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Eve  Jun 2019
Netherland
Eve Jun 2019
Come with me,

Come with me to netherland

Cried the

Boy

His emerald cap

Shifting ever so

Slightly

To the north

To the star.

Home of adventures

Home of pirates and

Mermaids

Fantasies

Nightmares

Lost

Lost

Boys.

Striped fur and

War paint

But made of

Mud

Not

Blood

Never

Blood

For those

Lost

Lost

Boys.

Come be our mother

Come and love us

They cry

Childish tears

Rolling

Rolling

Rolling

Down those flushed

Children’s cheeks

Coming home with

Scrapes

Grazes

Sniffling at the blood

Hissing at the hurt

But no scars

Never scars for these

Lost

Lost

Boys

Silvery lines just

Rolling

Rolling

Rolling

Of them.

You’ll never get away

We’ll make you pay,

How drunk

Are they?

On that righteousness

Glory

That they will play

Wars with

Men

Monsters

Mermaids

Those

Lost

Lost

Boys.

How far,

Do you think,

Do The waters of netherland run?

Rolling

Rolling

Rolling

Into that

Star-flecked

Ocean.

Deep

Enough for

Little boys to

Drown

Methinks

Deap enough to

Forget

Mothers

Sister

Fathers

Methinks

Deap enough that

Tears?

Tears?

They will be nothing

Methinks

Those

Lost

Lost

Have no idea

How

Truly

Truly

Lost they really

Are.

Those

Lost

Lost

Boys,

Follow her

Those blond

Strands of hair

Drifting

Drifting

Drifting

Ever so

Slightly

South

Back

Home.

Methinks

They will come

Those

Lost

Lost

Boys
Eve  May 2019
Netherland
Eve May 2019
Come with me,

Come with me to netherland

Cried the

Boy

His emerald cap

Shifting ever so

Slightly

To the north

To the star.

Home of adventures

Home of pirates and

Mermaids

Fantasies

Nightmares

Lost

Lost

Boys.

Striped fur and

War paint

But made of

Mud

Not

Blood

Never

Blood

For those

Lost

Lost

Boys.

Come be our mother

Come and love us

They cry

Childish tears

Rolling

Rolling

Rolling

Down those flushed

Children’s cheeks

Coming home with

Scrapes

Grazes

Sniffling at the blood

Hissing at the hurt

But no scars

Never scars for these

Lost

Lost

Boys

Silvery lines just

Rolling

Rolling

Rolling

Of them.

You’ll never get away

We’ll make you pay,

How drunk

Are they?

On that righteousness

Glory

That they will play

Wars with

Men

Monsters

Mermaids

Those

Lost

Lost

Boys.

How far,

Do you think,

Do The waters of netherland run?

Rolling

Rolling

Rolling

Into that

Star-flecked

Ocean.

Deep

Enough for

Little boys to

Drown

Methinks

Deap enough to

Forget

Mothers

Sister

Fathers

Methinks

Deap enough that

Tears?

Tears?

They will be nothing

Methinks

Those

Lost

Lost

Have no idea

How

Truly

Truly

Lost they really

Are.

Those

Lost

Lost

Boys,

Follow her

Those blond

Strands of hair

Drifting

Drifting

Drifting

Ever so

Slightly

South

Back

Home.

Methinks

They will come

Those

Lost

Lost

Boys
Thomas Thurman Aug 2010
If anything should happen to The Hague,
if someday they abandon Amsterdam,
philosophers will take these strange and vague
descriptions, and derive each tree and tram
by mathematical necessity:
should nations shake their fists across the seas
with words of war, it follows there must be
a middle ground, a people loving peace.
And is this scrap alone a netherland?
Not so: we spend our nights beneath the sky,
and every country's low for us, who stand
a thousand miles below the lights on high;
if only I could learn to live as such,
and count myself as kindly as the Dutch.
Written, with thanks, for the organisers of GUADEC 2010.
Dre G Oct 2013
speaker of inferior tongues
you may not cross this earthen border
traitor from the Netherland suns
your chaos mask smells of forced order

on this land we do not follow law
on this sacred land i demolish your flaws

your genetic traits bear a history of ****
you have no true rank
and you have no ethnic tribe
your courtship is pathetic
your existence a mistake
i'm gonna have your baby
and then leave it on a cliff to die
i'm howling with laughter
as i curse its blasphemous blue eyes

***** of your mother's ****
as you lie with joy beside me
you'll think of names for your first son
whose birth is utmost blasphemy

on this land we do not interbreed
on this sacred land i destroy your vile seed

your genetic traits bear a history of ****
you have no true rank
and you have no ethnic tribe
your courtship is pathetic
your existence a mistake
i'm gonna have your baby
and then leave it on a cliff to die
i'm howling with laughter
as i curse its blasphemous blue eyes
a side of me you guys haven't seen before. sorry if this offends anyone, i wrote it about a cheating ex.
Dawnstar  Sep 2018
Netherland
Dawnstar Sep 2018
The flat island floods
for want of a ****;
the land turns to mud,
the landsman alike;
  cursing the robin,
  the jay and the shrike.
Paris Raine Oct 2014
Here comes the countdown,
The ring of twelve awaits,
I lay bare in my chamber,
Nothing past this will ever equate.

He never came through the window,
Nor did I catch his shadow,
To take me to his Netherland
And live as innocence incarnate.

The fresh second has passed,
I inhabit the other side,
I stand sheathed among the others,
I stand as Adam, with dignity
By my side.

The ship is leaving from the shore,
Here are my records from life abroad,
The twelfth ticking finger; the other side,
Aboard the Grand Expectation, at high tide.

I remember those days in practising
Youth, to obtain those leisure’s, I
Now pursue. Wishing for time to burn
Away whilst the paper’s smoke, astray.

I have no hand to follow,
Only my own two feet,
Down the path to *‘prepare the face,
For the faces that I will meet.’

My shelter has been broken,
I face this open world,
Life expels, whilst hope
Is tortured and contorted.

Yet, I will find a place to stand,
Among a band of life’s grand
plan, To sit with the others,
Plated in Dionysian armour.

We will set upon the stage
And light Pandora’s candle,
So the last flicker of hope,
Will blind Failure’s scandal

And I will look back,
At the awe of innocence,
Through eyes who have seen a
Thousand smiles, whilst laughing

We are Life’s but inner-child.
*T.S Elliot - The Love Song of J.F Prufrock
while soaring the heavenly heights
     many hours ago
every major metropolis appeared
     about a million miles below

the rarefied atmosphere
     ideal composition beckoned angels,
     who bustled, hustled, and jostled elbow
     (which bedlam, flimflam, and mayhem

     intimated Hells Bells)
wing trying (heavens to Betsy) to flag attention,
     and snag coveted soundcloud Netherland Award
     cap ping bulging port folio,

which hubbub charged crackled, popped,
     snapped amidst light emitting diodes
     with a snazzy aura, charisma
     harp pulling, piping, and chiefly

     paying praise (CI years post haste)
     to William Henry Perkin
     whose credit able karma
     (and unwitting) claim to fame didst glow
     purple, which jumpstarted incandescent halo

couture culture club, via constant comet inflow
of Plasmodia vaguely resembling microscopic red Jello
illuminating swath of dusky
     shutter flying sky sustaining

     self contained feedback instagram loop know
wing lee broadcasting mauveine staccato low
to the groundswell of chemists dyeing, Googling,
     and gratefully huzzahing insinuating

     killing, kindling kissing
     malaria goodbye, an outlook
     (nee a once in a lifetime moe
mint - je nais sais quoi) win out loud

     respectably sedulous honoree, a no
bill sine qua non bit player aniline
     (to conclude this short poem) about his oh
penning accidental discovery kickstarting pro
noun est contribution to the fashion industry.
Navpreet Kaur Oct 2018
I am from a town who never loved me,
Until Captain Hook took me away
From I am a lost gurl from Netherland,
Who hangs out with Peterpan

I am from bending laws abd cutting rules,
From I’m about to risk it all for I ain’t got too much to lose.
I am form revenge is the best medicine,
From to increase the dose and to unleash the monsters.

I am from no trust and broken promises,
From lack of hope and freedom.
I am from lying and keeping secrets from my parents,
From new arguments everyday.
I am from being misunderstood and putting others before myself,
From forging others and moving on in life.
I am from a useless child in their eyes,
From being emotionally separated to them in life.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
.                                              swedes,
**** germans
mispronouncing names,
russians not giving
a ****:
козел... koza (female,
gender plural neutral),
   kozioł...
  (male, gender exclusive
non plural)...
mongols...
     mongols esp.,
"as if" we protected
the peoples of the western
hinterlands...
the low-lands...
ottoman turks...
   świnia - (female) pig...
male pig?
                  k'nur.
ever ear the male pig's reply
"trapped" in a trough
with a harem handy?
            you want
to play the grammar game?
i'll play the grammar game!
my people protected
your people,
for this lot of **** and *******?!
you have to be kidding me...
no, really,
you have to be kidding me,
for, ****'s sake!
point being: you don't like me,
and.. given the current
pakistani **** gang
example: i'm clearly not
able... to like you, either...
     so... we're even...
aren't we, herr anglais?!
           i'm all for it,
your people telling a bunch
of more of your people
how to rewrite grammar...
   no.. no..
this is not a foreign invasion...
it's allocated to:
having the ***** to say
that you were already thinking...
but doing nothing about...
instead pillow mastering
the lease on
a football match...
         ******,
******, ******, beyond
the st. peter's cockerel...
fourth time: a complete,
and utter... ******!
          this! this is the respect
i or we are to receive?!
cheap labourer wages...
right...
     guess what...
you deserve that, which you,
have reaped...
                 no...
this time: it's a variety of:
not really...
           you snippet your
******* netherland tulips...
you collect
your fwench asparagus...
        and your english
apples...
              your belgian
****-up-chocs...
          suddenly i feel "ambitious"...
not that i will gain anything
from it,
it's not like i will meet a
****** beauty and start a family
with her...
    but i will: be left,
death assured...
with the sort of peace that
leaves me without
making a: the west will survive
argument...
            whatever the hell
that implies...
                 i'm buying time
until the eroticism of ******
of a heart-attack...
              levels me to
a waited for plateau...
                  
mind you:
i'm lucky to express these
"fweelings" in this language...
this grand an feral land...
where spring gives off
a scent of winter,
and the scent being:
    auburn, the slow burning of
wood... smokey...
even among these spring bloom
colours... the persistent winter
clarifies the perfumery
of the night...
with... something akin
to smoking oak barrels...
should an eel sleeze itself in,
or a salmon,
or a liter of whiskey...
akin to the english,
i too take pride...
   christianity only came 'ere
in 962AD...
the romans never set foot
on these lands...
        i have a skin's worth
of tattoos...
these are my, tattoos...
  the battle of grunwald
(15 july 1410)
   the battle of vienna
(12 september 1683)...
here you go... my tattoos...
the battle for moscow
(september 1 and 3, 1612)...
hastings...
the battle of hastings...
              i'll speak the language
of the natives...
but please don't think
i'll just, "simply"...
   blank the rest of me
for a ******* chinese take-away
tattoo of ideogram on my bicep!
there are limits to being
reasonable...
once you cross them...
don't expect any paddy power
enforcement to make it
compliant to continue to fake
entertaining the sikh
turban...
         like unto like...
             i hate being made being
patronißed...
because by then...
why wouldn't i contradictorily
side with someone, akin to,
                       herr zeppelin?
you take pride in yours,
i will take pride in mine...
             then we're even...
i just can't become bothersome
with these mickey mouse
quasi-communists
of the current social narrative...
just say it out-loud:
we miss the old soviets,
we miss the old soviets,
we miss the cold war narrative,
we miss the old soviets...
given, what you're producing
right now?
it's not something to be feared...
deplatform: sure...
but do you have the power
to cut the electricity supply
to my house?
  no... i guessed just as much...
internet banking and
shopping,
the internet from the late 1990s
with internet chatrooms...

              you really just miss
the old soviets, don't you?
with capitalism having imploded
upon itself...
   you stand before your own
worst enemy:
                                 yourself!
enveloped in your embrace
sinking safely to the
netherland where
my lipstick meets your face
sticking calmly to your cheek
an imprint made to last, I
could feel it for years after
I grabbed the memory
from the air as it was created
knowing the moment
would fly by with
such speed, but i can still
feel your skin through my shirt
and your fingertips tracing
my chin, cheek, and hairline
I can feel your eyes as they
wander amazed as i sob
tears in your passenger seat
and conclude with a warrant
to kiss you
not knowing if i’ll have
the time again
to show how much love
can pour from my skin
and into yours lighting a fire
that would still be burning
the afternoon after
the coffee and cigarettes
were gone. There’s beauty
in disaster and truth in struggle
and i found both of the better
with you. Smiling and laughing
and asking about my day
and always being tucked in
so tight
like i was precious cargo
Borne aloft into the netherland
the body bearing thee soul  
of Boyce Brandon Harris
birth name given to my late father
buoyed aloft united with spirit
of mine late mother Harriet,
whose passing well nigh eighteen
orbitz of the earth around the sun.

Elysian fields embraced dada's soul
which rocketed into aerospace
(courtesy General Electric satellite)
just a tadpole more than three
guppies and a half years ago
froggy (disguised as grim reaper)
went a courtin for fresh corpse,
nevertheless melancholy
still plucks mine heart strings.

Mine psyche still situated awry
placid countenance of yours truly doth belie
residual sadness easily prompted
can easily trigger me to cry
linkedin when grim reaper gloated
October 7th, 2020
ye did somewhat peacefully die
though methinks immortality
I did briefly espy,

when miracles of modern medicine
tried, but could not
stave off mortality nor fortify
depredations of aging concerning
one wunderkind whose accomplishments
laudatory when a young handsome guy,
whose intelligence scored high
native talent aptitude tests did imply.

The late Boyce Brandon Harris
exhibited prolific talents at young age
aside being scholastically gifted,
acquiring graduate degree
courtesy Columbia University,
freshly minted mechanical engineer
(he admirably ranked within
uppermost percentile academically),
I hashtag thy mine deceased father
(a polymath - jack-of-all-trades),
who possessed (née excelled)
at diverse creative abilities.

Aside from being schooled
as mechanical engineer,
(which courses in mathematics and science
he passed with flying colors)
his mind genetically bequeathed
to craft almost anything under the sun
evidenced first by yours truly,
the second offspring and sole son
who ofttimes felt intimidated
at being in presence
of said Renaissance man.

Handicrafts included
expending blood, sweat, and tears
to craft multitude of projects;
i. building me Flintstone (foot powered)
car with wooden license plate.
ii. making playhouse for all three
of us - his progeny.
iii. amassing wood pile(s),
to stoke wood burning stoves
iv. designing Zayda trail for Teddy and Ruff
(two doggone mixed breed Border Collies
rescued courtesy youngest sister
at her Jacobsburg, Penna work site)
v. constructing sauna in cellar,

vi. etching, detailing (al fresco),
vii. plus trimming living room ceiling,
viii. shingling (while fiddling) on the roof,
ix. tiling the kitchen floor,
x. building a cistern for brethren,
xi. wood paneling many rooms,
xii. building custom made toy chest,
xiii. stringing up lights to increase visibility
driveway lit like Christmas tree after dark,
xiv. partly assembled a kayak,
xv. retooling - enhancing porch
(formerly slate covered),
where Morris dancers performed
at wedding for eldest sister.

Unlike him who did beget me
I experienced cognitive challenges
that beset one painfully shy
and severely introverted male
more to the point
as a lad and mediocre student to boot
promotion to next highest grade
occurred just by the skin of my teeth,
which may help to explain
why I wear dentures,
oh... these choppers worn for about
one eighth of mein kampf livingsocial.

A sense of inadequacy prevailed,
when absolute zero self esteem
strikingly and suddenly manifested
in tandem when parents moved
their young tender family within
Lower Providence School District,
but into a larger house
(initial summer estate constituted
about one hundred acres of woodland -
named Glen Elm
think Winnie the Pooh -
house at Pooh corner -).

Not quite two score plus ten years
spent livingsocial at 324 Level Road
(above mentioned abode alluded),
and twas there majority
mine existential highs and lows,
where nadir of mein kampf transpired,
I emotionally hit rock bottom
upon onset of prepubescence
yet major event triggering
mine major depression
set in motion,
when parents chose February 28th, 1968
to move out of shoddily constructed domicile
located on Lantern Lane.

As shared with Renee Cardone,
(the therapist whose virtual sessions
linkedin courtesy Doxy.me portal -
similar to Zoom),
that aforementioned date
marked a turning point
after which time, I floundered
experiencing irrevocable mental health issues
punctuating my psychological equilibrium
with chronic distress,
though I forgive father and mother,
who unwittingly made decision
how uprooting their offspring
to move without consulting
either yours truly, or older
and younger sibling.

— The End —