Long Wales Poems
Long Wales Poems. Below are the most popular long Wales by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wales poems by poem length and keyword.
Lemme titillate thee
regarding myself daily soldiering thru breastworks
read out loud to experience where dangerfield lurks
twenty five years a husband unknown marital perks
bachelorhood to die for, cuz warp and weft
courtesy webbed and wedded bliss
incorporates life threatening quirks.
Hazardous beyond belief
analogous crossing a landmine good grief
ensnared yours truly mistaken for Baghdad thief.
Impossible mission to step up pace
when ambling one room to another
footfalls of generic guy approximating brisk,
cuz one misstep could find me flat on back
with damaged spinal disc
worse fate than experiencing
strong arms of law reach out his hands that frisk
old meister wordsmith
merely ventures innocent risk,
yet may as well surrender self to Taliban,
who would willingly whisk
Garden variety Caucasian American bloke
afraid to tread amidst belongings strewn
pell mell outranking rating tornado 5 courtesy
enhanced Fujita Scale
whereat Good Housekeeping ostracized spouse.
As precautionary safeguard, I carry amulet
to ward off ill luck toward life and limb you bet,
especially when gingerly
taking one step after another with lights turned off
owing steadfastness to prayerful debt
intoned toward guardian angel to get
self groping in dark without bifocals
envisioning severely myopic
(blind as a bat generic guy
without spectacles) met
bedded objective where
menagerie of stuffed animals
(albeit Woodstock favorite pseudo pet),
which aforementioned Peanuts character
called warm fuzzy as sobriquet.
The missus bursts out laughing,
whom I damnably scoff at and berate
as I trip head over heels
cursing said spouse ever since first date
at Tex-Mex restaurant
in North Wales, Pennsylvania,
a gut level intuitive sense -
even then our sealed fate
cursed analogously crashing thru Hades gate
antagonistic altercations in actuality
displaced suppressed anger toward parents,
which father and mother (both deceased)
their sole son of did hate
for afflicting psychological trauma
regarding them furiously irate
doling out ultimatums
interestingly enough comfort found
within company of loving mate,
she weaseled compassion
evidenced by poetic prattle I prate,
whereat ye can (of course) highly rate
feedback I eagerly await.
The hills and valley's are stirring the mist hangs low
On the ground.
The mighty dragon rises to his feet and takes in the
Fresh Welsh air.
He let's out a mighty roar not a roar of menace but
A roar of defiance a calling to the people of Wales.
Come my children my people gather in your
Thousands in the country of passion and pride.
Where ghost of Welsh heroes played the mighty
Game.
Let our voices rise in song let our hearts beat
As one.
Because men women and children of wales
You are the dragon of who i speak.
And your nation calls to you Come support your
Country proud to be WELSH.
There came an invitation to a banquet:
"The Lady of the Manor bids thee cheer.
We’ve meat and drink sufficient for the twelvemonth
And summon thee for Pentecost this year.
We honor thee a seat on the pavilion
And ask thee as a noble honored guest,
In keeping with the manner of tradition.
Regale us with the marvels of thy quest."
I made resolve departure on the morrow
And ventured to the sands that marched nigh Wales,
Acquainted with the last of my provisions
Not long before the height of my travails.
A page announced the word of my reception.
The steward made me place upon the board.
I sensed a vague discomfort at the seating,
But bade the issue seek its own accord.
They served me wine of nary any vintage.
A coarse cut crust of bread lay in a bowl.
The kitchen maid then ushered in a trencher
Of four and twenty minnow over sole.
The fish was cold; the sauce was thin as water.
My questions rang as though the maid were deaf;
Pray tell me why my supper reeks of stables,
And please return this offal to the chef.
I found the feast a gospel of demerit
And wondered what betide the warder’s art,
With bill of fare unjustly less than tasteful;
A feeble blend of spices lacking heart.
And so resides the moral of this story,
The nut inside the shell within the husk:
Nobility’s no guarantee of flavor,
And prompt, attentive service is a must.
Who are the British, do they exist,
these nationals of her Britannic majesty
too often shortened to ‘ Brit’.
Four score years, and more
I’ ve walked this shore but ‘Brit’
I see not, from where I, sit.
A kingdom united, yes that
rings a bell, but, am I
a ‘Brit’; No, No, so let me tell
of Four Kingdoms, as one, England
Scotland, Ireland and Wales. This
quartet, the crux of my tale.
Many things each maybe, ..but never
a ‘Brit’. We are Scot, Irish, Welsh
or English..now do you see ?
Each nation, unique and distinct,
language reinforces my point, as in
English, not British, this poem I ink
Beaches are where breaches adorn like brooches
Waves curl up to breach the surface of sea,
Then break, plunging headstrong to broach on shore.
Wales and dolphins breach off the beach with spit and spurt.
Crabs and worms breach the sand with holes and borrows
Waves and ripples crease the wet sand with furrows
The surge of tide erodes and reworks the inlet channels
A beach is a shore breached and broached in dynamic equilibrium and flux
Eroded, exposed then sand deposited, accrued and hoarded
With sediment piled up in reserve in dunes, hills, swales and shoals
Birds breach the sky and pierce the scenery
Footprints broach the serenity of beach expanse
Beaches - breached and broached are designed to cope.
Let me recount of the mirrored alcoves galleries of brands
Whiskeys deep gold many types of bottles into optic feeds
Highly polished bar timbertops rich shining deep.' Varied
Paper coasters to keep it pristene, bowls of cheese squares crackers at the side, the sent of a recent cleaning
Greetings warm when you stepped inside.' The old
Hearth with a brass rod demarking its boundry the crackle
Of the logs flaming, chasing smoke up the Old chimney'
The walled rear convinnial gardens, evolved over centuries
You could find in the country of England countless examples such as these.' Icons of much effort, yet so long
Now under attack by the heartless neuvo influencers with ideas not worth a jot! Much over regulation.' The desire for
More tat.? The absorbtion of online pastimes' yet it seems
There are few winners.? The almost holy 'human touch' i
See it was part of what was better.' The shared pot of morning tea, the opening of letters, taking time with the
Milkman leather satchel slung, white overcoat sentinel of
Three decades yore.' Its gone the same with churches the
Pews all ripped away organs sold for brass, and gold reliefs
Maybe painted gray? Some mafe into coffe shops.' Some
Just knocked to the floor.' Now stand there stark drear
Terraces more like gaols.' Than should be seen; on any countrys shores." Its all send a link.' And no one blinks as
The old and youth are sidelined.' Its d e i its falseness first
Yet i hear rationalitys cries.' I'm looking at the holes in socks i've only bought last week.' While on the t v politicans
Promise to fix it up by a labour influx, because they are bent.' On getting things cheap..
NOT ONE BUT FOUR
Who are the British, do they exist,
these nationals of her Britannic majesty
so often shortened to ‘ Brit’.
Eighty years, and more
I’ ve walked this shore but ‘Brit’
I see not, here, where I, sit.
A kingdom united, yes that
rings a bell, but, am I
a ‘Brit’; No, No, do let me tell
of Four Kingdoms, as one, England
Scotland, Ireland and Wales. This
quartet, the crux of my tale.
Many things each maybe, ..but never
a ‘Brit’. We are Scot, Irish, Welsh
or English..now do you see ?
Each nation, unique and distinct,
language reinforces my point, as in
English, not British, this poem I ink
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2012
Kyron comes from Wales as he was born in Newport,
And like his older cousin was born with achondroplasia,
He followed Gareth into the Paralympics with purport,
Because he’s a field athlete and also a loud powerlifter.
At the age of 12 in 2004 he became junior champion,
At powerlifting and represented Wales in Glasgow,
Then he took up field, the shot put and the javelin,
At the CP Grand Prix, in Nottingham city to throw.
He also competed into the Czech and Berlin Opens,
Where in Berlin he came fourth in discus and shot,
But he came first at javelin with a PB of 29.53m, mens,
And in 2011 took gold at the javelin in the Worlds hot.
At the senior Worlds also in 2011 he did happily record,
A throw of 32.64m, a bronze, and then got two PBs,
In Cardiff, at the Welsh Championships, he did board,
11.19m at the shot put and 37.39 at javelin to please.
In 2013 Kyron went to Lyon in France for the Worlds,
Where he took bronze in the class F41 shot, a long put,
And now in 2016 he’s in the Rio team with strong words,
On the field in the shot and javelin, some gems to shoot.
Scotland sees England as their biggest rival
the nation to beat down and torture.
but down here in England we see the Scots
as our neighbours just north of the border.
we view our rivals as Argies or Germans
and the French just south of the water,
we don't see the Scots with the hate that they've got
and we don't share a desire for slaughter.
they are our rival that we barely notice
yet we are theirs and important,
we must be the greatest for them to hate us
and though they erupt we sit dormant.
they join with the Irish and all those from Wales
enjoying the days England fails,
I don't know this hatred that they've generated
all I know is that Scotland smells!
If you ever visit South Wales do go and see
The location of what was an awful tragedy
Famous for the wrong reasons the town of Aberfan
Suffered an unspeakable horror that was caused by man.
On the twenty first of October at nine fifteen
Was the worst mining disaster that Wales had ever seen
A spoil tip that had been piled high just above the town
Was loosened by rainwater and came crashing down.
Pantglas junior school was just below in its path
Children ready for lessons at their desks' they were sat
The tip hit the school a hundred and forty four died
When the news was released the whole nation cried.
Volunteers came and they dug down quite deep
The teachers and children were already 'asleep'
A farmhouse and cottages with people inside
They too lost their lives in the thundering mudslide.
In the horrific events twenty five did survive
Were found by the rescuers shocked but alive
Painful memories they have of what happened that day
It's a terrible burden they carry that won't go away.
A memorial garden marks the spot where they died
And on a hillside they're buried side by side
Their little white markers are harrowing to see
A stark reminder of that awful tragedy.
(Dedicated to all those who lost their lives at
Aberfan on that fateful morning of 21st October 1966)
Written on 21st November 2017.