"grendel" poems
With those acid wash jeans
With that full sleeve of twirling black ink
With the drapes of long hair
I thought that we could leave the xplosion-club
After the confection of colognes
After the South African red wine
After the pounding music all night
Something **** about
A statue that can move
It's eyes
Something **** about
A man that thinks
Openly
We took the subway back to my apartment
You picked up a pebble and tossed it
I was quieter now
Would I let him inside? I have to at this point it seems
A charming prince
is a charming prince
I open the door.
Nothing bad happens, as I expect
I am a little paranoid I don't know why
(The club flashes back)
The door closes without its usual creek,
And we're inside.
Me and the charmer; I wonder, was he once a frog?
I have a funny feeling that I think came from the wine
Am I trashed or
Does he have horns?
Slimy toadskin, red eyes, 1000 inches of claws
Suddenly
Are upon me, Oh my God!
I tell it to leave mE ALONE,
It doesn't listen to me.
Every time I try to slip out of it's grip
I slide into a claw
Gushing this stuff from the movies,
It covered the bed and then the floor,
It probably leaked out from under the apartment door.
My cellphone rings in my pants pocket
I can't reach it because by then this grendel thing had broken me
Into two legs, a torso, two arms
And a decapitated head
While it eats my right lung, my left hand tries to desperately crawl away
He pokes it with a great fork; no escaping crums
The awful amphibian finishes and leaves forever.
He's never coming back
A winner-and-loser kind of *** I guess.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 9:54 PM UTC
There once was a man named Beowulf
Who was fiercer than a demon or werewolf
Except that he had a flaw
A dragon made him mortally sore
This prologue is prophetic
To the ending of this epic
So I’ll tell you more
Beowulf made his mind up at twenty-three
He would race his friend to swim across the sea
But fighting many sea monsters is quite trial
Beowulf only caught up in the final mile
Poor Beowulf, fierce as a werewolf
His equal would be hard to find
Though Breca nearly beat him
He managed to defeat him
But he would make up his mind
Beowulf made his mind up in his head
He would battle Grendel until one was dead
But even though his strength could cause a lot of harm
Beowulf only severed Grendel’s left arm
Poor Beowulf, fierce as a werewolf
His equal would be hard to find
Though Grendel he had saddened
Beowulf wasn’t gladdened
And he would make up his mind
Beowulf made his mind up then and there
He’d **** Grendel’s mother in her watery lair
Although the angry tarn-hag had put up a fight
Both monsters were beheaded that very night
Poor Beowulf, fierce as a werewolf
His equal would be hard to find
He took a child and mother
Like Cain had killed his brother
But he had made up his mind
Beowulf made his mind up when he was old
To slay a raging dragon of whom he’d been told
But Beowulf couldn’t deal with the dragon’s fire
And he was later burned atop a funeral pyre
Poor Beowulf, fierce as a werewolf
His equal would be hard to find
He once was a great hero
And now his worth is zero
But he would make up his mind
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC
A funeral for a Great King
Mourning
Ageing
Descendants carve their paths
Glory
Heorot
A Demonic mood-killer
Lonely
Grendel
A hero answers the call
Distant
Majestic
A vow of aid
Impressive
Doubtful
Claims become realized
Death
Celebration
Danger revisits
Vengeance
Maternal
A journey to the marsh
Darkness
Fiends
An underwater duel
Headless
Reward
The hero departs
Sadness
Homecoming
A joyous return
Stories
Changes
A death in the family
Sadness
Inheritance
50 years prospers the Hero-King
Greatness
Theft
A beast is awoken
Ancient
Furious
The people suffer
Dust
Ashes
An old king rebels
Victory
Grief
A funeral for a Great King
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 10:54 AM UTC
As children, we are told to be a Beowulf.
To be brave and to put others before ourselves,
To be the strongest and the best,
We are told to be the perfect hero.
In this day and age, it is never really okay to make mistakes, even if they say it is.
We have a drive within us that being the best and the strongest is our only option.
We put the pressure on ourselves to be the Beowulf, which only causes us to wake up the Grendel.
But the real problem is, we are ashamed of that.
We are ashamed of fear, which causes us to act out and create evil.
But when you think about it, what is bravery without fear.
Because the truth is, no one is ever going to be one-hundred percent a Beowulf.
All of us have a little Grendel inside, it’s called being human.
We yell, we scream, we scare each other,
We lie, we cheat, we judge.
We are vicious and hurtful with our words.
At times, we see no light in our hearts,
We let evil win.
We are often so far from perfect.
In fact, the Grendel in me is sometimes more prominent than the Beowulf,
But we have to realize that sometimes, that’s okay.
You see, if not for the Grendel in me, the Beowulf wouldn’t know it’s true strength.
For the Beowulf in me, within all of us, would not fight nearly as hard, because it would have nothing to overcome.
The point isn’t to be ashamed of the Grendel within,
The point is to keep pushing through so the Grendel doesn’t win.
Do not isolate yourself and hide away in the depths of darkness when you can’t seem to find the light.
Find the Beowulf within yourselves,
Embrace it’s fierce loyalty and drive to destroy evil.
Welcome the light within you,
If you do that, you will win the war within yourself.
To all those out there desperately trying to be the hero:
Accept that losing the battle sometimes is okay,
Try your best to win the war,
But do not take on that army alone,
Because the person who fights with no one by their side is bound to lose eventually.
Because how can you be a hero, when you have no one by your side?
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 1:13 AM UTC
and bright knights
the phoenix spread
her smouldering wings
the Sphinx dethroned
future kings
the Queen of Hearts
a heartless nag
Baba Yaga the stilted
house . the hag
brave Beowulf
dragged down to drown
the monster Grendel
by him was slain
Io was a cow despised
watched by a creature
with one hundred eyes
the lawn is made
a land of gnomes
mushrooms grow
in garden homes
where are
all these things indeed?
they are in books
just look and read!!!
SøułSurvivør aka
Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc
Catherine Jarvis
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC
There are three major stages of the English Language
According to historians and linguists alike
There is Old English when Beowulf defeated Grendel
And Middle English when Shakespeare birthed his sonnets
Finally, Modern English when Harry Potter spun his magic
However, I believe historians and linguists
Will say we are now in the midst of a fourth
I like to believe we are part of the history of language
But what will it be called? Tecno English or Neotext English?
IDK, but u will c um right. Just :) and $ me lates #stagesofenglish
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 8:41 PM UTC
Don't you feel bad for Grendel,
His mind is poisoned by the devil.
He is just a lost boy in a harsh world against him.
Voices in his head push towards the brim
He hates the world that he roams alone.
The Dragons charm; his flesh hard as stone.
The Shaper's voice; his head is aching
Wealthoew's beauty; his heart is breaking
Grendel's anger seals his fate
Fatal madness will not abate
His demise is in the mead hall.
He dies from accident; So may you all....
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 12:42 PM UTC
May we all fall into the cave of despair
Where darkness visible holds us within
We all deserve to go there for some reason or another!
To have Grendel greet us,
Would be a privilege
We would all roll the billiard ball to our enemies
Mon-fere what is your calling?
Do you have values anymore?
May religion take your soul
I hope Gods judgment is lighter than mine
O’Brian knew you as I do
I will follow you to hell, but not back
If only to make sure you burn
Chiron will take you across, but not like Dante
Like St. Judas, or Moloch or every fanatic alive
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 5:40 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
On the Unlocking of Words
Their leader answered him, Beowulf unlocking
Words from deep in his breast: "We are Geats…”
-Beowulf to the Danish Coast Watcher
In bold and sturdy four-beat lines
Beowulf keeps his knowledge clear
With kennings well-crafted and careful caesurae
And never needing to raise his voice
But thus the Grendel-voice responds:
“Woo woo that’s just my person opinion that’s what I’m talking about follow your passion learn to code no offense, but *** oh my God oh my God woo woo hey hey ** ** something-something has got to go woo woo only dead fish go with the flow tear it down shut it down burn it down woo woo lock her up there is no I in team woo woo not my president it’s not rocket science it is what it is woo woo say it loud say it clear this is what something looks like woo woo is there an app for that woo woo that’s what I’m saying woo woo…”
But you - be brave like Beowulf, and boldly dare
To unlock your words with creativity and care
Jun 13, 2021
Jun 13, 2021 at 8:15 AM UTC
There was a troll under a byte
The computer bridge of sighs
He/she/it had nothing to do
But spread rumors and lies.
The women may look like Grendel
The men may look like orcs
But they have real cool avatars
So you don't smell the pork.
They hide and lurk until they see
Someone who's writing's art.
When they see a heart of light
They surface like a shark.
I was just a little lamb,
Walking o'r the brook
Minding my own business
When the Jaws of trollhood looked.
He/she/it saw a broken heart
That yet still had a light,
So he/she/it came up from the deep
And thought to take a bite!
But the monster didn't see
A very important thing.
I was not alone
But in the company of The King!!!
So when the horrid troll
Thought to make his bid
Jesus then EXPOSED IT...
YOU DON'T MESS WITH HIS KIDS!!!
SoulSurvivor
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
sleep is nothing more
than pressing pause on netflix;
our minds are put on hold,
our worries forgotten for the duration
of a few REM cycles.
the events of the past day,
week,
even our whole lives -
all of it is suspended,
frozen in the clutches of time -
lurking in the back.
Grendel in the shadows,
only woken by glaring sunlight
and the sound of joy.
the beast slinks inside
and it interrupts
the tranquility of transgression
with splintering, mind numbing, earth quavering reality.
and consequently,
reality is nothing more
than an empty space in a too cold bed.
it is nothing
but a series of unsaid goodbyes and
pleas for you to return;
but only in the mind,
because the words are burning holes
through my lying tongue.
the only reality left is sometimes,
i catch an icy blue glare in the mirror,
haunting and devastatingly familiar.
sleep is escape
if only to a universe where we
were not;
if only to a land where what is done
can be undone,
as easily as pressing undo while typing.
at least there, where i dream of you once,
again,
you cannot leave nor hurt me.
and we always have happy endings,
because i always pictured
that that was all you could bring me.
i never dreamed i couldn't dream,
or that the monsters lurked not in the shadowy alleys,
but instead, inside of me.
and i never imagined them seeping into reality.
i never knew losing you
could **** me.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
The memories are becoming extinct,
her dust has become not so magical
swept up in the corner of the dying tree
that once housed the imagination of
millions.
People are forgetting how to get back to Neverland.
Youth being torn out of their chests
with the force of Grendel.
Forts made of sheets and dining room
chairs transform into blank cubicles
with a broken fax machine.
Another day in the life of the
"wireless people", constantly living
in our technological limbo.
Second start to the left, straight on till' morning.
But the second star is missing and morning
never comes.
People are forgetting how to get back to Neverland.
Live fast, burn out... right?
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 11:45 AM UTC
This site does not permit the caesura divisions at all and I will not post the poem without them. You can find "Antihistamine Dreams with a Little Touch of Grendel in the Night" at my own not-very-well constructed site,
https://reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com/2019/01/antihistamine-dreams-with-little-touch.html
where the divisions are merely botched, not forbidden.
(I think it's rather nice, shivery little poem, especially if read around a campfire at night)
“A little touch of Grendel in the night” is a takeoff of “a little touch of Harry in the night” in Henry V.
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 2:55 PM UTC
Waiting at the Bus Stop
I'm sitting in the back of the bus where the heater is and I'm gazing into the isle of the bus. The heat is very strong, it's not very comfortable but neither is my position. My tangled dark blue track earphones are trying their best to blast "Move Along" by All American Rejects from my 3rd generation iPhone that sits in my flannel pocket. My friend in the seat next to me is reading Grendel while blasting Paramore, the freshman in the front of the bus are fooling around, once the bus goes over a *** hole they fly back into their place. Two seats infornt of me there are two girls sitting next to each other, probillily talking about a boy or how great the swim meet was. Th bus starts to go up my life threatening hill, many car crashes happen here. When we get to my stop I stand up mid drive, I feel like I'm surfing. And when the bus comes to it's sudden stop, I jolt back because I know I will fall. I walk down the isle of backpacks and freshman looking at me as if I was a big tough guy, I'm only 5 foot I would say. When I get off and cross our road, my dog is waiting for me. I start to cry. Kids should be allowed that right to be able to come home and see their dog waiting for them at the bus stop.
Prayers for Newtown
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 2:38 PM UTC
From the prompt: The End Of Monsters
“Nobody asks why the chimera needs killing.
It’s a lone thing – a wrongness,
a distortion wandering in from elsewhere
burning the straight plowed fields of us”
- E. Rose Sims (On Cartography and Dissection)
He took his vorpol sword in hand
and with it, slayed the last Jabberwock.
Claimed its head, and placed it on a mantel,
in between Grendel’s arm, and the Minotaur’s horn -
Trophies of his conquests.
He told himself that he was making the world safer.
Still, that didn’t stop the nightmares.
The memories of the screams let out by the faun
as he plunged his dagger into its neck.
The way the chimera begged to be spared,
in is best human accent, before he thought to cut out its tongue:
“Please, no **** Who will look for my family?”
“No mercy, not in this world.” He tells himself.
“Monsters need to be killed.”
He told himself that he was the great Dragonslayer.
The adventurer.
Eliminating the native threats
so that his people can safely claim the land.
Now that his deed is done,
the final monster, slain.
Our hero hangs his vorpol sword up on the wall.
Yet, he lies awake at night
unable to sleep,
he stares up at the stars.
He dwells on a bone chilling thought -
that maybe somewhere in a distant land
there is a map being made of his home town
and some undiscovered other
has labeled it -
“Here Be Monsters”.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
the dirt
continues to grow and fester
beneath my fingernails.
but i don't stop groveling
down to my knees,
i don't stop to breathe;
to rest.
you, who bears god's love;
whose love i could not know.
you and your sin-stained palms
continue to enshrine
dilapidated ghost towns.
i undo the stitches on my wounds
and pick at the grisly scabs
under your scrutiny,
yet you chastise me
for the pool of blood
bespeckled on your feet.
the darkness
already dropped,
the night hides me once more.
the living sorrow,
simmered, bitter, and fresh;
everything remains.
Aug 10, 2022
Aug 10, 2022 at 11:49 PM UTC
*True North plummets into my Southpaw
and I swing and miss the gum locked teeth of my Grendel
I waste a day, heaving toward my monster
to gain a moment.
The numb rest...
plucking strategies from a tablet
of fisticuffs and Dragons
of my own resort...
soaring over Hells
as I succumb to the likes
Of You.
Born where the Echoes Stop...
I start a new song
where deaf birds
recite my longing
always.
and as blind
I have the
View*
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 1:43 PM UTC
The twin pockets of love and money.
You wake up and there they are:
one far away and perhaps impossible,
the other merely nonexistent and empty.
You dreamt of an old friend cut in half
by an unlucky burst of machine gun fire.
You wake up angry, lethal and mean.
You want to strangle the world
or whoever you happen to meet first.
Unless you wish jail, ruin, or the chair
this is a good time to simply disappear.
You need to hide away from the world
until your rage subsides and calm returns.
Like Grendel, you must slink back into your den
and let the blood-lust dissipate.
If you don't, someone is going to die.
And it will probably be me.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 3:50 AM UTC
Meet me at the edge of the mountain
With your arms around me, breath heavy
Take me away, towards the persimmon sun.
Rest your head upon my shoulder
And share with me authors you read fondly.
Send me to a land, where gleaming parties and revolutions are canon.
Sit and read to me of Grendel
And the darklings of Keats, his solemn pastorials
Protect me from all, Sir Beowulf, my knight with bravery ineffable.
Traverse with me the woods
Away from the cabin, and to the pond.
Tell me of the leaves you see-- muddy, mucky, made webbed.
Sing to the moon the poetry of your swoon
The light that cares and dusts away your desk
O Gabriel, my knight and day, scare away his hooves.
Lead me to a life far from Auerbach
Yet so near, through your words on our mountain walk.
Dec 30, 2019
Dec 30, 2019 at 1:16 AM UTC
As his hand held the horn
Advancing in the flow
Guided by the gold glow
The scent of a black thorn
Caught his courageous core.
Bravely, his blade he bore
The callous cave calling
The evil and lurking
Mischievous monster
The mourning, mad mother
Of the deceased Grendel.
The ghost of the rebel
Haunting the silent rocks
Bones, brides, breeches, in blocks.
And his hand held the hilt
For no demon will spilt
His burning and blessed blood.
Blue and bright was the sweep
His body sinking deep
In this felonious flood.
He shuddered as he shone
“ Look, I could light your lone”
What a wielder, my woe !”
“ Show yourself, filthy foe
I thus swear, your demise
Will be swift, I promise…”
“ Sweet sayings, o slayer
Come closer, commander,
Epic epitome
Of grace and of beauty
I reckon you royal
I do know you, kind knight
I have been, from afar
Whilst you were with Hrothgar
Beholding, in the night
Your might and your madness.
I praise your pure prowess
Until my dreaded den
You have disturbed my dawn
And slaughtered my fine fawn…
You must be Beowulf
Son of the bees and wolves. “
“Silence, seditious sin
You are not from my kin
Let alone from my line
You will never be mine !
March, woman, bow your nape
Under my trusted blade
Let your light crimson cape
Fall to the fallen floor
This shelter you have made
Your marooned murky moor
In this stretch naught was found
Your kingdom and your mound
Shall be your last torrent
The moon will be crescent !“
His eyes devoured her
Dear delicious posture
He pondered, standing there
Over her tempting tone
This soft gift of nature…
He wanted her dead, gone
She cursed him with a kiss
Basking in a pure bliss
His sallied sword collapsed
As the time sighed, elapsed
She skimmed him in the sun
With her dark divine dun
Seducing and soft sight
And he had lost the fight
He left her shining side
When the tedious tide
Swallowed his strong structure
As a King, with no cure !
September, 18, 2013
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC
"BEWARE THE DONALL DEMPSEY MY SON!"
The frog slid slowly down
my throat.
It's legs sticking out of
my mouth...still kicking.
The world was running away
into the final darkness.
My eyes were robbed
of trees and sun.
The day being stolen
from me.
"Death by frog!"
How unlikely a dying.
The bullies were all
short-trousered lads like me
sculpted from the sunlight
of 1963.
Then either the frog gave
a desperate last minute kick
or I silently yelled
and expelled
friend frog who
having escaped death by swallowing
hopped it
lost itself in the long grass.
Perhaps the horrible tale
of down-the-gullet
is told still to its descendants
far removed from that sunny day.
"Better watch out..." Mamma Frog
would make her voice shiver
making her tiddlers tremble
with trepidation
"...or the Donall Dempsey
will get you!"
***
I was having a bad day....nothing going my way....but still Kim Moore managed to wring this out of me in her wonderful writing workshop. She applied a Chinese burn to my mind and out popped this in a seven and a half minute sprint of the mind. I was halfways through reliving the trauma of a frog being shoved down my throat to gales of laughter when I suddenly thought "What about the poor frog? How did he cope?"
What did he tell the other frogs and how in the world of frogs it became the tallest of tall tales and my name entered the lexicon of frog horror stories that have been passed down through generations of frog families despite being the innocent victim! All the frog heard in its terrification was my name
chanted over and over again in great grievous glee "Ha ha ha...Donall Dempsey!" Me and friend frog were in this tormenting together. But despite all this my name has gone down in frog history as if I were a Grendel or a Grendel's mother or a Jabberwocky. Just say Donall Dempsey and see what the reaction is...faster than a Basho plop and splash
May 1, 2021
May 1, 2021 at 5:17 AM UTC
Don’t you feel bad for Grendel,
His mind is poisoned by the devil.
He is just a lost boy in a harsh world against him.
Voices in his head push him towards the brim.
He hates the world that he roams alone,
The Dragon’s charm; his flesh hard as stone.
The Shaper's voice; his head is aching,
Wealtheow’s beauty; his heart is breaking.
Grendel's mother’s embrace—a silent plea,
In her shadowed depths, he struggles to be free.
From Beowulf’s strength, he cannot hide,
The warrior's might marks Grendel’s tide.
Grendel's anger seals his fate,
Fatal madness will not abate.
His demise is in the mead hall,
“Poor Grendel’s had an accident. . . . So may you all.”
Oct 15, 2024
Oct 15, 2024 at 11:58 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
Graveside Service on a Blustery Day
“The old order changeth, yielding place to new”
-Tennyson, Idylls of the King
The widower assisted to his place
Mourners in unaccustomed dresses and suits
A bible, leaflets fluttering in the wind
And gangly teens unsure what they should do
February clouds roiling and boiling
Even the officiant’s words are blown away
Prayers lifted into silence by the wind
They may have fallen by the gravediggers’ tractor
Or were blown through the leaning chain-link fence
Into the deeply darkening Grendel-woods
But still – in back –
a boy and a girl shyly touch hands
Feb 17, 2025
Feb 17, 2025 at 9:08 AM UTC
The Plane, The Mist, and the Moon
An evening walk: a plane, its vapour trails
All golden in the setting sun, sails west
A rising mist on darkening fields below
Creeps Grendel-ish along the forest line
And framed in branches skeletal, the moon
Observes and rules all in the chilling dusk
Without a wind dry oak leaves stir about
And then are still again, and no one knows
Disparate thoughts on a quiet evening walk
Along with the airplane, the mist, the moon
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 3:54 PM UTC
The oldest of demons.
Most loathsome of creatures.
You who dare claw and scrape at the light.
You empty thing.
Crude skin grafted over hollow bones.
Sunken eyes and misshapen spine.
Sleeping beast.
Primordial instinct.
Yellow teeth.
Rankest breath.
Twisted entrails.
Unnaturally long fingernails.
The cackling laugh of a snarling dog.
Disfigured cur.
You are but a crippled appendage of the world.
Rot like any other dead thing.
Disappear from my memory forever.
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 6:01 PM UTC