"denmark" poems
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Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 11:08 AM UTC
I see Thoreau as a token
You and my airplane ticket.
I never get it why you only declare your love for Thoreau
Instead of something darker, Hunter S Thompson,Marijuana
Or me.
Traveling in Denmark now, I guess you'll eventually head to the Netherlands.
Where your true colors shine through your eye socket.
Oh, so I still admire you
Dreaming of having a walk with you beside Walden
Having Arizona ice tea in the dessert
I beg Thoreau to win me an airplane ticket to
The unknown
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
So what if I ain't present in Denmark?
These cookies are in my mouth...
Delicious Danish Cookies...
They melt inside a mouth...
Maybe better than having ***
But very surely better than fapping!
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 1:39 PM UTC
Shakespeare was always fond of tragedies.
From the star-crossed lovers of Verona,
Romeo and Juliet,
to the revenge-stricken prince of Denmark, Hamlet.
Sometimes I wonder
if he was the author of our fate,
for our love has slowly become a tragedy.
(k.p.)
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 9:33 PM UTC
I share-nowan-do
I share-nowan-do
I share-nowan-do
Fu shew-away u blacks
Icehousey, buddie wiser are..my MAN-he he hein kin..
Dan tell me wat fugshuis -Denmark!
SHRI DENMARK!
VUBAKS go
go Alaska, Africa, be free then...den
My Grandfather stood at Antietam
VUBAKS go
These medals, pins, regalia, -so special.
...not general... like you...
SPE i -CIAL
Der idsey con Tan nint-in shew balon to.
VUBAKS go
Everybody knows, civilization was created by Whiskey!
...whiskey...
Der idsey con Tan nint-in shew balon to.
I share-nowan-do
I share-nowan-do
I share-nowan-do
VEE SHAR NO WAN DO-O....
I voted for Drumpf
*I share-nowan-do
I share-nowan-do
I share-nowan-do*
SHRI TRUMPF -D
yeah...yeah
ISA
de-urdsey
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 12:57 AM UTC
i just lamented a more complex version of this; i just cannot believe we denote the same thing in order to share an understanding of the same by denoting as such, but when acting we feel so differently about it; imagine the noun iran in the mouth of an american, then picture the verbs subsequent... then imagine the noun america in the mouth of an iranian, then picture the verbs subsequent: words hold as much emotion as actions discard, even though the actions are worded, and the words are almost imaginary when concerned with what iraq was when given belshazzar.
i wonder if as many people would **** or die
for the noun apple, as they do for allah -
say the noun apple... apple apple apple long enough...
will you get apple juice? well no, so if you keep on saying
the noun allah allah... will that thing materialise?
the imaginary atheistic sense
of the word allah, is that humanity
turned the noun allah into a verb
of its own chosing due to man's free will,
i.e., say allah casually over coffee,
now say allah in jihad clothing...
the same noun among diverse verbs...
might as well invent a new grammatical
category of nouns and verbs mingling...
nouverbs... what noun invokes what action,
consolidated in what are excesses of adjectives,
given the quality of a life lived -
the man who casually said the noun allah
in a coffee shop in denmark managed to integrate
into danish society and start up a newspaper...
the man in syria who "casually" said the noun allah
in a coffee shop in syria didn't manage the former...
because his orientation of the noun
changed the path of the sequence of nouns / beheaded nuns,
since the cutting of the word verb,
managed to craft non-verbum-ergo-actio.
in defence of avoiding one’s own mortality,
one speaks against one’s own death,
thus one speaks with the enemy of the people
one shares a life with, for a fake chance of the feeling of prolonging.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
I dared to love my brother’s wife
And I am not in love alone.
I took her while he was at war
as I will take his throne.
True, Hamlet smote the sledded ******
And gained Denmark a prize,
But I have a poison that will freeze his blood-
guaranteeing his demise.
Gertrude, love, he left your bed
so many years ago.
Now the King lusts for younger flesh;
Look- he eyes Ophelia so.
Polonius sees and will declare
And place me on the throne
We’ll join our hands and fortunes
Before your son gets home.
My brother’s art is violence
With which he overawes the world.
I do my deeds in silence,
Deadly schemes I thus unfurl.
So, Gertrude, love, give me a kiss.
Provide me with the key.
That I, with poison, enter in
and set both of us free.
I dared to love my brother’s wife
And I am not in love alone.
I took her while he was at war
as I will take his throne
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 6:30 PM UTC
“Two teaspoons of coffee, one teaspoon of sugar, and pour it right before it boils down”, my mother said smelling the coffee she is cooking to perfection. I stand there and wonder what scent Hamlet was smelling when he said “Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark”, I’m guessing it’s the same scent colonizing this house. I look at the ***** ceiling and start sniffing the air. My mother looks at me and says “your nose is nearing the skyline, keep it where your feet are. Men don’t like prideful women”.
I looked around trying to see what smelled so repulsive. My grandmother lit incense, my sister baked a fresh orange cake for celebration, my other sister splashed a few drops of the musk that the Arab man gifted us all over the house, and father held a stack of 500 Riyal banknotes to his nose.
The rich Arab that knocked on our door last week asking if we have an extra womb for sale is visiting again today. My mother prepared a hot bath for me an hour ago; she said I have to smell like freshly uprooted Baladi roses, so I soaked in the bathtub trying to figure out what is this repulsive scent I am smelling.
Right after I finished my bath I told my mother “something stinks”. Her reply was dragging me to the kitchen where she teaches me how to make coffee. I say “mother, nobody drinks coffee here”, she says “You need to learn how to properly make coffee to serve our sheikh some tonight. Remember, eyes on the ground”. I reply reciting the lesson she just taught me “Keep them where my feet are”.
I hear people in the city overlook what lies beneath their feet; a 16 year old city girl will never know what it means to have to walk 30 kilometers with a broken shoe in order to read one book. I guess farming taught me a thing or two about looking down. I remember reading before that African slaves were shipped to America to primarily work in farms, coffee and sugar farms to be exact. I realize now what this stink is. I look at my mother and tell her “I will not marry him. This ring reeks of slavery”. She looks at me in astonishment, and I reply reciting the lesson she just taught me “and pour it right before it boils down”.
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 7:18 PM UTC
*I'm tired
And since I'm not eating
Then my energy
Is non-existing
I'm barely keeping my eyes open
As I type in the words
For this poem.
I'm trying not to make typos,
But it's hard when you only see
A cloudy version of the keyboard
Since your eyelids are slowly closing.
Outside people are enjoying
The sun
Which for once
Are shining over Denmark
But I'm just sitting inside
The University of Copenhagen
Occupying myself
So that there's no time
For crying
I bought myself a new book
One by Niccolò Machiavelli
I plan to read it
In the holiday
And I'm really looking forward to this
Since through the last four years
People have often recommended me
To read it...
So while Green Day's "Panic Song" is playing
On my headphones
I'll finish my poem
And return to my book
'Cause though I'm tempted
Then I can't keep wasting my time
Writing poems
Just to I keep myself occupied.
Maybe I'll take the book
And go read outside
In the sunshine...*
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 9:05 AM UTC
When Napoleon walks into my house, he doesn’t shake my hand
Instead he nods, clears his throat, and says my other name, “Thien.”
“Chu,” I say. He sniffs the air like a K-9 from Denmark,
presses his lips into a line, like one found on a blank page,
like one found on a mirror, and like one found in McDonalds.
He smells the smoke from the Marlboro lights on my black-Tee shirt.
I reach into the pocket of my trousers, searching for cologne:
Tommy; ocean; breeze. It’s lost. I mutter, “son-of-a-bi—”
Chu stares, tries to punish me. I want to laugh, want to shrug.
“Anh-Thien,” says a young voice. I close my eyes. And see my cousin.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 6:04 PM UTC
William Shakespeare: playwright and poet
My absolute favorite of all time
The master of words in plays and sonnets
Unappreciated during his prime
His comedies still make us laugh today
Who could forget The Taming of the Shrew?
Now it's told in a much different way
A movie: The Ten Things I Hate About You
People think of his many tragedies
Othello, Romeo and Juliet
We still feel their sorrow; weak at the knees
We cry for the Prince of Denmark: Hamlet.
"But soft! What light through yonder window break?"
The work of a legend those words do make!
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
They say you fell into the creek.
Well you did, but not by accident.
You fell from the willow,
Like the tears you so often shed of late.
Life was too much
So you breathed the water like it was air,
Gasping between unheard sobs.
Drop by drop by bucketful of current
Moved between the folds of your dress
And pulled you in deeper and deeper.
The wreaths of flowers entangled around
Your wrists, your hair, your neck;
Beautiful nooses,
Symbolic of despair and misdirection.
Your life left you
Like a hey nonny, nonny
As innocence fled from Denmark
To the safety of inexistence.
How she wanted to pull you free,
But didn't.
This was your final escape.
You deserved it.
And now you lie
In a grave dug by comic relief
And filled with regret.
An unmarked grave
For an unmarked soul
Tainted by nothing,
But the wet mark of suicide.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 12:58 AM UTC
Most never heard the killing shot,
From Bismarck, rend the air.
It landed in Hood’s magazine
and vaporized all there.
H.M.S. Hood rose in the air
The bow and stern were parted.
In ninety seconds she went down-
With her complement, she departed.
The Men aboard the Bismarck cheered,
Though their victory proved hollow:
They could not know, within three days,
The Bismarck was to follow.
The Prince of Wales made smoke and turned
to fight another day.
Torpedo planes from the Ark Royal
made Bismarck lose her way.
Three years of war had hardened hearts
But Hood’s loss caused dismay.
The tragedy in Denmark’s strait
Would make agnostics pray.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 8:54 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Beowulf and the Danish Passport Officer
From a recently discovered manuscript
The clapped-out Boeing wheezed to the gate
The ground crew jumped name-tags rattling
And swiftly moored the shining ocean-bird
Behind his plastic shield a Danish official watched
The travelers approach their passports raised
He stood peeking down at the naughty selfie
His girlfriend sent to his bold smart-phone
Shaking his rubber stamp he spoke:
“What is the purpose of your visit?
Business, or pleasure? Hwaet! I’ve stood
At this same gate longer than you know
Keeping our gift shops free from British footer hooligans
No commoner carries such fine matching luggage
Unless his Rolex and his boyish good looks
Are lies You! Tell me your name
And your home address and your email!
The quicker the better I’m off-duty in ten minutes.”
Beowulf answered him Unlocking his smart-phone:
“We are the Geats the mighty, mighty Geats!
Men who follow Malmo FF Malmo FF the great!
And we have come seeking Parken Stadium
Greatest of all stadia Its shining seats polished
By cheering generations of fat-full footer fans
We have come to cheer Malmo FF
While they whup up on Dansk Boldspil Union
Instruct us, watchman Where is the stadium
But first, where is the beer?”
The worthy officer
Answered him boldly:
“A true fan knows
The difference between fighting on the field
And puking in the stands and keeps that knowledge clear
In his beery brain I believe your babbling
Go forward, credit cards and all on into Denmark
Spend your money! Our exchange rate is generous!
And then go home bearing our love while we bear your money.”
(Stamp, stamp, stamp) “Tram stop to the left
Taxis to the right”
(Scholars everywhere will regret that here the burnt and torn manuscript breaks off.)
Oct 4, 2021
Oct 4, 2021 at 9:10 AM UTC
I don’t even know
what to say
it’s not like I’m being heard anymore anyway,
when I say; *I’m going away,
to Denmark*
somehow suddenly, people listen
though once I’m back
they’ve forgotten I was ever gone
I can’t wait to go back & start over
I can’t wait to forget being forgotten
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 5:31 AM UTC
To be or not to be
**** the man who stole the throne from me
A father murdered by a brother's hand
Fooled my mother with a wedding band
Sitting meek with no one to trust
Fell in love with a maiden's lust
Cut my throat and hope to die
Instead of living in a house of lies
Passions flare as emotions rage
They tie me up and throw me in a cage
Off to England I'd hate to go
For here in Denmark we await a show.
Be bold and ****** my actions sing
To avenge my father, defiance I'll bring
Perhaps a play will be the thing
To catch the conscience of the king
To hold my mother in my arms
Her heart I wish to always keep warm
But wretched vile serpent you slay
And sneak into the bed, with white venom you lay
Crazy does my mind still climb
Upon ladders which intertwine
For an answer my soul to seek
This utter madness makes my body weak.
But at least my death be not in vain
When mine uncle sit with sword, blood slain
Poison me at my throne I'll lay dead
Hamlet, The Prince of Denmark, King once again.
Mar 3, 2010
Mar 3, 2010 at 3:50 PM UTC
recently in a women's magazine
I read an article
about the Duchess of Cornwall
being most ungracious
toward Princess Mary of Denmark
*the Duchess can be a very catty *****
especially when Charles
is eyeing something of more appeal
but Camilla seems to have forgotten
her come hither days
when she was conducting
an affair with the Prince of Wales
under his wife's nose
the protocols in royal circles
have become less civil
and it is about time
she on her high horse
was more convivial
where the crown
and matters of state
are paramount
the Queen should avail
her son's missus
of a polite dismount
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 8:37 PM UTC
Confined inside the tundra
Frozen beneath the dirt
Uncovered by a digging team
Unleashed upon the earth
Ancient in Origin
In Nature, a War Begins
Prehistoric Breed
Awakens now to Feast
From the soils of Lapland
It is freed
Citizens of Denmark!
Run and flee!
Terrible Lizard
Frenzied Feed
New Dragonslayers
Make it Bleed
It stands five stories tall
Armored scales, unbreakable
Weaving a path of destruction and hate
Nothing but death in its wake
Scandinavia meets her fate
Progress made a fatal mistake
Acid venom and neon flames
We will never forget the name...
Reptilicus!
Rising...
High North Kaiju
Reptilicus!
Rising...
It will find you...
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 8:53 PM UTC
Mao Zedong’s revolution deposed the ancient, 5000 year old rule of Dynastic China.
In doing so he espoused the continuous violent struggle by contradictory forces within society to produce a perpetual disequilibrium of revolt against intellectualism and Confucian principle and practice.
With the global collapse of Communistic systems, the wily genius of the diminutive, Deng Xiaoping, breathed new life into the faltering rule
With a cunning rebranding of “Socialism with Chinese Characteristics”, he maintained the stability of Chinese Communist kleptocracy until relatively recent times.
But the middle class awakening of Tiananmen Square and the recent Hong Kong massed protest, has brought into focus the demands of an increasingly educated, increasingly affluent, Chinese society’s expectation and demand for increased democratic rights and freedom and a more just system of the Rule of Law.
The day of the old, strong arm, autocratic rule is over.
China is emerging, quite naturally, into a world of increased information freedom, where the seeking of each individual’s betterment and independence promises a brighter future of personal dignity, increased self-esteem and an emerging sense of high anticipation.
President Xi Jinping’s Chinese Communist Party is now presented with the challenge to moderate in order to survive. To endeavour to embrace and meld the old concepts of Confucian harmony to the vaulting expectations of China’s new world beckoning.
M.
Denmark, Western Australia.
5 October 2014
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 3:57 PM UTC
Deep and dark dirt,
worms of mother earth feed on
another young soul, soft,
smelling the lilacs.
They taste thy taste of love,
a fire now buried in sand, once
to light a thousand torches.
They taste thy taste of sorrow,
that vile bog of sadness that rips at
the curtains of sanity.
They taste thy taste of deceit,
of rotten completion in her roots,
a sour taste in the soil of Denmark
worms doth hastily spit out this flower.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 6:12 PM UTC
Osterreich hat den Vontrapps
La Belgiquea leurs chocolats
Bûlgariya e nechuvano
Hrvatska je mjesto gdje žabe kreštanje
Kibris bir agaçtir
České čepování piva je z Czechaslovakia
Denmark er ikke Delaware
Eesti kividega
Suomi on lähellä Norjassa ja Ruotsissa
La France a Paris
Deuschland spreache Deusche
I Elláda échei kókkino - skepastí spítia
Magyarország éhes
Tá Éire ar thalamh de fearg
Italia odia quando si ordinal a pizza
Latvija izklausās tualete
Lietuva yra skystas
Lëtzebuerg *** nieft dee Belsch
Malta ghandha hafna ta ' maltu
Nederland wordt geschreeuwd toen Adam een doelpunt
Polska am Marie Curie
Portugal: Valentina: Hey que ê de on de eu sou !
România suná ca locul romanilor
Slovaškia pravi, "zdravo"
Slovenija je an prostem
Equipo de fútbol de España Es la favorite de Karly
Sverige har Minecraft
United Kingdom is leaving
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 12:43 AM UTC
*She said she liked her coffee cold and dark
like the seas separating her bed and Denmark:*
harsh and bitter and brown in the largest
cup we own, so when drinking it
your nose would drown
into an abyss of cheap-coffee-granule-
buy-one-get-one-free ****
and delivered with it upon the stolen tray,
taken from that shop's Kitchen Must Haves display,
was a plate with two triangles of lightly toasted
toast laid out like the ankles of my late Grandma
(but we weren't together then so, to you,
it just looked like some toast arranged nicely on a plate for us two);
also on the stolen tray from that shop's Kitchen Must Haves display,
was a lovely array of cut of up fruit arranged liked
canapés at every cheap-wedding-buffet:
grapes cut into unfathomable shapes
and slices of kiwi our fingers could never negotiate
and avocado which was there just to cure invisible
weight gain and bad morning breath,
but that's what Google told me so
I can't take it as a guarantee;
and in all of this I was apparently making a fool of myself
because serving you a delicious breakfast
to the sound of Frank Sinatra's Moon River
is not what we discussed, ever- even last night or last week,
in fact, we never talked about this horrendously
unique breakfast.
Happy Anniversary.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 1:38 PM UTC
With the heart worn like an
old man's shoe
With the wind a last friend
of my second hand jacket
all blown and frail
I continue
to denounce the golden streets of disguised power
to trounce on hidden cops
to pounce on everything rotten in Denmark
to reek and to rage
like a rusting zoo cage
an overturned ****
a pensive white button
withering in my brain
a push cart filled with
burning accusations
I remain
street bound weary
I'm that secret little hope
gnawing at the nape
of your neck
Note: Re-written in Sofia, Bulgaria on the 14th of July 2012 after once again (after so many countless times) being followed and harassed even in front of my own house...I guess it's nice to know that some people read poetry very very attentively ;--))
Jul 14, 2012
Jul 14, 2012 at 8:49 AM UTC
There she was, her eyes bright and shining buried in her rosy complexion of which was indecently shown through the discharge of the temperate winds longing like lost military men to taste a woman's sweet words once again. She held in her delicate fingers, thin and unsteady, a chain of sweet nothings that trailed after her scrupulous footstep as if solely existing for the chance to be in her superlative presence. Gladiolus, Poppies, Aster, Delphinium, Orchid, Peony all linked together in a perfect array of scent and color reflecting the consummate image of the girl that led them. The world accompanied her to a cliff looking down on a cold river, the scene smothered with the orange glow of sunset and the sky clear of all but the unwavering flap and call of the birds who claimed it as their own immovable kingdom. She walked to the edge of the land and twisted around, her heels grazing the edge of everything and nothing; life and death; to fall and to walk. Slowly she tipped and her gaze caught mine. I cried out in my head Ophelia, but nothing came to my lips, cold and thin. As she hit the icy drink she smiled, her flowers cast above her about to disappear forever along with all other sweetness worth living for in Denmark.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC
Take a group of chimpanzees
used to swinging through the trees,
and sit them down at keyboards in a row;
lots of paper, lots of ink,
lots and lots of time, I think,
and what the theory says I’m sure you know.
Yes, along with all the junk,
all the gibberish and bunk,
somewhere there’d be the full works of the Bard:
As You Like It, Cymbeline,
Richards 2 and 3, the Dream,
though Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, might be hard.
But I’m sure the little blighters
would get on fine with *Titus
Andronicus*, The Taming of the Shrew,
The Moor of Venice (that’s Othello),
the other Merchant fellow,
and Antony and Cleopatra too.
The Winter’s Tale would hold no terrors,
nor The Comedy of Errors,
and Verona’s Gentlemen would turn out right;
Love’s Labour might be Lost,
or it might be Tempest-tossed,
but All’s Well That Ends Well, even on Twelfth Night.
Lear, King John, and Much Ado,
Henry 4, parts 1 and 2,
Henry 5, and 6 (in three parts), Henry 8,
Troilus, Timon, Measure for Measure,
Pericles (a neglected treasure)
and how Romeo and Juliet met their fate;
all the Sonnets, and the ****
of Lucrece* (typed by an ape!)
and if they worked for ever and a day
they could fit in Julius Caesar,
that Coriolanus geezer,
the Wives of Windsor, and the Scottish play.
I grew more and more excited –
even thought I might be knighted
if I could be the one to make it work.
But to realise my dream
I had to try a pilot scheme,
to prove I wasn’t just a reckless berk.
I bought one chimp from the zoo -
didn't have the cash for two -
and gave him a typewriter, just to try
for a short while. Well, a fortnight
was the time-scale that I thought right.
You see, I’m quite an optimistic guy.
Now everyone who heard
of my project said, “Absurd!”
when I told them of my striking new departure.
“Get a chimpanzee to type
the works of Shakespeare? Oh, what tripe!”
Still … he did produce the works of Jeffrey Archer.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC