"swede" poems
Of which I promised this Forthcoming Gift
That Low-Resolved Program you often play
Mine of Sum's Direct robbed my Basics shift
Could make my Allowance afford one day
Till then, master those Memes and Squarish Crew
And ask your Score teemed to accumulate
I know you can do it, Technocrat Blue
And rake those Creepers down confusticate
Or shall I, along the mean, Journal's Writ
Ask for more Hints over Direction rough
You, Controlling-E, fly Normal's out-of-it
Conclude my Patience to nearly enough.
I'll trust the Swede with his Awards advance
Then I'll Trust you; With those Talents enhance.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
Except for the Nobel Peace Prize,
Which carries a hefty prize money,
No other Nobel Prize is given by the rich Norwegians,
Presented are the rest by the Swedish,
And the Norwegian award just the Nobel Peace Prize.
Alfred Nobel had died in the guilt,
The guilt of inventing such death.
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 6:46 AM UTC
The mine boss needed three more men.
Several showed up at the mine.
He saw a big strong German
and said, “You‘ll do just fine.”
Your job will be to take a pick
and scale the walls of ore.
The work is hard but you are strong.
You’ll certainly endure.
A Swedish man stepped up out front.
“Sir, if you’ll hire me…
You’re sure to get your money’s worth.
I’ll do the work of three.”
“You’re hired!”, said the mine boss.
Grab a shovel from the back.
You’ll shovel up the scaled off ore
into the mine car on the track.
With one more left to hire
The boss looked down the rows
and saw a little Chinaman,
all dressed in Chinese clothes.
The last job is an easy one,
“Mr. Chinaman , I choose you.
You’ll be in charge of all supplies.
When low, we’ll come to you.”
Off they went into the mine
to do as they were told,
A German, Swede, and Chinaman,
into this mine of gold.
As supplies needed replenished,
the Chinaman could not be found.
The mine boss went into the mine
to take a look around.
.
Anyone seen the Chinaman?”
The Swede answered, “Ya sure,
The crazy man run down the mine
and no come back no more.”.
The boss man, now a bit upset
grabbed a light so he could see,
and through the dark, went deeper in.
Where could this Chinaman be?
He’d gone, it seemed, a mile or two
with great concern and fear.
There, hiding around the corner,
The Chinaman sensed him near.
He jumped out from his hiding place,
this Chinaman so wise,
and nearly scared his boss to death
when he yelled out….”SU-PLIZE”!
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 9:57 AM UTC
Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of SWAT?
Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or a chair,
or SQUAT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
or HOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk
or TROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,
or COT,
The Akond of Swat?
When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T's and finish his I's
with a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
or BLOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
or PLOT,
At the Akond of Swat?
If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
or SHOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people **** in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
GAROTTE,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion
a JOT,
The Akond of Swat?
To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one's last new poem,
or WHAT,
For the Akond of Swat?
At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes,
or a LOT,
For the Akond of Swat?
Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe?
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe,
or a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,
SHALLOTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or Russ,
or a SCOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
or a GROTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?
or a ***
The Akond of Swat?
Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she let the gooseberries grow too ripe,
or ROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends,
or a KNOT.
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
or NOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake
in a YACHT,
The Akond of Swat?
Some one, or nobody, knows I wot
Who or which or why or what
Is the Akond of Swat?
3k
XVIII
Cyriack, whose Grandsire on the Royal Bench
Of Brittish Themis, with no mean applause
Pronounc’t and in his volumes taught our Lawes,
Which others at their Barr so often wrench:
To day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
In mirth, that after no repenting drawes;
Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,
And what the Swede intend, and what the French.
To measure life, learn thou betimes, and know
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
For other things mild Heav’n a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day,
And when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
2.8k
ARMOUR AVENUE was the name of this street and door signs on empty houses read "The Silver Dollar," "Swede Annie" and the Christian names of madams such as "Myrtle" and "Jenny."
Scrap iron, rags and bottles fill the front rooms hither and yon and signs in Yiddish say Abe Kaplan & Co. are running junk shops in ***** houses of former times.
The segregated district, the Tenderloin, is here no more; the red-lights are gone; the ring of shovels handling scrap iron replaces the banging of pianos and the bawling songs of pimps.Chicago, 1915.
1.9k
XXI
Cyriac, whose grandsire on the royal bench
Of British Themis, with no mean applause
Pronounced and in his volumes taught our laws,
Which others at their bar so often wrench;
Today deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
In mirth, that after no repenting draws;
Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,
And what the Swede intends, and what the French.
To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
For other things mild Heav’n a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day,
And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
1.6k
Isolated faces paradoxically surround
Bound by wants infinity
I strayed away from banks
Cause greed was just to trendy
The idea of friends and numbers
Threw me to the ground
Figured we'd crown 4 quarters instead of 100 pennies
Swede shoes, silk shirts, and bentleys
By some is defined as plenty
While little Lenny with stomach empty dreams of Denny's
Or some water or a Father would help immensely
Afgani blowing and Hennessy gulping MC's
Take their aperture and narrow it densely
Make millions off the Emmys some how erases Memories
Of pennies struggling in this world
Mother fiend'n they're just fending
Against the many
In class they're considered lowers
Below us they just a penny
I say our morals need reordered
cause no doubt that they're all Quarters
And deserve entry into this bank of respect
That has become run by hoarders
Loving to build borders 3 times the size
Of their self righteous shoulders
This is a disassembly of a culture surrounded by sentries.
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 12:32 PM UTC
Let Death be spontaneous
as will I
Shakespeare
I am a little boy
drawing the midnight wings of a moth
that I saw in my dreams
on the damp window
of a nomadic van
crossing the sea of a limbo AM highway
1993
Mother mystery night crossing Texan dirt roads
high grass
I am laying with my black lab
Death is a wild animal
birthed in the sands of a desert
that I traveled
****
holding the Bible
holding Hemingway
holding a
sternum of poems
to keep me
weighted from the sky
In a vision
In a vision
As a boy
Crossing the life span of a symphony
Crossing the life span
of a musical note
of a man growing old under a highway neck drinking my whiskey
from my Camel Wise palm
I am grace
I am Evil
I am the Devil's brother
scribbling war paint
on the bathroom walls of
Latin American 24/7 Neon Churches
Blessed with a passion
Blessed with a vision
Blessed with
the Night
on my back
that slants like the sunrise
that slants like
the eyes of a widow'd mother
of a widow'd goddess
of a widow'd song
of a widow'd night
of a widow'd Boy
stretched out on the Lawn
of a rich man
Who sleeps with silk
and hope
And I
I am a child
Exploring the tiny beauties
of things
that do not happen
I open the swede coffin
of imagination
of foot steps
of Beethoven's finger tips
I climb the roof of Death's condo
of Death's shack
of Death's
Widow'd cat
LifeX70
if you are lucky
Emma
girl with black hair
hair like sleep
On a Violin
On a Piano's back
On a Dog's color blind eyeball
Let Death
be spontaneous
I will wait for him
in my stained sweater
holding a bottle of wine
for the two of us
I know he won't say much
like the pavement
I will offer him a glass
Where does the poet go when he dies
Does Death favor him
Does he let him
become a bird
or a crooked lamp post
that shimmers
that shines
Like Youth once did
Highway child
Nomadic boy
falling in love
listening to the shapes
listening to the wrinkling skin
listening to the story
for ******
in a symphony
Aging night
leaning on my window
I would offer you a cigarette
I would offer you inside
But I know your tricks
I know that the moon
is awake
When does
the poem stop
When the poet stops writing
or when the truth is lost
There is a Cicada following me
like rain on her long hair
as she walks to a river
There are too many books poetry
too many lamps that wont let me sleep
too many poems I have stained
too many nights I have lived
Like a Moth
or a wandering bull through a cities lights
I ask April to stop the rain
I can hear scraps
from the storm
falling into the flower ***
where nothing grows
Let Death be spontaneous
and I will study the rain
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC
Lunch!
Diminutive organic beasties.
The beings not of humankind.
They love them or they hate them.
You can never over rate them.
Not really Belgian.
But make some Flemish (phlegmish).
Rather sick.
Those sprouts from Brussels.
I say yummy.
The swede is not from Sweden but yo ** **
I love it so.
Turnips, so very lush as long as not boiled to mush.
Roasted is much better.
With butter and pepper.
Forget the meat.
Forget the spuds.
Bring me in a platter of veg.
With piping hot gravy.
Maybe I'm so cheap to feed.
Because I need no meat.
Not a vegetarian.
Just love veggies for my tea.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
TWO Swede families live downstairs and an Irish policeman upstairs, and an old soldier, Uncle Joe.
Two Swede boys go upstairs and see Joe. His wife is dead, his only son is dead, and his two daughters in Missouri and Texas don't want him around.
The boys and Uncle Joe crack walnuts with a hammer on the bottom of a flatiron while the January wind howls and the zero air weaves laces on the window glass.
Joe tells the Swede boys all about Chickamauga and Chattanooga, how the Union soldiers crept in rain somewhere a dark night and ran forward and killed many Rebels, took flags, held a hill, and won a victory told about in the histories in school.
Joe takes a piece of carpenter's chalk, draws lines on the floor and piles stove wood to show where six regiments were slaughtered climbing a slope.
"Here they went" and "Here they went," says Joe, and the January wind howls and the zero air weaves laces on the window glass.
The two Swede boys go downstairs with a big blur of guns, men, and hills in their heads. They eat herring and potatoes and tell the family war is a wonder and soldiers are a wonder.
One breaks out with a cry at supper: I wish we had a war now and I could be a soldier.
1.4k
She paints the mask
Upon her face
It hides the lines
It hides the grace
Age bestows
Her greying hair
Dignity refined
No longer fair
The boys no longer
Stop and stare
Touched by the hands of time
She paints to remember years gone by
He drives fast
While singing the blues
Tappin his feet
To the blue swede shoes
Distant memories
Of a life gone by
At night you hear him
Head in his hands
In anguish he cries
Touched by the hands of time
In the darkness you hear him
Asking why
Age becomes you
Child of life
Don't hide behind
Your days gone by
Sea's sweep over
the lines on your face
Growing old is no disgrace
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 2:54 PM UTC
So I'm sat minding my own business just watching the unicorns play tagg.
Risky I know when you have a light sabre with a blown bulb strapped like a *** toy to your swede.
This old guy sits next to me an asks "Do you paint?"
Before it registers he says "All we had in common?"
I said, I have a bit but I realise I'm somewhere else.
Who do you mean I ask?
****** of course
I then realise I'm having a chat with Winston Churchill.
The unicorns should have been the big clue it was a dream or I was dead shouldn't they.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 3:30 PM UTC
I am at my best at early a.m. when I click
the radio on and listen to NPR
interviews of people from
countries like Scotland, Nigeria, and Italy;
not long ago I heard a Swede tell how
he pickles Harbor
seal meat, and a day ago a Mexican
who was shot through the tailbone
by a child with a .22 rifle
argued her country has pitiful
accommodations for
the handicapped.
Learning of the Swede, Mexican,
and slain seals liven me;
and then the sun rises.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC
Bashing
Crashing
Smashing
Clotted-cream tongues
Lashing
Cathedral hulls
October’s chop
Out to get
Lifejacketless him
Cityboy him
Neither’d gone beyond
His breezy smiled
Awrigh’ my lover
Up to their eyeballs they’d got now
No chance now to break
The awkward ice
Outside the breakwater
Never ought’er
Hunker down
Turkeyland yelled
Ride the swell
Cradle orphaned beef
And if you don’t
Incubate the rough
Earthed nests of wine-drowned potato
And proper job swede
And if you don’t
You won’t make it
*
Oggies
Never take’em to sea
St Anthony’d decreed
But Master Herd, he hadn’t heard
And he’s too emmet to question.
Jun 9, 2021
Jun 9, 2021 at 5:33 PM UTC
There once was a club swinging Swede
Determined to pillage and breed
But sweet miss O’conner
Defended her honor
Refusing to welcome his seed
There once was a red-bearded Viking
To the emerald land he went hiking
And trying to be wily
Snuck up Miss Reilly
But his salmon was not to her liking
There’s a viking name Erik the Erring
On a voyage he lost all his bearing
Instead of New York
He landed in Cork
And alone he became hard of herring
Oct 4, 2024
Oct 4, 2024 at 3:01 AM UTC
Greta, oh Greta, you’re freaking out.
Our planet won’t perish. You'll grow up.
Hyped and promoted by globalist funds,
Your unbalanced drama makes us cringe.
Greta, oh Greta, you’re barking mad;
Your handlers have let out too much leash.
Time to lie down on your favorite mat
And pray to the Lord Jesus Christ.
Sep 26, 2019
Sep 26, 2019 at 2:24 PM UTC
i'll carve this continent into two! by god i'll carve it into two, leaving a monochromatic economic model intact, but i'll carve the continent into two, engraved with the same ethnic concern a jew might associate with the sea of Galilee, as a Slav and Romanian with the Carpathian mountains... by god i'll carve this union into two! after all, no irishman is a swede concerning being neutral in world war ii, and subsequent arrogance.
i don't do sanity sober,
god forbid i'll ever do,
i've got women hitch-hiking
on my back, either telling
me to see a psychiatrist (
but not a neurologist)
or join the anonymous crowd,
when the pleasures of alcohol,
non-violent use of alcohol
is made to feed the leeches
of christianity: well... your god!
wine and blood... what's whiskey then?
kidney essence / liver essence /
intestine juice?!
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 6:56 AM UTC
~ Not far below the earth, concealed within the ground,
~ lies a common vegetable, in a medium mound,
~ See this plant is seldom main,
~ and really is simply rather plain,
~ If the traditional family have friends they need to feed,
~ it very often overlooked that that stew contains a Swede
~ Normal sized veg, not very special at all,
~ this plant be dubbed the Swede, the Swede we like to call,
~ often hard and burgundy and round,
~ within our soup it is often found,
~ So if in need of savory your dish may be,
~ you must always try the Swede you see.
~ I am not trying to say the Swede is definitively the best ,
~ nor do I mention it's stands out from the rest,
~ I mean the Swede
~ is within no need
~ to be more mundane or less.
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 2:34 PM UTC
too be honest,
you turn me on.
i'm hooked.
i'm high.
feelings,
believing...
you're in love with me.
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 9:37 PM UTC
Find me a bent carrot.
Good god .
I need a nibble.
Find me a crumpled pepper.
Goodness me.
It's not a *****
Find me a queer shaped cabbage to ravage.
A cauliflower, that looks like a dolly with crumpled hair.
Do I care of course not.
Find me a plum with a misshapen ***
Get me a mucked up parsnip, with slender waist and awesome hips.
Fetch me a swede.
A cheap off shaped one.
Love veg, oh how peculiar.
Aesthetically pleasing.
Probably not.
Served up for munching.
Not going to rot .
(c)LIVVI
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 3:54 AM UTC
Helplessly,
I'm falling
Terrified
Of the fall
Attempting
To enjoy it
Unsure
That I will love again
Actually,
That I will let myself love again
Really,
That I will choose to love again
One minute,
You drive me insane
The next,
I'm a fool
But, darling,
I'm hooked
Blue Swede,
Hooked on a Feeling
Coldplay,
Strawberry Swing
Stay Awake,
Ellie Goulding
Melodies
Connecting our hearts
Verses
Etched into memories
Choruses
Reminding me of you
This piece
Is one large mess
Thoughts
Wandering aimlessly
Continuously
Lost in you
Although,
I'm sure of the fall
Doubtless
In the way I'm feeling
Certain
You will catch me
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 12:44 PM UTC
I'm standing in the queue, swede in hand
a trolley filled with representations of the person I hope to become
fresh, safe, healthy, organic
the sound of fruit and vegetables screaming for my attention
drowns out the sound of you wondering out load how it came to this
the food on my table became something much bigger than it was ever intended to be
there's no such thing as an innocent steak and peas
you casually opened my fridge door for a cursory glance
an uninvited familiarity
my inner private world
until now known only to myself and the girl on the checkout at the grocery store
when I invited you to dinner you looked at me as if I had asked you to father my children
but we had been dancing around in concentric circles of admiration
formalities slipping away over drinks for weeks
could inviting you to cross my threshold have overstepped yours?
I have offered you a seat at my table and a place in my heart
not your last supper
a sacred feast symbolizing the beginning of something more
a time when I know what you like to eat for breakfast and how you have your coffee
when you share your pleasure in your meal with me on the same fork across the table
when tastes and aromas inhabit our landscape
forming our story around the intimacy of food
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 7:03 PM UTC
Ewer ice blew as disguise of springs,
***** mined reams at knight.
Ache hiss Swede as ta sum worse do
Tacit mined hay a rite.
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 1:59 PM UTC