"stadia" poems - Hello Poetry

My kinderjare was Soetsappige drome En ek het weggesluimer Agter suiwer onskuld, Met ń krag van geloof Wat my oortuig het dat My God ook jou God is... Dat elke pad ń onnodige Veiligheidsgordel verg Dat elke beursie ń oneindigheid van R20 Note besit het en dat Elke graf leeg was na die derde dag Dit was deur die verskillende stadia van bogenoemde Uiltjies knip wat my Tot die meerderheids Besef van addolosensie gebring het. Selfs al het ek teen ń Eksponensiële spoed Ń volwasse begrip ontwikkel ,Was my redenasie oor die Hiernamaals nog vaag Met slaap in die oog Eers toe daar een langs my Val En tien aan my sy Het die drakoniese deun Van die doodswek my Uit my snoesige slaap geruk. Met elke groef wat nuwe Paaie teer vir my trane, Elke silwer randjie wat Lostrek van die donker wolke En op my hoof kom rus Soos die koue staal Van ń koningin se swaard Wat my inlyf in die Sidderende realiteit van grootword en lewe Nou is die droom verby Nou staan ek op En vrees om plat te val... Ek oes en saai Met ń bekommernis of my ploeg iets sal maai... Nou word paaie ń lang gebed Ter beskerming van my hart Wat ek so maklik uitdeel En beursies ń kommoditeit Wat skree van die honger Soos die mense van ń land Wat al sy geloof verloor het... Nou brand die sand my voete En die seesout droog my vel... Nou word wraak ń amp En liefde ń kombinasie Van gifte en giwwe , maar ek sal nooit weet Wanneer is dit wat nie... Nou word lewe ń gebed. Ek het ophou my Kinder rympies sê, Nou bid ek pynlik swaar En hoop dat God Nog genade vir my en vir jou Sal hê Amen

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May 6, 2014

May 6, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC

pieter-andries-christiaan

Proses van besef

My kinderjare was Soetsappige drome En ek het weggesluimer Agter suiwer onskuld, Met ń krag van geloof Wat my oortuig het dat My God ook jou God is... Dat elke pad ń onnodige Veiligheidsgordel verg Dat elke beursie ń oneindigheid van R20 Note besit het en dat Elke graf leeg was na die derde dag Dit was deur die verskillende stadia van bogenoemde Uiltjies knip wat my Tot die meerderheids Besef van addolosensie gebring het. Selfs al het ek teen ń Eksponensiële spoed Ń volwasse begrip ontwikkel ,Was my redenasie oor die Hiernamaals nog vaag Met slaap in die oog Eers toe daar een langs my Val En tien aan my sy Het die drakoniese deun Van die doodswek my Uit my snoesige slaap geruk. Met elke groef wat nuwe Paaie teer vir my trane, Elke silwer randjie wat Lostrek van die donker wolke En op my hoof kom rus Soos die koue staal Van ń koningin se swaard Wat my inlyf in die Sidderende realiteit van grootword en lewe Nou is die droom verby Nou staan ek op En vrees om plat te val... Ek oes en saai Met ń bekommernis of my ploeg iets sal maai... Nou word paaie ń lang gebed Ter beskerming van my hart Wat ek so maklik uitdeel En beursies ń kommoditeit Wat skree van die honger Soos die mense van ń land Wat al sy geloof verloor het... Nou brand die sand my voete En die seesout droog my vel... Nou word wraak ń amp En liefde ń kombinasie Van gifte en giwwe , maar ek sal nooit weet Wanneer is dit wat nie... Nou word lewe ń gebed. Ek het ophou my Kinder rympies sê, Nou bid ek pynlik swaar En hoop dat God Nog genade vir my en vir jou Sal hê Amen

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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.)

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Oct 4, 2021

Oct 4, 2021 at 9:10 AM UTC

lawrence-hall

Beowulf and the Danish Passport Officer

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.)

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"Jesus, son of Stada, is the Jesus, son of Pandira?" Rav Hisda said, "The husband was Stadia and the lover was Pandora. His name was Spartacus & her name was Pythia." "But was not the husband Nicodemus, son of Socrates and the mother Juno?" "No. His mother was Raet-Tawy, who let her hair grow long and was called Maccabees." Maacah says about her: "She was unfaithful to her husband." "But what of the roots of his tree?" "The fruit that you see be not enough?" "What of that which still eludes me?" Do you still wonder?

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Feb 14, 2025

Feb 14, 2025 at 4:40 PM UTC

manx-kronos-pragna

Toth & Helen, Hera & Jupiter

"Jesus, son of Stada, is the Jesus, son of Pandira?" Rav Hisda said, "The husband was Stadia and the lover was Pandora. His name was Spartacus & her name was Pythia." "But was not the husband Nicodemus, son of Socrates and the mother Juno?" "No. His mother was Raet-Tawy, who let her hair grow long and was called Maccabees." Maacah says about her: "She was unfaithful to her husband." "But what of the roots of his tree?" "The fruit that you see be not enough?" "What of that which still eludes me?" Do you still wonder?

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More grease to your elbows We say, I hear Why not? Why not? More paraffin to your elbows We will go on a honey-moon We say, I hear Why not? Why not? We will go on a sugar-noon Full-stop We say, I hear Why not? Why not Fool-stop Slap slapped, sleep slept We say, I hear Why not? Why not? Slap slapped, sleep sleeped I own ten sheep and fishes We say, I hear Why not? Why not? I own ten sheeps and fishes He is going to three stadia and banks We say, I hear Why not? Why not? He is going to three stadiums and banks Tall, taller and handsome, more handsome We say, I hear Why not? Why not? Tall, taller and handsome handsomer Give him his book, and give her, her book We say, I hear Why not? Why not? Give him, him book, and give her, her book Shall, should and must, must We say, I hear Why not? Why not? Shall and should and must, mould This world of nays and yays We say, I hear We say, I hear This world of ups and downs This crazy world of English Why not, why not Why not, why not Where I am so proud to be an alien.

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Oct 28, 2015

Oct 28, 2015 at 4:45 AM UTC

They're sticky you know, so sticky and hot, they boot the ball with all they've got, management in full attendance, dressed in suits and floppy hats, the England players, such poor little fellers, only used to British weather, they drip as they stick to the pitch, playing football in this weather, hell must be such a ***** these poor chappies can't wear sun hats, or lay on mats, acquiring a tan. Who do we think will carry the cup? well probably not us, the founding nation of the game, in temperate Britain, always the same, In England they may have stood a chance, but in subtropical stadia, it's all a merry dance! (c) Livvi

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Jun 15, 2014

Jun 15, 2014 at 7:00 AM UTC

olivia-kent

Italy 2-England 1

They're sticky you know, so sticky and hot, they boot the ball with all they've got, management in full attendance, dressed in suits and floppy hats, the England players, such poor little fellers, only used to British weather, they drip as they stick to the pitch, playing football in this weather, hell must be such a ***** these poor chappies can't wear sun hats, or lay on mats, acquiring a tan. Who do we think will carry the cup? well probably not us, the founding nation of the game, in temperate Britain, always the same, In England they may have stood a chance, but in subtropical stadia, it's all a merry dance! (c) Livvi

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As I walk out of my door A clichéd cacophony of birdsong Surrounds me with beauty And uplifts my soul. Yet we humans too love to sing And play those instruments: Creating lullabies, arias, symphonies, Serenades and rock and roll shows. To name but a few. Angelic choirs in lofty minsters, Lifting us up to the stars, Embracing God in Heaven. Heavy metal bands Thrashing out thunder In stadia seething with singing fans. Brass bands too: trumpeting and rumpeting In a crescendo of sound. Hear those trembling triangles and sublime wind chimes. Feel those bouncing drums. Twanging, sweeping, swooning Plucking, soaring, crying Guitar. Tinkling pianos and weeping violins. Whole orchestras of mind-blowing sound, Welsh rugby crowds And the Liverpool Kop. Magical music: From spiritually haunting To simply getting laid. Bringing out the animal in us: Passion and desire Raw emotion Or else the supernatural Ethereal skyscapes Sometimes sheer dread And horror. Watch any good film: The musical score is everything: “Star Wars”, “Gone with the Wind”, ****** “Battlestar Gallactica”, “Ben Hur”… Beethoven, Mozart, The Beatles The Stones, Queen, Genesis… So much to love Chuck Berry and Elvis Rocking and rolling and reeling And stealing our minds away. So let’s get singing And dancing And banging those drums, Flexing our plectrums To make one helluva Noise. Let that magical music play For Ever. Paul Butters © PB 10\4\2020.

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Apr 10, 2020

Apr 10, 2020 at 6:47 AM UTC

paul-butters

Magical Music

As I walk out of my door A clichéd cacophony of birdsong Surrounds me with beauty And uplifts my soul. Yet we humans too love to sing And play those instruments: Creating lullabies, arias, symphonies, Serenades and rock and roll shows. To name but a few. Angelic choirs in lofty minsters, Lifting us up to the stars, Embracing God in Heaven. Heavy metal bands Thrashing out thunder In stadia seething with singing fans. Brass bands too: trumpeting and rumpeting In a crescendo of sound. Hear those trembling triangles and sublime wind chimes. Feel those bouncing drums. Twanging, sweeping, swooning Plucking, soaring, crying Guitar. Tinkling pianos and weeping violins. Whole orchestras of mind-blowing sound, Welsh rugby crowds And the Liverpool Kop. Magical music: From spiritually haunting To simply getting laid. Bringing out the animal in us: Passion and desire Raw emotion Or else the supernatural Ethereal skyscapes Sometimes sheer dread And horror. Watch any good film: The musical score is everything: “Star Wars”, “Gone with the Wind”, ****** “Battlestar Gallactica”, “Ben Hur”… Beethoven, Mozart, The Beatles The Stones, Queen, Genesis… So much to love Chuck Berry and Elvis Rocking and rolling and reeling And stealing our minds away. So let’s get singing And dancing And banging those drums, Flexing our plectrums To make one helluva Noise. Let that magical music play For Ever. Paul Butters © PB 10\4\2020.

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