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The county in which I live used to be named Cleveland.  This poem, Cliffland, not only celebrates and traces the history of Cleveland, but it plays upon the original Norse name for Cleveland - Cliff Land.
CLIFF LAND

Cleveland's face
has hardened since
she cried the carr from icy waste
Her hair of birch and pine were shed
for sake of iron, celtic bred
while Brigante horsemen traced her veins
of Leven, Tees, the Esk, and Tame

Cleveland's heart was stolen once
seduced upon bold Caesar's hearth
Her treasure troves, ebony jet
plucked from sandstone breast, reset
in Caesar's palace, Caesar's fleet
Learned, Noble, Conquerer, Thief

From the sea
gold men of Thor
who's cry brought death, yet set her free
Romancing her at Freebrough Hill
Deira's children danced Freia's will;
while, casting line, old Whitby Hwite
settled his home neath cliffs of white

Now, today,
Cleveland's strong
though
*blue-hand wields a scythe too long
In eyes of steel and coal-deep grace
hides humour, wit, within her face
with blue-wist hills and moorland wild
it's great to be this Cleveland child

So, take my hand, see through my eyes
In viking's
Cliff-land, Cleveland lies


*reference to the effect of Margaret Thatcher's Conservative policies upon Cleveland's economy
                                          KITTEN TALK

                                                 o       i
                                                see   you
                                             met   mum
                                        this  morning. She
                                       purred  round  your
                                         feet,  s'pose  that
                                             you'll   keep
                                              our sister
                                                 who's
                                        cream of the crop.
                          Not that
I fear if I'm left alone here,
                     I love the soft  warmth  of  my mum.  I'm
                    not ready you see, six weeks seem like three,
                  I'm timid n shy n
most ugly.  My mum is a queen
                but my dad's not been seen and is said to be known          sweet.
               as THAT TOM!  He's a rascal of sorts, serenading for              as
               sport and my mum she
does love a song.  The humans              me
                agree they'll fix him for free
should he ever get caught!           see
                     They say mum's a star - they say she'll go far                    to
                       and maybe a few of her kits.  But one look                  seem
                        at my coat made the human's throat choke             YOU
                             with words I dare not repeat.  But               curls,
                                       you,             little                        and
                                        girl,             with  your blue eyes
Some shape poetry...
Copyright (inc. author's original name) Chatcat21k - all rights reserved 10th September, 2000. Reproduction or use of any portion thereof is direct violation of US and International copyright law.
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