Long Somerset Poems
Long Somerset Poems. Below are the most popular long Somerset by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Somerset poems by poem length and keyword.
A is for Airspeed who graduated from Oxford
B is for Bristol with their whispering giants
C is for Convair and Canadair also
B recalls Boulton-Paul who built many Defiants.
D for De Havilland and those sleek Comet racers
E for the energy shown at Embraer
F connotes Fairchild who made a Packet or two
And G stood for Grumman at whom few tomcats stare.
H means Handley-Page or old Hawker-Siddeley
Astounding the globe with their jump-jet designs
I’s for Invincible, she sailed with Sea Harriers
J for the Jetstream with its dynamic lines.
K stands for Kaman so creative with rotorcraft
L must be Lockheed, the Starfighter’s dad
Whining like werewolves when losing their airspeed
Sure to send shivers down the spine of some lad.
M is for Mooney, sleek princess of pistons
N recalls Northrop proud makers of Hornets
Patrolling our oceans from carriers grey
Safeguarding airspace up close to the Arctic
Or defending the cargoes we import every day.
O for the Ospreys whose engines can tilt
P means Piaggio with rare pushing propellors
Drowning-out tenors with their monotone song
Queue for the taxiway, proceed as instructed
Safe separation your life will prolong.
R for those Robins with oddly cranked wings
S stood for Sopwith, with taut wiring and struts
T for the Taylorcraft, no need for sprung nosewheel
U for the uniformed men in rough huts.
V for those Vickers from Brooklands ascending
W for Westland down Somerset way
X-painted large means don’t use this runway
As it’s not been maintained for many-a-day.
Y is the yearning to sit in a cockpit
To strap oneself tight to a privileged seat
Z for the Zeros that rattled their cannons
And so strafed the decks of a Pearl Harbour fleet.
sagger maker’s bottom knocker from barnsley
one of the last of a now dead trade
famed for his skill and precision
where ever saggers were made
forced to redundancies scrap heap
because of lack of demand for his skill
lack of money and self respect
made him feel tired and ill
took up dwile flonking in somerset
became a regular girter of the team
but regular skilled work remained
his great and longed for dream
flonked by a wanton driveller thrust
which he sadly failed to catch
led to his early demise
and an unfinished match
so take note passing stranger
of his sad demoralising tale
a tragic life so swadged short
by dwile flonking and real ale
he rests beneath this stone
his driveller in his hand
the finest sagger maker’s bottom
knocker ever seen in this fair land
This aspect is succinctly told by, W.Somerset Maugham from an Arab tale:
The speaker is Death:
There was a merchant in Baghdad who sent his servant to market to buy provisions and in a little while the servant came back, white and trembling, and said, "Master, just now when I was in the market-place I was jostled by a woman in the crowd and when I turned I saw Death had jostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture; now, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate. I will go to Samarra and there Death will not find me". The merchant lent him his horse, and the servant mounted it, and he dug his spurs in its flanks and as fast as the horse could gallop he went. Then the merchant went down to the market-place and he saw me standing in the crowd and he came to me and said, "Why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning?" "That was not a threatening gesture," I said, "It was only a state of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Baghdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra".
(A far older version forms part of the Babylonian Talmud)
sagger maker’s bottom knocker from barnsley
one of the last of a now dead trade
famed for his skill and precision
where ever saggers had been made
forced to redundancy’s scrap heap
by world wide non demand of his skill
lack of money and self respect
made him tired and physically ill
took up dwile flonking in somerset
became a regular girter of the team
but regular skilled work remained
his great and longed for dream
flonked by a wanton driveller thrust
which he sadly failed to catch
led to his early demise
and an unfinished match
so take note passing stranger
of his sad demoralising tale
a tragic life so swadged short
by dwile flonking and real ale
he rests beneath this stone
his driveller in his hand
the finest sagger maker’s bottom knocker
ever seen in this fair land
We are partly into an early Spring and the horses' struts with their
heads held up. White Palominos all, majestic beauties they'd be in the
heart of the little village passing by the central square where the market
is full of life of sellers and buyers, to gawkers and talkers as well.
Nearby is the marbled-tier water fountain brimming with fish life and just beyond is the village lake, also teeming with edible fishes unlike those inside of the fountain. Edges of Papyrus and tall Cypress grass and just touching the colorful water lilies. Ahh, they've just arrived and tied up the horses so they'd be secured, here on top of the hill that overlooks the tiny village but seemingly the town life seems to have come up onto the hill, now the hill is full of life.
Oh, I forgot, the village of 'Somerset' with its old charm, thick thatched rooftops with their upper windows of English Oak, post and doorways too. Peaches, Apples Banana trees. Daffodils, daisies, roses, pansies, gladiolas, and much much more. This is truly Spring, the other seasons will be along shortly. I am here, that's why the village is here. I wanted to come home to 'Somerset' and be buried here in the Spring.
Pitifully, it seems my volcano has erupted—Somerset Mougham
Awaiting ink and feather to perform, my volcano has erupted
Gloomy den, I listen to crackling fire, nothing of worth to pen
Suffer to produce work that last forever, an unwritten rule inducted
Cupped in hand, a cobalt bottle, I rub it, and call on its Jinn
Last resort, I sort out the day’s events, journals I’ve constructed
Graced ideas and creativity dead-ended, no nativity, a blank page
The ink has dried, writings seen under scrutiny, in a fishbowl
Sorcery a bitter end, acquire a student, mentor, what I now wage
Appetite gone, blithe verses, Chicken Soup For The Soul; soulful
Poetry to please; plush oriental magnolia’s, birds of paradise, sage
Speechless, lost in words of little sense, strained thoughts, struck dumb
Poet's bemoaning what's penned in a year, should've taken a week
Muses ebbed, Coleridge, Dickenson, to writer’s block they'd succumb
Inspiration depleted, curtains drawn shut, I may never again peak
Gloomy den, a chilling season, I listen to the wind, comfortably numb
(etymology of a surname: Larcombe)
somewhere in the deepest dark of Somerset,
was a secret cumb, I know of not yet
where ancients did note
that many a Larke would wing,
for food,
to brood,
and sing
in those times a cumb was understated
with trees aplenty in it's forest,
where insects
unabated,
invite the Larke
fated
to dance with them as their guest.
as such, much gratiated,
the Larke engages in a courtship thrill,
throwing it's voice to dating,
in hope of mating,
and is satiated
by the success of its trill.
then men came to this place,
farming and deforesting,
such that the Larke could not sing,
leaving only space and doom,
and yet men called themselves
"of the Larke Cumb"
'tis still a mystery, where this might be,
twixt tarmac, concrete, or brick maybe,
but it sealed the Larke' s fate,
closing it's garden gate,
as such, was a sad sick twist really
Dancing and singing along with the rest
With the sun beaming down
It’s Glasto at its very best
****
The teatime slot my favourite spot
Iconic performances from idols past
Still going strong as they sing all night long
Never dreaming their fame it would last
****
Sir Tom at 80 still wowing the crowds
his voice so strong
may he go on and on
****
Resplendent in pink
Dame Shirl gives a twirl
that young lass from Wales
with her voice she regales
****
Dear Dolly lifts the crowd
still begging Jolene
****
Whilst Kenny is lamenting Lucille
****
And sweet Caroline
Well she's a favourite of mine
Still shines like a Diamond
Sweet Neil
****
Barry alone now
still reaching those highs
seeing their smiles as he looks to the skies
****
And Lionel still able to go
All Night Long
strutting the stage
like a man half his age
****
Sweet Kylie
petite
A perfect package
complete
****
Nile Rodgers and Chic
sing along to Le Freak
Nile is such a cool bloke
his look so unique
****
Then finally the master
As darkness descends
On that stage he appears
and for many brings tears
For just like Major Tom
his soul has moved on
but his genius survives
in every word
of every song
****
Not even Covid 19
Could ever stop this show
As I behold the very best
of 2020 Glastonbury Fest...
Written at 3.00 am this morning on 30th June 2020
after watching and dancing and singing to Glastonbury 2020 those images still rocking in my head…
*Glastonbury is considered to be one of the biggest and finest music festivals in the world today. 2020 would have been 50 years since its humble beginnings in 1970. The brainchild of Michael Eavis a farmer from Somerset England, who decided to host an al fresco concert himself after see Led Zeppelin at an open air festival. First artists to appear were Marc Bolan and Al Stewart
1970 ~ Attendance 1,500 ~ tickets price £1 with free milk from the Farm
2019 ~ ticket price £248 ~ capacity 203,000 ~ 135.000 tickets sold in under 36 minutes…
Contest STRAND completely new 3
Sponsor Brian Strand
HONORABLE MENTION
9/11, 2001
Tuesday morning when it all began
Four Jet Airliners
Hi-jacked at will
To fly their mission
To kill, blood spill
Target chosen
New York City
No questions asked
No pity
Internal flight
Laid-en with fuel
Turned off course
To the Hi-jackers rule
Islamist, al-Qaeda is the name they claim
What honest faith
Would want this fame
To take these lives on this September day
It's not what religion should portray
Nineteen jackers, whats on their minds
To do their deed on their own mankind
No scriptures, books of the olden day
Would let any brother, be slain this way
What battle would be, without seeing your killers eyes
This nineteen, the world despise
Our modern world on camera caught
Jet Airliners flying the next so fraught
North Tower hit by flight 11
Then the South by flight 175
All aboard the planes, would not survive
Many compatriots would also die.
To this day i wonder why?
CNN and TV crew's
Capture, man's cruelty to man
It makes you spew
The cowards that commandeered these planes
Are not religious, plainly insane
To be on the ground and look above
Two Manhattan giants
New Yorkers grew to love
Taken down by evil beings
They can't believe what they are seeing
Two explosions in just under an hour
Office life is about to shower
Paper and life fall to the ground
Silenced grief makes no sound
To New York City, that never sleeps
In a state of mourning that will presently weep
We hear on the news, Washington's been hit
The Pentagon, yea that's it
One of the four, also has it's say
On this dark September day
In Pennsylvania
The fourth still in flight
Passengers on board
Try with all their might
Overcome the scum
Who hi-jacked their plane
The next hour would never be the same
Somerset County is where she fell
These brave civilians,
As calls will tell
To try and claim the plane that's theirs
So suppress those infidel curs>
Strolling by the River Avon, I found somebody,
Strolling to nowhere, I found a person.
I looked at the river, I followed the water.
I saw somebody walking to Bath.
He was my old friend the tailor. Very well known he was.
Near to clothes he spent his life, far from all the beloved ones.
Working for his family to have the best.
Among cloths to get some pounds.
Scisors to cut fabrik, money to grow up a family.
By the River Avon I used to walk, to spread my thoughts.
Thinking of my family I was,
but I needed a beer time to time.
Meeting with friends was such a nice time.
Friends rolled by the river, he never could keep them for long.
He took a journey to Spain,
and he started a new life.
A life far from the River Avon,
a new step to be made.
He is far since then, he's lost
in the dreams of the past.
Looking for the old friends,
Searching for the old River Avon.
Looking for the old friends,
looking for the family that one day used to be a dream,
the unfaithful family he used to work from between cloth to scisors to give them the best.
Now, as a forgotten taylor he dreams with scisors.
As a forgotten father he still looks for his daughter.
As a forgotten friend, he thinks about the friends that have dissapeared.
As a forgotten ex-husband, he regrets to be a husband.
After the years, he thinks about the River Avon, the green meadows, Bristol, Bath, England, anyway, his entire world.
All his world is what I've met: the taylor, the struggling person, the singer, the man I found when I was strolling by the River Avon, my best friend.
Sometimes we think we are in Somerset, time to time we dream about the things we've lost. We can't make a step back, but we will make one in front.
My River Avon, you will always be my rolling back.
Since I was strolling by the River Avon, I found my whole life.