"saxons" poems
My heathen greeting for I am old now
Wildfowl whispered on marshland like maidens around burning fires,
The Norse winds breathing in my soul ‘Odin doth call’
Blood is the sweat of this iron sword; proud are war smiths
I watch the coal biter musing in blood damp earth,
Before a fire and smoke of tallow he dreams of war
Fill these horns to brim, for I shall drink to Odin’s law
And eat I this meal of bread oyster and mussel shell
I see heavens stained blood red clouds as we cross the rainbow crystal bridge, we shall enter Valhalla victorious once more,
Lo shall they bleed at shores blooded by iron the Saxons fall,
Raged fires shall consume their roof as thunder of north comes forth
You call us ****** that which pierces dark shadows,
We blow our horn in assembly before Odin warriors of the north
Settings suns shone red as quiet falls, serene I see Valhalla
the goat and mead hall, roasting beef and herring
I no longer fear drowning suns for the Valkyries sweet song I do hear
Freyja shall breathe my new reign at dawn
The old wars are over but our fight shall ne’er end,
─ Lo I see my father
ASPAR (Arnay Rumens) © 2013
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 7:40 AM UTC
/ as i am pretty sure all americana
feels about "us":
oh 'ook, 'ere comes old man
europe,
no hemmingway,
and no so: as the casual english
expression solidifies exchanges:
just across the atlantic:
the, pond...
haven't the foggiest...
i'm "new" here,
and even i find these english prims
& pomps and idiosyncracies
a bit debilitating...
today i walked from my home
with a knife in my pocket...
why... why?!
apparently it's worse
than new york,
a belt as a qusimodo boxing
glove won't cut it,
given that that:
requires a formal introduction,
prior to a fight...
guns guns guns...
over 'ere we 'ave knives knives knives...
and politicians can't exactly
ban them... no, not really...
ban knives, soon you'll be banning
forks, then spoons...
and then...
the whole ******* kitchen...
we'll all be eating out,
in public, cheap cheap cheap,
cheap restaurants
like the slovakians eat in...
can you even imagine that while
in st. petersburg i didn't see,
not one mcdonalds...
same so in moscow:
not a single mcdonalds...
it was like a: relief...
a bit like only seeing africanos
only, but not elsewhere other than warsaw;
erm: afro-saxons?
sure! we have them in england,
plenty of afro-saxons...
so now afro(x)
is not pop-up frizzy hair,
bundled into a french bun...
type of... "thing"?
**** yeah!
hit the spot!
oh old man europe...
tired and yet, and yet tired
of his riches,
how craving the old trenches
of Ypres...
the belgian mud, the rain,
the rats and crows...
europe: lament over libya...
or even pseudo-neo-rome
lamenting over carthage being destroyed...
in reverse -
abbrv. into - orior carthago!
was it cato the elder
who persisted counter to this?
as heidegger would have put it:
that's not even question-worthy.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 7:26 PM UTC
Already the month
of August 2018,
May never become
a je June'm
(Forget-me-not)
time of year,
especially for nouveau
homeless and,
penniless residents,
(now more like worrier),
who reside in the
(burnt to a crisp)
Golden State where,
towering uncontrollable
wild fire infernos veer
really did tax mental,
physical, and spiritual
oye vey iz mare (to
the bajillion power
of Google Plex) their
heirlooms, mementos,
and trappings of
das kapital lifestyle
went up in smoke,
which tragedy didst seer
the eyes (yes, iz traumatic,
but also the air)
looms with toxic
particulate matter,
though concerned former
propertied owners
(now ashen faced)
as utter grief doth rear
a scorched (bumping) ugly head,
yet the onset of Autumn,
(and the main
purport of this poem)
(oh my dog, that twill be
in approximately three weeks,
when Eastern Orthodox Church
denotes beginning of ecclesiastical
annum mull house
for straight or queer
(these times opening
doors to LGBT, or GLBT
(an initialism that
stands for lesbian,
gay, bisexual, and transgender),
nonetheless history
replete with app pear
chock full of factoids such as:
September (Latin septem,
"seven") with near
exhaustive steeped in
pagan glory of antiquity.
Ancient Roman observances
for September include:
Ludi Romani, originally celebrated
September 12 - September 14,
later extended to
September 5 to September 19.
In 1st century BC, an extra day added
in honor of deified
Julius Caesar on 4 September.
Epulum Jovis held: September 13.
Ludi Triumphales held: September 18–22.
Septimontium celebrated September, and
December 11 on later calendars
September called "harvest month"
in Charlemagne's calendar.
September corresponds partly to
Fructidor and partly to Vendémiaire
of first French republic.
On Usenet, September 1993
(Eternal September) never ended.
September called Herbstmonat,
harvest month, in Switzerland.
The Anglo-Saxons called
month Gerstmonath,
barley month, that crop
then usually harvested.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
(for Nietzche, who cowers behind art.)
The world calls the conquered ******
to remember that the sun every night yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise
when there is no guarantee, no promise, no sure thing.
Yet still it yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise.
The world called Canaanites ******
while they traded and toiled along the shores
of land promised to the aged heretic of Sumer,
whose wife could give only love.
The world called Hebrews ******
while they raised Pharoah tombs
Provided respite from the eastern chariots
Stubborn in refusal of the living gods
Drinking only Eloheim's bitter grape
That provides brief respite from his decrees
When delving deep in one's cups.
The world called Britons ******
When flogged Boudicea fought and fought and finally fell
To Roman spear and gladius
When Angles and Saxons raided then stayed
When Cromwell climbed the pale cliffs
The world called the Iberians, Gauls and Teutons ******
when Caesar crossed the Rubicon
Pax Romana for Citizens born
Land for the wealthy, voting rights too
Taxes and tithes from their toil.
The world called the Khoikhoi of South Africa ******
From the VOC to fatal Apartheid
Up rose a man
The heart of the land
A man named Nelson Mandela.
The world called the Viet Minh ******
from Can Vong to Dien Bien Phu
'till they slogged howitzers above
to reign Napoleonic terror below.
And to them it was just
The American War
After the world called them
Vietnamese.
The world calls the conquered ******
to remember that the sun every day yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise
When there is no guarantee, no promise, no sure thing
yet still it yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise
'though it never watches its own rising
undoing raiment of fading embers
swimming naked in the royal blue
bathing all with daily newborn naked glory
chasing the celestial tidal tease
that seems to wander where it please
reminding that all are born free
but can grow into ignorance
and be called ******
Seek truths
that hold in unity;
that provide nourishment
beneath the lash
allowing one
to rise, to rise, to rise.
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 9:01 AM UTC
The news will say we're suffering from excess immigration
That a rampant hoard of foreigners has fallen on our nation
But truthfully, there hasn't been a native Briton here
Since people dressed in mammoth skin and hunted with a spear
Our language is a mixture of a dozen different tongues
We munch our way through poppadoms, fajitas and fu-yungs
When cheering at a football match, we're infamously vocal
Our teams may be the finest but the players won’t be local
Genetically, a Briton is a multi-cultured stew
With Romans, Saxons, Vikings and the Celts, to name a few
Our national drink is Indian, the Germans make our beer
The TV comes from China and the table from IKEA
Potatoes from America and onions grown in Spain
A multitude of British things arrive by boat and plane
The rain that falls upon our hills has blown from over seas
And with it come migrating birds to nest in British trees
The Royal Windsor family have Greek and German genes
So think about just what it is that being British means
We're stronger with our differences, the best of humankind
Our nation, not an island but a common state of mind
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC
Southampton Docks: October 1899
Here, where Vespasian’s legions struck the sands,
And Cendric with the Saxons entered in,
And Henry’s army lept afloat to win
Convincing triumphs over neighboring lands,
Vaster battalions press for further strands,
To argue in the selfsame ****** mode
Which this late age of thought, and pact, and code,
Still fails to mend.—Now deckward ***** the bands,
Yellow as autumn leaves, alive as spring;
And as each host draws out upon the sea
Beyond which lies the tragical To-be,
None dubious of the cause, none murmuring,
Wives, sisters, parents, wave white hands and smile,
As if they knew not that they weep the while.
1.7k
Expert testimony has decreed yellow,
Who are we to speak against those with seven tongues and antlers,
You sleep as the muffin man creeps
Camera in hands and remnants of sickness past upon his clothes
Your eyes Otto Dix, your face like an anguished customer at Greggs.
He, the muffin man, staggers in the night and surveys these barren lands.
At what point will you release your patterned anguish?
Expert testimony has decreed yellow,
Watermelon and disorder for the masses in their lived fury
hunters of the lowest rung,
misery and handbags at the cumulative paces from Newcastle to Carlisle
Flawed Romans and tasty Saxons,
Expert testimony has decreed yellow,
Revolt! bring down the manor!
The muffin man in his element, deckchair reclined
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 11:38 AM UTC
little **** the mole he was history bound
looking out for relics if any could be found
he dug through the fields digging very deep
to try to find some treasure that the mole could keep
looking for some coins from the roman days
maybe he could learn there habits and there ways
after quite a while an hour maybe more
he came across an object buried in the floor
mole he started digging till he dug it up
cleaned of all the soil he had found a cup
it was from the vikings that had once lived there
he had found a treasure that was very rare
he put in his sack and moved along once more
digging once again on his tunnel floor
then he found a ring it was made of gold
belonging to the saxons it was very old
mole he was so happy at the treasure he had found
hidden in his tunnel buried underground
he was very happy as happy as can be
now its on display for all the world to see
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
I can't see these saxons
I can't see these hores
I can't see these biches
Walking all over the street
They infest the place with their negativity
And the guys around, welcome them lovingly
But after this drama pushes them away
But the saxons always beg their users to stay
I can't see them rats
I can't see them things
I can't see them *******
Walking all over the street
Rolling their eyes at me
Don't know what I've done
But i suggest it's jealousy
Where ever did it come from?
They can't come near me
They can't touch me
They are against me
But they're all worst than me
Cause
I am phenomenal
Made phenomenally
A phenomenal girl that's ME!
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 9:29 AM UTC
After history with Mr Finn
about Saxons or Vikings
or some such thing
you walked home
from school
with Helen
along St George’s Road
the afternoon traffic
hustling and bustling by
and Helen said
that Cogan boy
pulled my plaits
and called me four eyes
and said I looked
like a pug
I think you look pretty
you said
do I?
she said
yes
you replied
and don’t mind
about Cogan
you said
tapping your jacket pocket
(where you kept
your six-shooter cap gun)
he said he’d smash my face
but he never does
he’s all mouth
and short pants
you said
Helen put her arm
under yours
and squeezed it
nice of you to say
I’m pretty
she said
no one’s said that before
and she looked ahead
and you stole a glance
sideward on at her
her plaits held in place
by two rubber bands
her thick lens spectacles
which made her eyes
larger than they were
and her small nose
beneath the bridge
of the wire frame
you looked away
carrying the image of her away
storing it in your mind
and she said
my mum likes you
she said you’re not like
the other boys
around here
o
you said
thinking of her mother
large as life
pushing the big pram
squeezed into
the huge coat
nice of your mum to say
you said
she pulled your arm closer
to her
her dark blue
raincoat
against your black jacket
you sensed the six-shooter
against your ribs
thinking of Cogan
and firing a cap bang
in the back
of his head
my mum said
I can go
to the cinema
with you
on Saturday morning
matinee
Helen said
o good
you said
not caring what
the other boys might say
with her along side you
in the sixpenny seats
you in jeans
and open necked shirt
and she maybe
in that flowered
red dress
white socks
and black battered shoes
sensing her arm
on yours
as you approached
the traffic lights
at the big junction
catching a glimpse
of her smile
as you both crossed
the road
when the lights
turned green
the afternoon sky grey
rain seeming near
smelling it in the air
thinking of Helen
and of a snatched kiss
but you didn’t think so
or didn’t dare.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 3:05 AM UTC
Column by column the legions' feet
march disciplined down Watling Street,
followed by rumbling carts and grumbling
stragglers leaving villas crumbling.
To Rome to save the imperial home,
making Britain an enterprise zone
for Saxons, Vikings, Celts and Angles,
savage battles and local wrangles.
Weeds weave tapestry around a tomb.
Dust encrusts a silent Roman room.
Mosaics stare at the rotted roof.
Painted plaster falls, jigsaw proof.
Perhaps when shopping centres fail,
and motor cars no more prevail,
when wattle homes are reinvented,
then thinking time will be augmented.
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
Weary of planning his next escape
an addict wants to outlive his condition.
But he is wary of moods not ruined
by expectations of danger on the horizon.
Bulletproof roses lay upon graves of the brave
providing the solace of better days.
But I remain motionless and weightless
Even as I swim through lakes of fire thinking the unthinkable.
As blacks arouse Anglo-Saxons to declare war on the blind
the idea that they could walk on water hand in hand
seems like the delirious incoherence of the presumed dead.
That's why I pray now I Lay Me Down to Sleep.
Among cliffs where a white eagle does pirouettes in the sky
There is a home for a lost boy
One who hears drumbeats announcing the next battle
One who sees tweed doing a sentimental war dance.
A red-faced son fights to leave his mother's womb
Cold air filtering through his lungs.
Things change lanes at the whisper of the sun
Blazing trails for my ink as my spirit sets sail.
I'm not afraid to fly my words to the moon.
It’s been a long time coming
this unveiling of my thoughts to the world.
Surely our hearts beat in the constancy of harmony.
With the prudence of solidarity
Living water liquidates my tribulations
as you rearrange the strings of my guitar.
No longer so worried about the path my fear is torn in half...
Rony Joseph all rights reserved 2010
Mar 15, 2010
Mar 15, 2010 at 2:38 AM UTC
The armies gathered on the vast expanse, poised for battle. Shields were raised, and the blades of their swords glistened in the morning sun. Led by the knights of Arthur's table, they would be invincible, to fight for king and country..........so we thought. After all, it seemed like every country, mostly Normans and Saxons, wanted to kick Britain's ass.(and still do).
I was seven years old, as best I can remember. The 'vast expanse' was our backyard in that cul-de-sac in Corpus Christi, Texas, back in the 1940's. With 16 kids on that short block, it didn't take long to organize armies in order to re-enact the movie we saw earlier at the Saturday Morning Matinee at the then Ayers Theatre, whether it be about knights of the realm, or a Roy Rogers western.
Bless those days before televsion took its unyielding hold. A time when we could let our imaginations run rampant, making up our own scenarios, emulating our movie heroes, and there were many, and most of all, "playing outside," something we don't see much of......... anymore.
No one ever got hurt in those weekend battles. Of course, mom and dad, along with the other parents on that block kept the 'silent' watch on us, intervening only if they felt it was getting too loud or rough. I sit here, in my chair, recallng my dad saying, "At least, if we can hear them, we know where they are."
Our shields and swords were mostly made from poster and cardboard, sometimes rolled up newspapers.
copyright: r.riddle 11-17-2016
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 8:28 PM UTC
Hush, my baby.
With silence, comes a power.
Hush, for you, there might be a someday, maybe.
With silence, the men will cower.
Be still, my child.
With stillness, comes desire.
Be still, do not release the wild.
With stillness, you shall rule an empire.
Be smart, my love.
With wisdom, comes control.
Be smart, resemble the sleeping dove.
With wisdom, all the queens’ men shall enroll.
Be stunning, my girl.
With beauty, comes a price.
Be stunning, you will send them in a whirl.
With beauty, you will set there hearts in ice.
Hush, my woman.
With patience, potential will level with pace.
Hush, the Saxons are comin’.
With patience, you can never live to see grace.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 5:23 PM UTC
Awe inspired
While the whole world was
Expecting a
Brilliant lady
In the white-house,
Drawing a blank
It witnessed a
Clown in a Farce
House,where
With the rob of Democracy
Takes stage Autocracy!
If spoken must
Be the truth
The revolting unfolding
Augurs ill to the youth--
The successors,
The task forces of
A given nation,
Who deserves
More attention
To take the nation
To a new height
Where it will prove
A beacon light!
Vampires to
Their hearts' delight
Hold and chew
More than they can bite
Blind to others' plight!
So we must slam on the face
A ****** speech is out of place!
"As the saying goes 'Back to square one--
subjugation, segregation
,gender and colour discrimination...
devilation--
We shall again be
A predator &brutal; nation"
"Business has become red hot
By fair means or foul
Let us get rid of
The non-Anglo Saxons
Rivals from the melting ***
Putting in the dark
From where we ourselves got
The ***
The bottom line is,
Brushing aside
Democracy's mockery
If preference treatment
Is necessary
Setting aside (college vote)
It is successors'
Voice that must get
More weight
In making a nation great.
It is also little
The attention of the fickle(with3 wives)
For the fair ***
This we have to battle.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 9:21 AM UTC
Words that flame, words that shame.
Words! Words! Words!
Words we shouldn't use.
Words politicians choose.
Words that blame, always the same.
Belligerent words, ignorant words.
Words of beauty and of song.
Words the Saxons spoke,
or some Anglian bloke.
Welsh words, Celtic words.
Words from round the world.
Words recently known to few.
Words that Wordsworth knew.
All in Oxford's Dictionary,
even meanings lost in history.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 5:50 AM UTC
Guided by the stars,
a better life,
a safer life.
Their new world worth
the journey and its dangers
for their progeny.
We try to keep things as they are,
ruled by fallacies, and fears
of their strange languages,
faiths, mythologies.
Harsh voices shout with menaces,
'Send them home from whence they came
to their hollow caustic lands.
We should keep our own traditions,
Angles, Saxons, Celts and Jews.'
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 2:05 PM UTC
In a previous patch of the simulation
Anglo-Saxons were the only humans
What you know as an ethnicity is homogeny of a race
Our blood was dominate and we were ashamed
We knew the loss and mourned it
People knew then door is synonymous with portal
It was taken for granted over time
The grandeur of motion
We move only the one way in time
Probably backwards based on our speed
Our galaxy the same it seems forward regardless
We also move through potential but that's another story
As we progress we take more and more for granted
Become more confused by new things
We don't understand the fundamentals anymore
Is it possible to go back?
Can we recover our eye for the oracle?
Survive what time has in store?
One way or another
Lets hope for Aquarius
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 5:40 AM UTC
Uther’s Last Battle
by Michael R. Burch
When Uther, the High King,
unable to walk, borne upon a litter
went to fight Colgrim, the Saxon King,
his legs were weak, and his visage bitter.
“Where is Merlyn, the sage?
For today I truly feel my age.”
All day long the battle raged
and the dragon banner was sorely pressed,
but the courage of Uther never waned
till the sun hung low upon the west.
“Oh, where is Merlyn to speak my doom,
for truly I feel the chill of the tomb.”
Then, with the battle almost lost
and the king besieged on every side,
a prince appeared, clad all in white,
and threw himself against the tide.
“Oh, where is Merlyn, who stole my son?
For, truly, now my life is done.”
Then Merlyn came unto the king
as the Saxons fled before a sword
that flashed like lightning in the hand
of a prince that day become a lord.
“Oh, Merlyn, speak not, for I see
my son has truly come to me.
And today I need no prophecy
to see how bright his days will be.”
So Uther, then, the valiant king
met his son, and kissed him twice—
the one, the first, the one, the last—
and smiled, and then his time was past.
Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, Uther Pendragon, Colgrim, Saxon, round table, knights, England, chivalry, Camelot
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 7:31 PM UTC
Uther’s Last Battle
by Michael R. Burch
When Uther, the High King,
unable to walk, borne upon a litter
went to fight Colgrim, the Saxon King,
his legs were weak, and his visage bitter.
“Where is Merlyn, the sage?
For today I truly feel my age.”
All day long the battle raged
and the dragon banner was sorely pressed,
but the courage of Uther never waned
till the sun hung low upon the west.
“Oh, where is Merlyn to speak my doom,
for truly I feel the chill of the tomb.”
Then, with the battle almost lost
and the king besieged on every side,
a prince appeared, clad all in white,
and threw himself against the tide.
“Oh, where is Merlyn, who stole my son?
For, truly, now my life is done.”
Then Merlyn came unto the king
as the Saxons fled before a sword
that flashed like lightning in the hand
of a prince that day become a lord.
“Oh, Merlyn, speak not, for I see
my son has truly come to me.
And today I need no prophecy
to see how bright his days will be.”
So Uther, then, the valiant king
met his son, and kissed him twice—
the one, the first, the one, the last—
and smiled, and then his time was past.
Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, England, Uther Pendragon
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 5:18 AM UTC
In the pit of snakes lay Ragnar
Son of Odhinn
The King of Kings
Father of Legends
Blue eyes look to the sky
Snakes bite into his flesh
Saxons Cheer
“Death to the Heathen!”
Hatred in their eyes
As the King smiles and dies
The war has just begun
Feb 9, 2020
Feb 9, 2020 at 9:53 AM UTC
I saw Janice
sitting at the front
of class
beside another girl.
I was at the back
of class
with Cardamom.
Janice had her fair hair
tied with a red ribbon
at the back.
Cardamom smelt
of the unwashed.
Mr Finn talked
of Saxons and Angles
and raids and pillaging.
I watched as Mr Finn
chalked on the black board,
his fingers holding
the chalk tight.
Guess what I saw?
Cardamom said quietly,
leaning his head
towards me.
No what?
I said.
Two kids kissing
in the bog,
he said.
I liked Janice's fair hair
tied with the red ribbon.
Cardamom talked on
about who they were:
fecking kissing,
he said,
two boys.
I nodded,
but said nothing.
I watched Mr Finn's chalk
bring a Saxon to life.
Then wondered
if it was drawn
from memory
or from his head,
from life maybe
his sour-faced wife.
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 9:12 AM UTC
We're weary and wet,
trowelling through the muck,
looking for ancient bones,
cold as skeletons.
The earth gives up its ***** old men,
bequeathing their remains -
bog people, trog people,
pongy gaping gob people -
most likely Angles and Saxons.
At least they have their own ***** old women,
and don't try to rattle our women's bones.
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 2:11 PM UTC
Where the word butterfly came
From. This thought led me to search
For it.
Anglo-Saxons used to call them as butterfloege
In colonies people claimed that in night witches turn into winged creatures and steal butter and milk. So they called them butterfly
Even some believe that after our life souls will go to heaven like butterflies
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 9:57 AM UTC
De ta source pure et limpide
Réveille-toi, fleuve argenté ;
Porte trois mots, coursier rapide :
Amour, patrie et liberté !
Quelle voile, au vent déployée,
Trace dans l'onde un vert sillon ?
Qui t'a jusqu'à nous envoyée ?
Quel est ton nom, ton pavillon ?
- J'ai porté la céleste flamme
En tous lieux où Dieu l'a permis.
Mon pavillon, c'est l'oriflamme ;
Mon nom, c'est celui des amis.
Fils des Saxons, fils de la France,
Vous souvient-il du sang versé ?
Près du soleil de l'Espérance
Voyez-vous l'ombre du passé ? -
Le Rhin n'est plus une frontière ;
Amis, c'est notre grand chemin,
Et, maintenant, l'Europe entière
Sur les deux bords se tend la main.
De ta source pure et limpide
Retrempe-toi, fleuve argenté ;
Redis toujours, coursier rapide !
Amour, patrie et liberté.
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