Long Yorkshire Poems
Long Yorkshire Poems. Below are the most popular long Yorkshire by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Yorkshire poems by poem length and keyword.
CHARMING SOUTH AFRICAN WINTER
Countries where fluffy, naughty frilly snow continually falls,
Is a fairy-tale where children and adults, skate on sheets of ice.
In South Africa we also see with wondrous awe, when snow calls
And time arrives, these tasteless watery flakes fall soundlessly, so nice
Upon our mountain peaks which do undoubtedly suffice,
For us to travel far, take in these wondrous sights, which do entice!
The Drakensburg, the Western Cape and semi desert Karoo
Are just the places to which, not many of us think to go, in lieu,
For the best Winter holiday one could ever have, is here in the Karoo,
Where a little like the Yorkshire Moors lambs huddle, some just two
Others many in the snow, and if you go to Tarakstad in the Karoo,
Likened to Alaska, you’ll find a picture card, send photos to a few!
Wrapped up warmly one crisp bitterly cold day, only my eyes do peep,
Take a brisk cold walk along a small trodden path, such a sight Oh Lo,
Colored scattered orange aloes pop up here and there, some grow steep
Children playing, building snowmen, having fun, all local folk, no foe,
Rolling country side covered in a sheer white blanket of fluffy snow,
Cold, I return, roaring fire sparks, magic, romance, where else would I ever go!
Not forgetting I still have the game parks to visit up North, stark and dry
Rains in Summer, an abundance of game pass a water hole, as I keep still my eye!
31.12.18 ENTERED FOR SONNET CONTEST WINTER WONDERLAND SPONSORED BY EMILE PINET SADLY ~ SADLY CANNOT ENTER AS WITH THE TIME DIFFERENCE I GOT CONFUSED
Stunning purple full of beauty and grace
I still can’t wipe the smile from my face
Today I purchased an amethyst ring
It is very subtle not full of bling
You saw on my face the joy it will bring
You re-sized it for me so it would fit
I would have paid extra but you wouldn’t hear of it
You gave me a discount and then you did say
Could I clean your sapphire ring for you today?
So now I have two shiny rings one old and one new
But when I wear them I will always think of you
I am sending this poem to the Jeweller in Haworth Yorkshire – he truly made my
day with his kindness
Jan Allison
5th August 2014
In Yorkshire, a bit of bacon-butty
in a greasy cafe -
could have had blood sausage.
My breaches are squeaking,
mice are leaving deposits.
Somehow a few do applaud
my slippery tongue.
Beer in Belfast
gray foaming weather
kept the damp town breezy.
Recite my crap.
Pub talk,
fist fights in the carpark,
I miss a missing train.
Read poems to smug buggers
in Birmingham,
drip out of there
and good riddance.
Back to London
and the mold riddled dump
that keeps me from
an old cranking typewriter.
Mind-ghosts slither
around its keys.
A poets life begins
haphazardly,
conflicted as it is
with the right to be
or not to be.
My name is Zariyia Bradshaw;
I am a princess, a Daughter of the Most High God;
His child a little girl;
Surname: Bradshaw;
Distinguished;
Child of promised Little Daughter of God;
Old English name from century Lancashire-Yorkshire and Derbyshire;
From form of Old English meaning Brad (broad) sceaga thicket;
My name is Zariyia Bradshaw;
Bradshaw call a surname, generations old;
Inherited from one's parents;
Whereby children are given their father's family name;
American names are traditionally patrilineal,
First name Zariyia, meaning she’s lit, a light;
Shines on in the dawn, ever so bright;
Daughter of God;
My name is Zariyia Bradshaw;
I am a daughter of the Most High, y’all;
Zariyia Sunrise, sunshine;
Heralding a fresh start;
Zariyia a rose, Arabic, Hebrew, Nigerian word name meaning also “flower”;
God has helped empower Zariyia in Hebrew a princess daughter;
A blossoming flower vibrant spiritual name chosen for beauty and power;
Beauty and light a scattering wind;
I am a child of Daughter of the King;
My name is Zariyia Bradshaw;
I am beauty-I am light-I am a scattering wind;
I am sunrise/sunshine- a flower
I am dawn ever so bright
I am a glowing light
Distinguished;
I am a princess, a Daughter of the Most High God;
A little girl empowered
Surname Bradshaw;
My name is Zariyia Bradshaw;
I am a daughter of the Most High, y’all;
5/20/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
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.
Sunday roast
A meal I loved
for some time not partaken
When Ma was here
Well ~ oh my dear
Served on the dot at one o’clock
And woe betide if we were late
it would be on the table
upon our plate
and steaming hot
Whether we were there or not
Nowadays it’s just for one
Has somehow lost appeal
To sit alone now on my own
I really don’t enjoy
Those crispy roasted spuds
with golden Yorkshire puds
buttered carrots ~ roasted parsnips
on my plate roast leg of lamb
a generous dollop of minty sauce
with thick meaty gravy piping hot
Three cheers for the cook
Three cheers for the host
I can almost taste it ~ I can almost smell it
Ma always cooked the best Sunday roast
Now my grandson is a vegan
his girlfriend she is too
my granddaughter a veggie
oh what am I to do
I cannot beat them
so I will join them
nut roast now my Sunday roast
but I'm still yearning for the taste
of Ma’s on the dot at one o'clock
her Sunday roasts delectable
each mouthful unforgettable...
Written 4 July 2021
Contest A BRIAN STRAND JULY 4
Sponsor Brian Strand
FIRST PLACE
To stop the myth going around that Santa is a Scotsman, a huge hit on the radio here. So fo those that believe this is the truth.
Santa is a Yorkshire man everybody knows that
You just say he is Scottish, cos he’s round and fat.
Well Yorkshire men can be the same they are not all dud
All year on the beer and whisky
Washed down with Yorkshire pud.
Santa is a Yorkshire man everybody here knows that
You say your Scottish Santa’s Glow warm, red and fat.
Well Yorkshire Santa’s have glowing bits, but they keep them out of sight
Except on Christmas Eve when their pants have got too tight.
Santa is a Yorkshire man so stop making such a fuss
A Santa who know what’s what, so you can call on us
If your chimney is too tight, Yorkshire Santa will let you know
He’ll leave your present’s elsewhere, and you will have to go.
To collect you gifts is your own fault if your chimney is too small
Don’t expect him to get up there, he doesn’t want to fall.
A spade is a spade wherever you go Santa will tell you that
If you want to get your presents early, try Ilkley moor bar tat.
They meet there on Christmas Eve to swop gifts and stories too
That’s why they all have glowing bits, I bet you would have too.
He doesn’t have time to mess about, you people should know that
Santa is a Yorkshire man, there’s no more to say that’s that.
Caedmon's Hymn
by Michael R. Burch
At the monastery of Whitby,
on a day when the sun sank through the sea,
and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free,
while the wind and time blew all around,
I paced those dusk-enamored grounds
and thought I heard the steps resound
of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede
who walked there, too, their spirits freed
—perhaps by God, perhaps by need—
to write, and with each line, remember
the glorious light of Caedmon's ember,
scorched tongues of flame words still engender.
Here, as darkness falls, at last we meet.
I lay this pale garland of words at his feet.
Originally published by The Lyric. "Cædmon's Hymn," composed at the Monastery of Whitby (a North Yorkshire fishing village), is one of the oldest known poems written in the English language, dating back to around 680 A.D. According to legend, Cædmon, an illiterate Anglo-Saxon cowherd, received the gift of poetic composition from an angel; he subsequently founded a school of Christian poets. Unfortunately, only nine lines of Cædmon's verse survive, in the writings of the Venerable Bede. Whitby, tiny as it is, reappears later in the history of English literature, having been visited, in diametric contrast, by Lewis Carroll and Bram Stoker's ghoulish yet evocative Dracula. Keywords/Tags: Caedmon, hymn, angel, inspired, inspiration, inspirational, first English poem, Old English, oldest English poem, Anglo-Saxon, Bede, cowherd, Christian, monk, spiritual, god, sonnet
In parts of Derbyshire and Yorkshire
there are still pit-valleys,
where industry and nature collide,
marry, and have their natural born children.
The earth once gouged, raped and laid desolate,
is landscaped by those who once despoiled.
Time plays its part, plants its seeds,
it up-roots high piled slagheaps,
softens broken mountains of concrete.
I have walked these valleys,
in some I had to stumble over the fractured bones
of abandoned and rusting machinery;
the fire scorched detritus of coal mines.
I have also strolled through resurrected Eden's,
vales recreated out of the unspeakable
into the bright eloquence of beauty.
The hands of men
and the wings of gardening angels
have covered-up all self-made wounds,
have put to bed the deeply trammeled.
The Lord of daisies and daffodils
strolls unmolested once more,
through the worst and the best
that good intentions can do.
Mr David Oglesby, my esteemed friend,
Almost brought these rambling to an end
Kirby Grindalythe was his suggestion
Causing a temporary mental congestion.
Its only real claim to fame,
The Norse origin of the name,
Which the years have changed, so,
For a bated breath waiting nation
Kirby Grindalythe roughly means
In it’s modern day translation,
Village with church on the slope
Of the Valley with the Cranes.
Ancient settlement founded by
Those once marauding Danes,
At Sledmere Hall, Sir Tatton Sykes
In his sustained cultural drive
Finished restoring the old church,
Eighteen hundred and seventy five
The latest available Census
Of two thousand and eleven
Records a population of just
Two Hundred and ninety seven.
Of commercial services
There were no traces
No shops, no pubs but just
Ninety two dwelling places
It’s only just an eight mile hop
Into Malton for a weekly shop.
The Great Wold Valley is
Where this hamlet is hiding
Within the county boundaries of
The historic Old East Riding
A winterbourne stream, The Gypsey Race
Still gently flows through the place.
So, Ive tried to do my bounden duty,
To record this place of rural beauty.
Though I may have failed Mr Osgerby’s test
I’ve so tried, Dear Reader, to do my very best.
.