantly!
We hear whatever they want to say.
Language, dialects and accents
become irrelevant, as perhaps they should be—
for all of us can now join in
the universal conversation,
that brings the whole world near.