"fjord" poems
You've read my rant from yesterday
About those Christmas Letters
But one thing just disturbs me
Those Ugly Christmas Sweaters!!!
You know the ones we love to hate
They're all so scratchy and they itch
You can barely get the **** thing on
And to remove it...it's a *****
Pictures of things Christmassy
Like a reindeer all in red
Mine looks like an emaciated cow
with a candelabra on his head
Snowflakes, trees and Norway Spruce
and colours....oh my lord
They can take them back to Norway
and throw them in the fjord!!!
My nan made one for me one year
It was silver with some blue
Turns out she used old brillo pads
Because she liked the soapy hue
They itch and scratch and don't fit right
They are a cancer to my eyes
I had one in green and red
With one sleeve down past my thighs
I thought it was a jumpsuit
The kind the paratroopers wear
The pattern pages stuck together
And that sleeve....went down to there!!!
We all have one hidden away
In a box, 'neath lock and key
In a place so nicely hidden
One we've had since we were three
We never plan to wear one more
We all know that we once did
but, if we had to wear one out
We're gonna buy one for our kids!!!
If you need to get assistance
go to uglysweaters dot o- r- g
They can help you with your wardrobe
Tell them you heard of them from me.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
Liverpool on the Irish sea
Tuebrook, Toxteth and Wavertree
Home of the beatles and full Mersey beats
and yummy scouse is no mean feats
Baby beetroot served on top
and when it rains its no mean flop
you can visit museums or travel abroad
from railway or airport to the norwegian fjord
City of culture for two thousand and eight
why not have the day here or more with your mate
book on national express or take a fast train
and sing sounds of liverpool with a merry refrain
it's the home of 3 graces who welcome you home
and all will be proved with google chrome
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 7:42 PM UTC
Viking chiefs Valhalla bound,
at death, were not interred I've found.
On a fire ship they 'd place their chief
and cremate him per their belief.
Was it an obsequious grief
that gave rise to this strange belief?
For seafaring folk it scarce seems mete
to lose a captain, then burn the fleet.
With Dragon heads fixed fore and aft
Those ships brought terror, sword and shaft.
Irish Monks would think its fine
to burn one to the water line.
The ship of death was burning bright
as it sank within the fjord that night
carrying the Viking chiefs cremains
to his Viking gods' domains.
Was it conspicuous consumption
that drove the Vikings to this junction?
Perhaps after a life , ****** and gory,
they craved going out in a blaze of glory.
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 8:17 AM UTC
#
At the fjord
a body floats on a board
how it got there
no one knows
At seaside
you pushed against the tide
I didn't send you off
but you came back
I begged for you
at least stay true
keep away
your harmful attitude
There you are
washed ashore from afar
How did you get here
and why did you come?
It took me so many beaches
and seas just to reach this
a part of my own
somewhere to calm
You will never know
with what I fought and how
I can't make you more
than a in-the-back-of-my-head thought
I kneel down next to you
I don't know if you sacrificed and what you've been through
I'm feeling reluctant to cut you off
but it's too late for other choices
I smile, I'm sorry
I won't forget, don't worry
I take a rock
and end it then and there
#
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 9:56 AM UTC
it is done differently - more is not necessary - more of this -
is too much;
the kissing is an exploration - to a polar destination of
virtual whiteness -
to discover more than this. the kissing is not an end in and of itself - but a fjord unexplored leading to what? yes there are many different kinds of kisses - adaptations to a changing terrain - but the face, the face, the face (not just the lips),
the head entire -
is the first battle in a world war where the
opponents strengths and weakness are
literally uncovered and shape the nature of the war of the worlds
yet to come.
more than kissing, it is a speech and an interrogation;
an ********** revelation
of fine lines and small scars, a writing of a history, a history that existed unbeknownst to the explorer and thus interesting and dangerous - a history composed in a different time and place and almost in a vacuum - for kissing is impactful - outlines of footsteps on never before trodden lanes - but who prepared these paths in advance of my arrival, and was my arrival forecast or just imagined?
first time kissing oft portrayed as excited glee - but this is a grievous error - a wild display of wasted resources - it is not to meant to be pesky single shots of damp I was here where next? it is a drawing, nay, a sculpting of map to be reproduced in limited quantity for only the map rooms of the greatest museums.
each individual kiss is more than an act, but a marker
connecting the previous
to the future next -
exactly a map drawn by an explorer - meant to be shared with others who love history, discovery and women creatures.
be wary of unmarked crevasses and pools where
no one has measured the depth -
novice sailors without proper charts upon unfamiliar faces -
too oft drown or are somehow sail as lost forever.
but the notion of being the first, even if you are not the first,
is so intoxicating
for the brainstorming it provokes - the envisioning of
more than kissing but of unlocking
a new nature, creating a creation born in the intersection of two waters - where fresh waters joint the brine of the ocean -
and there are untold different kinds of waters and no two terrains though similar - are ever exactly the same.
here does my entry in my log - my journal - end - though the notation of than
is comparative and therefore unending.
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 9:46 AM UTC
I struggle
To be back in this place again
Warily treading a gorgeously uncomfortable river
Of crashing beauty
And the shivering memories of devastating pain.
I press my hands to the cold car window
And I let this landscape of thoughts roll through me
Dense and flat
Like the low-lying valley fog flirting with the evergreens.
The beauty rinses me clean for a few hours
Absolves my blue beating heart
Of a loneliness that falls and puddles within me
Like soft rain.
The cold smell of snowy pine is sharp
Like the crack of a whip in the white metal air.
A distended azure sky swells to fill the heavens
Smelling sweetly of snow and wind.
Wind hums gently through dense, endless miles
Of storybook forests
And my heart shudders inside me
As though it has never been touched before.
It is then that I let myself wander to you
And I feel your last kiss
Burning softly on the lips of the woman
Reflected vaguely back at me in the window.
She waits for you, as I do
Both of us dwelling in two cities so different
That a wide and courageous fjord
Holds them forever apart.
I wait for you
Life's brave soldier
Eyes that still my soul
Arms of kind and gentle steel
Heart of gold and purple and blue
Kiss of waterfall and wildfire.
Come home to me.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
I don’t want to write this manuscript
I want to be a deep
Sea coral at the bottom of
A Norwegian fjord.
The great expanse of ice spirals
A rhythm to my swaying
Protected by the pressure
Of a bear hug water column.
Nobody will find me there except
Zooxanthellae who poured
Out from inlets around Greenland
Just to seek my warmth and
Feel the walls of my branchlets
Which they navigate like dirt
Roads in the Midwest, like oranges
And taste buds.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
The small stone fell from a ledge
in a study somewhere
and dropped into a travel bag.
Later the bag was picked up and carried away.
Much later still it was put in a car
being placed on the back seat. The car was
then driven to a port where it was taken off
the seat of the car and carried on-board
a cruise ship. The cruise ship was about
to sail up the Norwegian Fjords. It sailed
there quite frequently, though not
exclusively as it also sailed
around the Mediterranean Sea.
The bag was taken to and placed in
one of the luxurious staterooms.The
owner of the bag and her husband
were celebrating an important event
by enjoying a journey that they had
always promised themselves. The bag
eventually ended up on the deck as the
husband had fetched it for his wife
for an object that it contained. In
getting that thing out, the small
stone got caught up in it somehow
and was pulled out of the bag and
fell onto the deck of the ship,
whereupon it started to roll about.
Ultimately the stone found its way
to the stairs down to the lower deck
where it found a gap to lodge in. The
cruise ship sailed into the fjords
during a sudden heavy storm causing
much turbulence not only on the ship
but in a number of the passengers
stomachs, one of whom, a drinking man
I chance, could not contain himself,
and he was violently sick. The storm
abated however, and all was well.
A crewman took on the task of
cleaning up after the apparently
bibulous gentleman and washed down
the deck, and in doing so, washed
the small stone through a gap,
specially there for the deck washing
purpose, and into the fjord whereupon
it sank to the very deep bottom.
Such are the mysteries of life, but
in that one pebble's journey you can
gauge the unpredictable future of
every man, woman and child and creature
on Earth.
Isn't life utterly bewildering?
It is unlikely that the ever-moving tides
in the fjord will not have moved it elsewhere
many times since it fell in off the ship,
out of the bag, out of the car, into the car,
into the bag, and off the shelf
in the first place.
How it arrived on the shelf is
a story for another day.
Utterly bewildering!
©Joe Wilson - The pebble of life...2014
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
She has decided to grow her hair.
Not for frugal reasons, mind you,
rather, to see the extent of the future.
Or, how tangled it might become at length.
Why do women grow their hair?,
she postures to the mirror.
*It's like deciding to go to market,
when there's already sufficient in the pantry.*
Pouring water through the tresses
to cool like an Icelandic fjord,
trickling bubbles down to a spurious sea.
The squeakings bring enjoyment,
a sense of karmic victory.
Knot it and make mysterious!
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
Bronzed blade, raised in ire, abreast,
Foresquare to thy foe, attest,
Norseman with thy flowing hair
Howling, teeth bare challenge, there!
Somnolence now thy time of quiet
Quiescence to the moments write
Captured, soft, her sweetest smile
In rendering thy pain, worthwhile?
Wherever whence, thee came to know
Beyond high fjord, through iceberg flow,
From battle ground of dire plight
To reminiscence in the night?
Know thy words be justly spent,
Thy coiled emotions caste and vent....
Now worn as Talisman by we
Who greive this passing hour of thee.
[email protected]
Jul 14, 2025
Jul 14, 2025 at 12:48 AM UTC
By the shores of the Dry-sea.
Beyond salt-crusted sands,
In deep, deep, caves,
You will find dragons.
Long ago, in ages past,
Men and women were selected,
An honour to ride these great beasts.
Winged creatures of giant stature,
Sharp of tooth and talon.
Then foolishly, the dragon-riders fought.
The battles, ****** and deadly,
Swooped across scorched skies.
Then the dragons took their leave,
And burrowed deep into the earth,
Where they slept away the centuries.
Occasionally one would surface,
In a lake, a fjord or a loch,
Emerging by secret ways,
To see if mankind still made war.
Until at last, mankind has long gone.
The Earth is dry: blisteringly hot.
Perfect for dragons to bask,
Upon the salt-crusted sands,
By the shores of the Dry-sea.
© Paul Chafer 2014
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
A Husk of Thule brew..
A Fjord born tang of Fenrir cold
To yawn the must of comet tails
In rings, around the naked oak.
That broke the spineless whims
Of reed, that set the Heron folk to flight
From scrivened rims of frosted pools.
To run in footless constellations
About the broads of bitter miles
And, there to spill the coffered frays
of Autumn’s final standing.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 12:20 PM UTC
Outside I have no influence
People are born where they shouldn't be
Objects of consumption end up in gutters
Chemicals that will slowly erode me
Are put in the drinking water
A handshake seals the fate of some low lying town
Which is to be flooded for hydroelectricity
The chaos creates a fjord with a great variety of fish
Until catfish take over and an algae that wasn't meant to leave a laboratory in Italy takes over and makes the water toxic
People wrestle with notions that no one else will understand and that none of the many world dialects can express
Dogs **** where they shouldn't
And it is only a dim reprieve in a cavernous darkness that I know the order of my shampoo bottles
Or that a weeks worth of muesli lies in one of my cupboards
Or that my scarf hangs on that chair by the door
And yet the landlord
Is a vulture
That is trying to take
This last scrap of rotting meat
Away from me
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 5:25 PM UTC
A fjord is a mountain,
a fountain,
of splendid beauty,
that bubbles up ,
with laughter,
from the wind
moving trees, shrubs
land laps at the waters
edge which is
so generous with
LIFE
teeming, with sea
LIFE
in water, that is
pure and clear,
and deep,
drag me there,
to witness
where
the water is so
cold and light
is so slight, sea
creatures move,
like,
still LIFE.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 11:11 PM UTC
The sky,
A blood-like sunset
The fjord,
An endless, black chasm
Fire licked the place
All hell on Earth.
They left him behind,
Alone.
On the edge of madness,
The fear consumed him
Creating distorted images of reality.
Trapped in this swirling world of violent colours
A scream out of nowhere,
Voices, voices clawed at his mind
Desperate to be freed from this cacophony.
The light faded,
Hope went with it,
Until he submitted
To his delusional world.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC
Looming over deep dug dale
with wending fjord below,
the Pulpit Rock stands over all
in Norway's chilling snow.
A sunny day it was that time
when I fared with my kin.
Up the Pulpit Rock we marched,
met with glory's din.
Imagine now, a cloudless sky
with sapphire blue abounding;
folk from far and wide had come;
the beauty was astounding.
That ancient Northern land in front,
home to the god of thunder.
Though sweat dripped from our weary brow,
we stood and basked in wonder.
So if you've never hiked that way,
you're in for quite a shock.
You'll find a world beyond your own
upon the Pulpit Rock.
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 8:10 AM UTC
placed a heart inside a box,
box, sealed with a zillion locks.
then she went down on one knee,
with eyes closed she couldn’t see.
on her shoulder laid a sword,
she recalled the ghost of fjord,
for her journey to begin,
need she open din within.
placed a feather on that knee,
dropped her bones into a scree,
cold air breeze stayed far behind,
as her soul with stars aligned.
her heart remained inside a box,
someone took of all the locks,
on a sword he dropped a tear,
filled his hunger with a fear.
no one else but ghost of fjords, welcomed her amongst the wards.
feather fell on blood sprayed scree,
begins the journey with the sea.
Jan 7, 2020
Jan 7, 2020 at 7:13 PM UTC
Intoxicated by the sweet juices of your lips,
I slurp your affections
having them flow into the fjord of my mouth
As your tongue seeks refuge.
I wallow slowly into your seductions
blushed with moonlit lavender and ****** secrets
yearning for an escape through your ecstasies
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 12:51 AM UTC
After “lo fatal”
When I read you first I was living in Bergen.
Pretending at translation
and going up scree, clutching at conifers
in a painted flaxen sun.
I'd imagined you’d given up on being Modernista
to settle for a quaint shack—
for the hardness of the carved fjord.
Now if you were to arrive in the wild
where I have kept this place
strangely similar by the pine, blue herons,
Mount Ozzard over the dandelions,
how would you come walking down the road?
Would deer pause to smell your tracks
or the cedar cutter look up as he heard you pass,
or these coal-black snags
which guard the lot’s entrance
and haven't swayed in so long
groan?
Dichoso el árbol, que es apenas sensitivo.
Happy is the tree, you said. Scarcely sentient.
Ruben Dario: what is the tree
which rushes through this poem?
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 11:33 PM UTC
The fjord shattered light
hues of autumn plaid
in their wanderings
to those darker corners.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 3:34 PM UTC
A warrior can be an artist,
but can an artist go to war
Can the craftsman ever breathe the fire,
that tempered the blade he forged
The warrior-poet, not the poet-warrior,
the difference in the score
All fury then his words inspire,
—to bridge the liars fjord
(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2016)
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 9:33 AM UTC
a Norwegian
fjord did
cut their
axel's hairpin
in the
row of
tundra that
Lapland was
their arcane
balloon on
Aegean shore
if Barents
Sea burgeoned
dialect herd
yelp in
Mike Pence
with accord.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 10:22 AM UTC
Moonbeams drip from her fingertips
Ice cascades around her hips,
She's ancient fjord,
A dark and cavernous mind,
Little elemental sprite.
Child of the night
Whose blossoms only bloom
Under the blackened out moon.
Sister of delight, you dear,
Your turnstiles let in too many I fear.
Her wings wither away,
This Queen of the Fey,
Goddess of wanting and waiting
With sanity slowly dissipating.
Can't stop disintegrating,
Stolen upstream up by the clouds,
Swept with self-doubt.
A heart left in shambles,
Some broken pieces scattered across the floor,
She uses her king as the bits of glue in between,
And though he doesn't quite understand
Just how much one would give
To replace the position in which he stands.
Beautiful Disaster; what everybody's after.
And no you can't have her, hold her or save her,
She's a wild thing,
You probably haven't the wits to properly embrace her.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
I want eyes that
cut like a fjord; I want sharp
geography, mountain-peak cheekbones,
I want God's calligraphy, two thick eyebrows,
shadowed sky-soot,
I want lunar eyelashes
tuned to the singing of the moon.
I want fingers
that shimmer like the aurora borealis,
I want to be your palace on fire-- I want
to vanish into the storm at your core,
the whirlwind blizzard of
thousands of cold caresses.
I want lips like glaciers--
like campfires, lips that chill doubt,
that burn my resolve,
that etch hymns into my bones;
I want a voice like a gray wolf,
a growl to tremble my blood,
a low song of protection.
I want a room: a vault of ice,
a glass-topped pod beneath a canopy of stars,
a wood-walled retreat embraced by trees,
with your wave-sharp eyes, your
sky-mountain bones, your celestial
fingers, your fire-bright lips, your--
I want things
I never thought
I'd want
from you.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC