Tag Archives: Poems

A Poem from my Work in Progress.

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This story is set in Britain, in what is now Yorkshire at the time of the Danes and tells of the trials and tribulations of Helgha. This is a saga told by a scald (the Danish equivalent of a bard.) It tells of how Erik won Helgha from her father.

“Erik loved the beauteous maiden, Helgha,
The most beautiful maid
Amongst all the Danes.
Her flaxen hair flowed like moonlight on the seas
And her blue eyes glowed like the sky in summer.
But they could not marry.
For Erik was promised to another.
He visited his love often
Until her father challenged him
To a battle.
Sword rang on shield.
Axe split the air with sound like thunder.
Young and strong, was Erik,
Older and wily was Biorn.
Who would win?
Youth and strength or
Guile and Experience?
Biorn struck first with his axe,
But Erik raised his shield.
Biorn’s axe glanced off.
Erik fought bravely
Until Biorn’s shield broke.
Biorn hit Erik with the edge and drew first blood.
Brave Erik did not flinch.
Blood streamed from the gash in his cheek
But he fought on, ignoring pain and blood.
The battle continued for hours.
Erik parried the axe with his shield.
His sword longing for blood.
His eyes burning with the pleasure of the fight.
Then Erik saw Biorn tiring
The man’s steps became slow,
His axe dragged
As if reluctant to hit this brave young warrior.
Erik backed into a barn wall and feigned a slip.
When Biorn came with raised axe
To finish the battle and send Erik to Valhalla,
The young warrior rolled beneath the axe
And as Biorn raised his weapon,
Erik sent his sword upwards.
Into the heart of his foe it went.
Blood flowed over both.
As Biorn crashed down, Erik rolled away.
Helgha screamed.
Her lover and her father both drenched in blood.
Who lived and who died?
Then Erik rose and seized the maiden.
He fled to Stjarna, his horse,
And leaped to her back with Helgha.
They galloped all night
Until at dawn they arrived in Jorvik.
Now Erik has a beautiful bed-slave.
And a scar on his cheek
To remind all of his bravery.”

The book is undergoing the editing process at the moment. I’ll keep you all informed as to how it’s getting on. Nearly through the first rewrite.

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Those Were the Days. A poem by my Mum

Today, for a change, instead of posting my own writing I thought I’d let you see a poem written by my Mum. She died in 1992, but would have been chuffed to see her poem on the net. She had a terrific sense of humour.

This one is one of several she wrote about growing old.

 

Everything is so much further
Then it ever used to be.
The little shop around the corner
Seems twice as far to me.

The buses were always punctual
I could go with the greatest of ease.
But now they seem to be early
And my legs do just as they please.

The stairs are made so much steeper
I’m flat out when I get to the top
Amd the print in the papers is so small
That my eyes are beginning to pop.

I can’t do with the way people mumble.
I only hear half of the tale.
They tell me the news in a whisper,
Or shout till I feel I could wail.

The dresses are made so much tighter
Especially round waist and hips.
And diets are all in the fashion.
No goodies, like good fish and chips.

Even people are different this day and age
They all seem to look so much younger.

Yet people my age seem old and withdrawn
And look to be dying of hunger.

I met with a friend the other day.
She really looked old and withered.
I’m sure I look younger than that, I thought,
And I know I’m not half so bothered.

I looked in the mirror to see for myself.
For I’m really not ready to go on the shelf.
But a grey-haired old woman was looking at me.
Even mirrors are not like they used to be.

 

Spring. A Poem

110daffodils

Dandelions, like gold, cover the meadows.
Newborn lambs frolic in fields.
New leaves on the trees are casting their shadows
And winter’s cold grip quickly yields.

At the edges of woodland the primroses glow
And cowslips their scent fills the air.
Anemones dance when the breezes do blow
And birds sing with never a care.

Then bluebells and campions come into bloom
Their colour the blue of the sea.
The cuckoo, that herald of spring, will come soon
His call echoing over the lea.

The song of the blackbird is like molten gold.
His notes are so pure and so clear.
Hearing him seems to banish the cold
And brings joy to all those who hear.

Robin is nesting, and other birds too,
The hedgehog is active once more.
The young of the deer and the badger and shrew
Play their games as in old days of yore.

The sun climbs higher and higher each day
Giving more of his heat and his light.
It sparkles like stars fallen into the bay.
All smile at the beautiful sight.

Hope and excitement come with each spring morn.
What blessings will come with this day?
New starts can begin once again with each dawn
And send us all hopeful away.

 

I hope you like  this spring poem. Please tell me what you think in the comments.

Blackbird, A Poem

 

 
The Blackbird

Blackbird, searching the lawn for worms,
Your brood for to feed.
You work so hard from dawn ’till dusk
To satisfy their need.

Your glossy feathers shine so black,
Your beak is made of gold.
The brightness of your eye so clear,
Is a wonder to behold.

But over all, what we all love,
Your song so pure and clear.
The notes that tumble from your throat
Bring joy to all who hear.

They rise above, towards the sky,
And angels when they hear
Know that they have met their match
In your notes so pure and clear.

Art thou a bird or spirit free
Whose throat such notes give out?
No living creature surely makes
Such wondrous sounds, I doubt.

So are you sent from heaven above
That we on Earth might know
Something of that wondrous place
Where we’re destined to go?

So, bird, keep singing out your song
At dawn, at noon and dusk
And make us feel that all that’s wrong
Will turn to all that’s just.

 

We Will Remember Them

I posted this poem once before, but have decided to post it again as on Sunday it’s 100 years since the Armistice . I hope you enjoy it.

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WE WILL REMEMBER THEM.

I’ll never truly understand
How World War I began.
The death of Archduke Ferdinand
Started the deaths of many more,
The young, the old, the rich, the poor.
All died with guns in hand.

My Grandad went with Uncle Jim 02grandad
And Our Poor Willie, too.
They sent them off, singing a hymn.
Grandad went to Gallipoli,
Uncle Jim left his love, Polly.
Gas in trenches did kill him.

I cannot see, in my mind’s eye
Grandad with gun in hand.
A peaceful man, sent out to die.
He fought for us, for you and me
So we can live and so that we
Safely in our beds may lie.

015gtunclewilly1Grandad came home, and Willie too,
But millions more did not.
Their duty they all had to do.
They died in fear, in noise, in blood.
Everything was caked in mud.
Yet in those fields the poppies grew.

The War to end all wars, they said,
So terrible were the deaths.
The youth of Europe all lay dead.
Yet 21 short years to come
Another war. Once more a gun
In young men’s hands brought death.

One hundred years have passed since then.
What have we learned? Not much!
Too many men are killing men.
Wars still abound around the world.
Bombs and missiles still are hurled
At those who disagree with them.

In The Haunted House. A poem for Hallowe’en

I wrote this poem for a Hallowe’en poetry contest. Wish me luck.

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The wind it blows cold
Like ice down my back.
I try to be bold,
But courage I lack.
In the haunted house.

It seemed such a lark
When we set off tonight.
But now it’s gone dark
And we shiver with fright
In the haunted house.

Jane said. ‘We’ll have fun
On Hallowe’en night.’
But when solw footsteps come
She screams out in fright
In the haunted house.

‘Let’s take candles, said Pete.
More authentic for light.
And something to eat
If we’re staying all night
In the haunted house.’

Jack thinks it’s a game
Till the candles blow out.
Not one single flame.
He gave a loud shout
In the haunted house.

The temperature sinks.
‘That means ghosts are here,’
Said Pete, who still thinks
There’s nothing to fear
In the haunted house.

The door starts to creak.
It opens so slow.
Our knees feel so weak.
I wish we could go
From the haunted house.

But nothing is there
As we huddle in fear.
Not one of us dare
To get up and peer
In the haunted house.

All night there are groans.
We hear footsteps, we swear,
And the rattle of bones.
Something is there
In the haunted house.

We laugh at our fear
As we make our way home.
In daylight it’s clear
No spirits do roam
In the haunted house.

The noises we heard?
Just the sounds of a house
Cooling down, and a bird.
Not one single ghost
In the haunted house.

 

I hope you enjoyed this poem as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please leave a comment in the comments section. I love to hear from you.

Elven Evening Hymn from The Wolf Pack

During their travels to find Sauvern’s Sword, the group calling themselves The Wolf Pack found themselves in the homeland of the Elves. Here they heard the beautiful sunset hymn the Elves sang each evening.

Here is that hymn, with a translation from the Elvish for those of you who are not proficient in that language.

 

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‘Ah equillin ssishinisi
Qua vinillaquishio quibbrous
Ahoni na shar handollesno
As nas brollenores.

Ah equilin bellamana
Qua ssishinisi llanarones
As wma ronalliores
Shi nos Grillon prones.

Ah equilin dama Grillon
Pro llamella shilonores
As nos rellemorres
Drapo weyishores.
Yam shi Grillon yssilores
Grazlin everr nos pronores
Wama vinsho prolle-emo
Lli sha rallemorres.’
Translation

“Oh star of the evening
Shining brightly
You give us hope
In the deepening night.

Oh beauteous star
Who heralds the evening
You tell us all
That Grillon guards us

Oh Grillon’s star
As you sink westwards
Return again
To guard the dawn.

Ensure that Grillon
Through darkness keep us
Safe from all evil
Until the morn.”’

Please feel free to leave a comment. I love hearing from you.

Blog Tour by Yecheilyah Ysrayl, a poet.

I am Soul Virtual Blog Tour – Day Two

I would like to welcome Yecheilyah to my blog today. She is a poet, and is doing a virtual blog tour. Today is the second day of the tour. You can find out more about her by visiting the other blogs she is appearing on. The dates and addresses are at the end of this post.

BLOG TOUR
Tuesday, August 14, 2018 @ 1:00p EST

portrait

Bio.

Yecheilyah (e-SEE-li-yah, affectionately nicknamed EC) is an Author, Blogger, and Poet and lives in Marietta, GA with her wonderful husband. She has been writing poetry since she was twelve years old and joined the UMOJA Poetry Society in High School where she learned to perfect her craft. In 2010, at 23 years-old, Yecheilyah published her first collection of poetry and in 2014, founded Literary Korner Publishing and The PBS blog where she enjoys helping other authors through her blog interviews and book reviews. The PBS Blog has been named among Reedsy’s Best Book Review blogs of 2017 and 2018 and has helped many authors in their writing journey. I am Soul is her fourth collection of poetry.

I am Soul - High Resolution
THOSE WHO LOVE

It’s their presence alone
that lifts the floor
commanding the clouds to unclench their fist.
Love wraps its garment around
their bodies
like insane prisoners to compassion,
confined and restricted
to the affection that binds them.
Stitched and knitted
like a fresh garment,
like fresh skin
to the beautiful body of genuine,
Call them
the mentally insane
‘cause they’ve got to be crazy
to be binding themselves
like this.

 

 

Fun Facts about Yecheilyah:
She loves to laugh, and her favorite comedy TV show is Blackish
She is originally from Chicago, IL
She’s been married to her husband 8 years, together for 11 years
She believes eggs makes everything better
She is a twin
She is addicted to reading and new notebooks
Her favorite desert is ice cream
I am Soul is now available on Amazon, iTunes, Kobo, Barnes and Noble, and Scribd.

Click Here to choose your retailer.

Greenbriar Mall
The Medu Bookstore
2841 Greenbriar Pkwy SW
Atlanta, GA 30331
Author Website: http://www.yecheilyahysrayl.com/
Blog: https://thepbsblog.com
Amazon Author Central: http://www.amazon.com/Yecheilyah-Ysrayl/e/B00ML6OHFA/
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/literarykornerpublishing
Instagram: http://www.instagram.com/yecheilyah/
Twitter: twitter.com/ahouseofpoetry
YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/channel/UCdquShfqCN6lIX8IDK9MnSg

 

A Roman Legion A Poem

Some time ago I posted a poem based on a challenge. Take the seventh book on your bookshelf, find the seventh page, count down to the seventh line and write a seven line poem. In writing that poem, I forgot that it was suuposed to be seven lines. I wrote several verses. Then, realising my mistake, I wrote another that is acthally seven lines long. I posted the longer one some time ago, but I think I should give the ‘correct’ one an airing.

Let me know what you think. The line was the first line of this poem.

roman century

A Roman Legion also had other skills:
Engineers, builders, tailors too.
They built the roads so straight and true.
They built a wall across the hills,
Built bridges over foaming rills.
They made their clothes and built a fort
And fought the foe without a thought.

It wasn’t an easy challenge. Perhaps you’d like to have a go. I’d be interested to see your results.