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Best Portuguese Poems

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See also: Best Famous Poems

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Lucila

So I walked into my local supermarket
to buy my weekly shipment of Kit Kat bars,
Cinnamon Toast Crunch,
and Ovaltine powder mix.

As I shake off the snow on my fake Timberland boots,
my skin,
coated in frozen animation,
thaws into warmth’s teardrops from
the supermarket’s 75 degree vents.

This moist sense of happiness was quickly interrupted
when I heard Wilson Phillips, “Hold On”
over the PA system.

Thankfully, the cutlery isle was just to my left. 
So, now, I had plans!

But, before I could commit felony’s song,
I saw her.

A Portuguese goddess
with a strut that can ruin a man’s dignity.

She had Autobahn curves,
dark brown curls of hair & visuals,
and thick flesh meat that even Vegans would envy.

Her face lacked Maybelline coated misapprehension.
Thank God!
Cause I never did like clowns.

After staring longingly at her,
like a crack head with impulsive eyes upon a broken/unlabeled bag of baby powder,
she breezed past my stifled posture and clocked in to work.

She didn’t even get a chance to smell my $500 cologne called “Piece of Me”.

So with new-found urges to grab all my groceries,
like a burglar who really has to pee,
I rush to express checkout. 

There she is.

Her register beeps in coupon lady’s rhapsody,
while my register needs a cleanup on Isle 9.

Now it’s my turn.

With girlish inner-screams of boy-band intensity,
I say, “Hi”.

She scans my apples, while I scan her melons.
The melons that the customer ahead of me didn’t want…
…they were on sale.

Go fig.

As if she read my mind,
she asks,
“Are you feeling warm now?”

“All I want is to be the heat in your moment”,
which I almost said.

But, “Now I am”, is uttered.

As she smiled with seductive demure,
she handed me my receipt
with her phone number on back.

As I left the market,
I began to get cold again.

These winds of change
became gusts of numbness.

I locked myself out of my heart.

I turned around to go back inside.

Only to discover, 
she didn’t have the key.

© Drake J. Eszes

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

The Old man of Merces1

The Old man of Merces  

His wrinkled face bearing slaps of time
His eyes barren like a desert starved of rain
Glittering they must be during his prime
Crumbling body holding spirit in chain

His trembling hands resting on knees
Sinking and floating in thoughts deep 
Oblivious of dry leaves falling of trees
Looking exhausted from lack of sleep

Unloved by loved ones abandoned by friends
His profile silhouetted like a ship aground
Tired of beleaguered life’s twists and bends
Wishing his soul ascended the chariot Heaven-bound

A loveless life senseless for him
Agony and heartache ceaseless for him
The society appears as heartless for him
A longer living meaningless for him

My heart urged to stop by and greet
His souring thoughts from confines of chest release
The man with love and compassion treat
But alas my tongue isn’t Portuguese

Each day in the morning cold
The snow-haired I found, resting on a boulder
Wearing a coat lusterless and old
With the muffler around neck hanging over shoulder


After absence of few months as I return
I find him no more on the boulder dozed
Like boiling waters in vapor turn
Seeing everything with eyes closed

With spirit in bondage and soul in chain
The picture of despair in a society blind
The symbol of affliction, anguish and pain
The venerable old man I failed to find
			---
 1 A small town in Sintra District in Portugal

Feb.2010

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Amazing Rio

Rio de Janeiro, a city by the shore:
Home to Ipanema, Carnival and dance folklore.
As a child, of you I read, from books that showed your Christ.
Arms outstretched, He guards your days and lights your sky by night.
And now I’ve stood beneath His feet and breathed the air you breathe.
I’ve viewed the famous Sugar Loaf, seen monkeys play in trees,
visited your fruit stands and drunk from a coconut shell.
I’ve searched for creatures hewn in stone that midnight vendors sell,
and on your soft and clinging sand, I thrust my toes deep in
and glistened under winter sun, brown sugar on my skin.
 
Along Copacabana, I jumped waves, enjoyed a beach
which, when they cross an avenue, all visitors can reach.
On weekends and on holidays, your several sea fronts teem
with hundreds, no with multitudes, of people who all seem
content to chat beneath umbrellas, lounging in the sun,
while on a road closed to all traffic, others like to run.
And on that winding promenade are folks, most clad in shorts,
thong-bikinied women, sundry shapes and shades all sorts!
Kids whiz by on roller blades; old or young may ride a bike.
Many simply merrily stroll, though dressed as for a hike.

And in your city’s whole, the countless cars and bodies stream;
pedestrians and door-less shops, props in your waking dream.
with taxis veering left and right and people catching buses;
Cacophony of life your subways and your streets encompass.
Children on their mother’s hands; boys in soccer shirts.
Men sip beers at sidewalk bars; girls scurry in their tight skirts.
Portuguese artisans laid the paths your people walk.
What tales immersed in history if cobblestones could talk!
More than a metropolis, you are yourself, unique!
And I have had the pleasure to have sampled your mystique.


For Linda-Marie's Viva Vacation

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Der Pazifische Ozean / The Pacific Ocean / El Océano Pacífico

Zwischen dem Morgen und der Nacht 
fallen die Sterne in den Pazifischen Ozean.

Die ewige Sonne lässt die Wellen erklingen,
mit dem weichen Schaum leichten Schnees.

Die See singt Lieder des Vergessens,
von versunkenen Bäumen,
von leuchtenden Stränden,
von der Liebe.

Ich bin wie der Wind,
der den frischen und vollen Morgen berührt.

Der Ozean kennt viele Lieder.

Ich will keine verwundeten Wolken im Morgen zurücklassen,
um die Erinnerung nicht zu trüben.

Der Pazifische Ozean hat die Farbe von Azulejos,
den blauen Kacheln eines alten portugiesischen Hauses.

Die Wellen tragen meine Träume,
unvergessen, der Vergangenheit.

Die Möwen bringen mir die Zukunft,
mit frischer, ruhiger Stimme.

In stillen Nächten ertönt die Musik des Meeres,
dann stehen die Sterne auf, um erneut zu scheinen.


------------------------------------------------------------


Between morning and night 
the stars fall into the Pacific Ocean.

The everlasting sun lets the waves sound,
with the soft foam of light snow.

The sea sings songs of oblivion,
of submerged trees,
of luminous beaches,
of the love.

I am like the wind,
which touches the fresh and full morning.

The ocean knows many songs.

I do not want to leave behind  wounded clouds in the morning,
not to cloud the memories.

The Pacific Ocean has the color of Azulejos,
the blue tiles of an old Portuguese house.

The waves carry my dreams,
unforgotten, of the past.

Sea gulls will bring me the future,
with a fresh, and quiet voice.

In silent nights the music of the sea resounds,
then  stars arise to shine anew.


------------------------------------------------------


Entre la mañana y la noche
las estrellas caen hacia el Océano Pacífico. 

El sol eterna hace sonor las ondas, 
con la suave espuma de ligera nieve. 

El mar canta canciones de olvida,
de árboles sumergidos,
de playas luminosas, 
del amor . 

Yo soy como el viento, 
que toca la fresca y llena mañana. 

El océano tiene muchas canciones. 

Yo no quiero dejar nubes heridos en la mañana 
para no empañar la memoria.

El Océano Pacífico es el color de los azulejos, 
esos  azulejos de una antigua casa portuguesa.

Las olas llevan mis sueños, 
inolvidadas, del pasado.

Las gaviotas me traen el futuro,
con voz fresca y calma.

En noches tranquilas suena la música del mar, 
y luego las estrellas se levantan para brillar de nuevo.

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

TYLER, SUNDAY MORNING

Dark as a demon, but with the soul of
an angel, he's a Portuguese Water 
Dog who's never been to sea, but, as 
he oughta, he loves water, and highly
proprietary when you're watching 
TV, downtime is shared, so it's his paw
on your foot, or else it's his head. 
Morning ablutions, one leg in the air, 
he waters a thicket, which wakes up a 
cricket who begins to sing. The world 
is his lavatory. Noblesse Obligatory. 
It's a Water Dog thing.

                   for my granddog...

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

One Country, One World

Which nation of the world
Do I belong?
I belong to the nation 
Of unity,
No transgression,
And freedom for all.

I belong to the nation 
Of  Equalities-
Equality between 
Proletariat and aristocracy
Disabled and abled
Woman and man
Young and old
Black and colored
People and nation
Right and rule...

I belong to the nation of peace
Across the land, the sea and the sky.
And peaceful stretch to the arboreal.
And Peace of souls,
Of bodies
And minds.

My belonging
Is my strength-
The rhythm that keeps me growing.
Though I was born a Nigerian.
Not I neglects being call
American, Ghanaian, Portuguese
Chinese, Korean, Indian...
Though I'm by virtue 
Of land mass
An African      
Not do I dismiss 
In unison unit 
That type me Asian,
North American,
South American,
European, 
Australian
And Antarctica.

I belong to
A nation,
A voice...
One country,
One world.




Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Brasileira

Wander in my poem,
As if on the beaches of Copacabana.
Lay down on every one of its words,
as if on the warm, hazelnut sand.
Let the sun color your skin
and rest upon your back.
Forget who you are,
as I have been trying to do for so long.
 
For I have smelled you in my Santos coffee
And heard you laugh in the MPB accordions;
And my sight has never seen a shade of green and yellow
without your ambling silhouette.
Eu te vejo na cada esquina da rua.
What is to be done
when one is so happily wretched?
I write for there is more solace in writing
than  in my unsettling contemplation;
For you dwell even in my logic,
Disturbing my every sense,
Disquieting my every silence,
leaving there no logic whatsoever;
My mind like São Paulo in rush hour;
My body in a state that no simile
can ever contain.
As you approach, like Sunday morning tropical rain,
No umbrella to hide under today,
no worthless poetry to write, no imploring words to say;
For my Arab tongue stutters
with Portuguese dismay,
as if censored in another
Freudian dream theory;
For after all,
no one dares to speak of arbitrary passion.
 
Wander in my poem,
as if on the beaches of Copacabana.
Let my verses melt in desire like moss on a stone.
Let me laugh at myself as I read through them
until this desire ceases to be my own.

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

The Tale of the China Poblana

Jarabe tapatío in the Plaza Castillo
Girls dance in the Mexican night
The floral bouquets of their dresses ablaze
A rainbow of colors so bright

But it wasn't so, such a long time ago
When dances had little such drama
So stay for a spell and you'll hear the tale 
Of the lovely China Poblana

This Rajputi princess delighted the senses
So flawless in every way
In sari and shawl, just thirteen and small
She strolled by the seaside one day

Her biggest regret, she could never forget
That morning when she was taken
By pirates abducted, escaped but corrupted
And then by her betrothed forsaken 

Sad and contrite, Meera fled in the night
Where a mission took her in care
With dear Father Xavier, she accepted our Savior
And passed all her evenings in prayer

But it was for naught, for again she was caught
By the Portuguese pirates once more
And despite being brave was sold as a slave
In Manila to serve as a whore

No one could foretell her of the fate that befell her
Or know that her tears were in vain
As the captain who bought her, saw in Meera a daughter
For his childless friends in New Spain

On the trip she was clad disguised as a lad
To hide from the sailors' desire
But when she arrived, her silks were revived
And she was dressed in her finest attire

In sari and shawl, this exotic doll
Made a stir in Puebla that day
Women were gawking, and couldn't stop talking
Of her Indian garments so gay

She started a fashion, to this day still a passion
Of Mexican feasts and folklore
For the dresses they wear to dance on the square
Are based on the garments she wore

And the name of the dress, you won't have to guess
And you won't have to wait till mañana
'Tis the self-same as her little nickname
They call it the China Poblana

They'll tell you forthwith of mysteries and myth
And the pious beautiful maiden
In holy nirvana she saw Christ and Madonna
'Twas the burden with which she was laden

The charros are dashing, the sequins are flashing
In Puebla they dance on the square
In each tap and each twirl, trips a Rajputi girl
But of this they are scarcely aware

And nearby in the temple, serene, white, and simple
In the sacristy, near a Madonna
Flowers are laid for the Indian maid
At the tomb of the China Poblana

N.B - In colonial Mexico a "chino or china" was any person from the orient.
Click "About this poem" above the title to see the notes.

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Shakuni, the word-seller-H

(The scene from Movie Ulzhan, Drama/German screened at 2007 Festival de Cannes)

( English Style)

I met, Shakuni, in a foreign land
He was a seller of precious words
He travelled a lot and the words he sold.
I met, Shakuni,  in a foreign land.
Sold words like “Moksha” an Indian word
Meaning a peaceful death without bad deeds
I met Shakuni, in a foreign land
He was a seller of precious words.


I met Shakuni,in a foreign land
He was a seller of precious words
In words“O.K., Ciao,” not interested 
I met Shakuni,  in a foreign land.
He liked “saudade”, the Portuguese word
Meaning melancholy, longing andlove 
I met Shakuni, in a foreign land
He was a seller of precious words.


I met Shakuni, in a foreign land
He was a seller of precious words
Sold “Dharma” duty and law combined
I met Shakuni, in a foreign land
Sold“Tarof” an Iranian word,
Meaning to refuse something of wishes
I met Shakuni,  in a foreign land
He was a seller of precious words

==================================
Honorable Mention
Contest : The Troilet Movie scene of Andrea Dietrich
*Shakuni is a character in the Movie Ulzhan. Une Coproduction Franco-Germano-Kazakh.

*Shakuni is a villainous character in the Hindu Epic Mahabharata. Shakuni, a Sanskrit 
word means a cheat, very skilled in playing dice. 


Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Winds of the World

Pampero you rush across the pampa's of Argentina
blowing fast and strong bending all before you.
Mighty and powerful you make your presence known
as you travel o'er the pampas in triumphant passage.

Ah Simoom you shift around the sand dunes
sucking up all moisture as you journey the Sahara,
creating vast clouds of blinding sand. Stinging
sands that cut like knives tearing at clothes.  

Tramontane you blow so cold as you traverse
the Alps bringing with you freezing ice and snow.
And flick over to the Pyrenees where you dance
in delight as you blow hard and strong whipping up snow.

Wreckhouse you blow down the slopes of the Range mountains
of Newfoundland. Cleansing and refreshing as you bring
life giving rains to their slopes. Vibrant greens left by your path
as you go on to who knows quite where

Fremantle Doctor you are an afternoon sea breeze
coming in from the Indian Ocean you bring
welcome coolness across Perth with a salty tang,
but only in the summer months do you work your charms.

Plough winds breezing along in straight furrows
preceding thunderstorms forming clusters of rain.
No deviation in your path straight as a arrow 
you bring lightning flashes that lit the skies.

Calima the dread of housewives as you bring
dust laden clouds to the shores of the Canary Islands,
coming south to southeasterly carried by the
Saharan air layer. The sooner gone the better.  

Abrosolhos  with your frequent squalls that traverse
in the months of May through to August known in
Portuguese as open eyes you flow between
Cabo de San Tome and Cabo Frio causing chaos.

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Dazzled

Ms Jo Hanley-Dunne, Ms Jo Hanley-Dunne, varnished and tarnished by Val d’Isere sun. The sway of your hips, the power to stun brings promise of love and nights filled with fun. Oh dazzle me, Goddess, you Queen of the Slopes; a Mistress of Moguls, oh show me the ropes. You’re someone who’s keen and someone who copes; you fill me with lust, you stimulate hopes. I know that you cook with consummate ease; I know that you dive, alone, if you please. Your place in the sun is large, Portuguese, and far from your yacht, you wind-surf the breeze. So join me, dear Venus, off piste, on a run, then tell me, my love, your heart, have I won? Oh! Rapturous joy. My courtship is done. I’m going to live with Ms Jo Hanley-Dunne. ~ For John Heck's Competition.

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Cristiano Ronaldo

Came to Manchester United as an 18 year old
With a lot of potential and talent to use
Back then you were just a cocky showboat
But you practised everyday and had the right attitude

Your determination, passion and desire
To keep improving has to be admired
Sir Alex Ferguson said you’re the most talented player he’s ever had 
And you said he was like your football dad

You amaze us all with your skills and tricks
You get frustrated at yourself for any shot you miss
In my eyes you will be the greatest ever
Thank you for all the memories you gave us in Manchester

You never hid the fact it was your goal to be the best
Well you’ve achieved that
I remember when I cried when you left
Us for Madrid, hopefully one day you will be back

People call you “arrogant” because of your desire to be the greatest
But you’re humble as you do a lot for charity and people who need it
You even paid 50k out of your own money for a child’s cancer treatment
You wanted to be the best and you’ve achieved it

Each year you just keep getting better
And continue to amaze me
Most football fans consider you one of the greatest ever
Thank you for all the inspiration you have gave me

As a kid you hit a teacher with a chair because she made fun of your Portuguese accent
You were constantly told you wouldn’t make it as a footballer
Now it’s you who’s laughing
Anytime people told you, you couldn’t, you stood taller

Last night you won your third ballon D’or
Giving us football fans a lot of moments of heaven
In almost every match you score
You will always be the best Cristiano Ronaldo 7 

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

a statue man with umbrella

A Statue... Man with umbrella
It was May in Lisbon had been walking long sat down on a bench
near a statue of a great Portuguese navigator, resting sore feet. 
I had earlier that day bought an umbrella, it broke in high wind
so I put it beside on the bench. A child came sat on my lap and his 
mother took a photo, apparently they thought I was a statue too.
A man who was showing tourists around said I was a figure made
by the famous Gabriel Bard. I said nothing since I had lost ability 
to speak. In the morning cleaners came hosed me and the other 
statue down so we looked spotless and presentable for tourists.

After a month I took the night train home in the knowledge that
 my picture was taken a thousand times. In the news, next day
 a story of a disappeared statue, the police was on the case. 
Gabriel Bard was interviewed, poor man he was almost in tears
and demanded to be generously reimbursed for his great work.
Was the sculptor is a charlatan cashing in on my fame?  

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Geese

All Porto geese 
speak Portuguese.

Volodymyr Knyr
2014

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

'ADEUS'


After all this time
Dare we go there?
Eventually we have no choice
Unknowingly the decision was made for us  
So although I am a little sad this is adieu; until we meet again


*Gerald (suggestion of the word in Portuguese)  & Jack (his persistency :)
Hope you are not disappointed* 

©146011092013

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

''My sweetheart dwells on the coasts of Brazil--''

My sweetheart dwells on the coasts of Brazil,--
in clear, sweet notes her lips speak Portuguese;
her beauty makes the earth and sun stand still--
what a tragedy if she were a tease!
Beholding her fair face is what I miss;
surrounding her in a loving embrace
and kneeling down to give her a soft kiss:--
all these would make my quickening heart race!
The distance between us, like a thick mist,
keeps us apart;--but I by heaven swear
that someday we'll have our clandestine tryst,
place after place in the same hemisphere. 
     And if she's not 'gainst tarrying for me,
     I'd give all to marry her by the sea.



Details | Portuguese Poem | |

not under a Banyan tree

Not under a Banyan tree 

I drink coffee under an elm tree, one of many in the avenue; filtered sunlight 
makes shifting pattern on the pavements, and the sun loses its cruel power. 
A willowy woman walks into the only café where one can smoke, she likes to 
drink coffee with her cigarette, her dog sits by the door looking in waiting. 
A woman in her sixties who wears a long flowering dress, plenty of bracelets 
and rings, too exotic to be Portuguese, is coming up the road. Married three 
times, first to an army officer, from an aristocratic family, then to a Swiss 
engineer, who built ski-lifts in the Alps. Her third husband is a poet and that 
makes her sigh (downhill all the way dear) She frets about her daughter, who 
is forty and not yet married. She had hoped her child would wed into 
lofty society, but now she wishes her only offspring will find a man with 
a steady job; not a cook or a waiter though, one must draw a line somewhere. 
She has a glass of beer shows me her latest bracelet, bought this morning; 
she smiles happy as a child as the sun goes on shining and leaves on elm trees 
are deep, cooling green.   

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

The Little Portuguese Princess

A Portuguese princess there on the stairs
Knee high and smiling of wish filled cares
A grin of a sprite and a handful of pickings
A thought to feelings and a feel to thinkings
Till pointed announcement, "For you and for you."
A secret left caught in her spirited dart to
Another pressing matter of love and games
A month passed and pity's provocation aims
To knocking on my girl's hollow door
Sounding a nothing echo for the evermore
Wistful angel synced to clocks not mine 
So disadvantageous did thine flowers consign
Why not to honouring when I had a lover
Who did not gloat to beauty put asunder
By modern wants and riverless walks
and treeless skies and dreamless talks
Give me back your moment of bestowing
That glinted charm that beckons love's sowing
With a woman I needed and wish as you
To see lover's love letting blue be blue
And fire warmth and winters just waitings
Till red ribbons make kites tailings
Under summer suns, above greenery breathing
Come back again to the stairs and stepping
up to shake my shirt and turn my head
With a handful of love and repeat what you said
"For you and for you" and spirit into my memory
as the omen that begun and beget a true love's story

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Hitler

Hitler Lives. 

In a village near mine an old man lives, so ancient
a TV station took an interest and interviewed him, 
they thought he must be 104 or more. I looked at 
the face his mustache, white and he had gone bald;
spoke Portuguese with a heavy Austrian accent. 
No doubt in my mind I was looking at Adolf Hitler.
To my deep suspicion and when asked about his 
longevity said he a vegetarian but liked strudel,
told the village policeman about it, but first I had 
to tell him who Hitler was; a shoulder shrug, all so 
long ago no point going into all this now. 
I called the TV station they hung up on me, but 
not before I heard their unqualified laughter. 
What am I to do? Can´t just chain myself to him 
and take him to Hague…he´s too infirm for that.
A last resort is to send an email Israel, ask them 
to let Mossed (their homicide department) send 
a couple of agents and take care of the matter.    

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

WE WILL MAKE MUSIC

Do not be afraid, Dear Girl, my room’s right down the hall
At the back of the house where it’s quiet; a very pleasant room overall
You may if you prefer freshen up after our prolonged amble
And I want to examine the paw you twisted falling into that thorny bramble
I’m so sorry you hurt yourself as we made our way through the forest
You’re light as a feather to carry, there’s no reason to fuss or protest.
Here we are! All is ready, even a small repast if you wish
Wine-caressed baby artichokes, tender filet, and foie gras upon your dish
A rich espresso, a Portuguese ruby port or French champagne that is bliss
After we’ve dined we can play: I’m overcome you’re here I’m happy to say
Waiting for you to mature to be my accomplished and eager peer
Left I with no impatience or regrets let me make that clear
Playing with other ladies (often absolutely boring drills)
Helped perfect my performance; I do so want to dazzle you with my skill
Let me set you into a position where I can see and hear you the most
I’ve arranged the room perfectly to suit us I’m not embarrassed to boast
I’ll start slow, the prelude is gentle and brief; I’ll be keyed up waiting for you!
Place your lips upon your flute, my violin under my chin as we usually do
The music stands are a comfortable height; the sheet music will be easy to view
As we play together the exotic Raccatta Sonata I wrote especially for two
We will make music as no other have me and you!

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

The Visitation

Garden sentinel, carrion he’s stripping 
Woolf tail wagging white fangs ripping 
Stream-of-consciousness telling, spewing
Dog’s breakfast masticating, chewing

Mourning doves cooing, woo-OO-ing
Backyard cricket legs rubbing, chirping
Hot summer night simmering, squalling
Beginnings long day ending, waning

Winged silhouette floating, rising
Sleepy canine lies dreaming, chasing
The stranger rises--ascending, falling
Moonlight beaming, shadow stalking

Temptress appears emerging, merging 
Tip-toeing apprehensively disrobing 
Sonnets in Portuguese leather binding
Fanning pages dog eared, Browning

Arm extended reaching, grasping 
Reaps a sweet pear salivating 
Biting, sucking juices dripping
Raped senses senses raped
  
Rapture erotica 
RESIST SISTER!
Nibble, nibble
Fluids dribble
Fires sizzle
Nero’s fiddle 
Plays in-fidelity 

Forum stories burning, pages turning
Read on dear, dear read on
Groins churning tongues exploring 
Stranger disappearing, stealing

Into the night’s secret pages folding 
Apparition’s serpent slithering 
Lithe away twisting, vanishing 
Eve repenting, dawn rising

Righteous ebbing, malevolent trysting
Hew hay glorious Yahweh 
Angels singing, trumpets playing
Sins Original ne’er forgetting, e’er forgiving 

Lost haven, Milton’s paradise lost 
Rue the stranger, spare Adam’s rib
Lust’s garden grows at night 
Whilst gluttonous wolves too tired to bite 

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

misfit

The Misfit 

When I first came to Algarve I thought I had 
to blend in I went to British bars and met
expats, who had never been to a Portuguese
restaurant, yet spent time whining about 
the country they lived in now and the country 
they had left.  Undeterred I tried to fit in and
bought second hand golf clubs and became
a member of a nine hole golf course. 

I found the so called sport tedious, but was 
intrigued by what is called the rough where I
found bird nests, rabbits and beautiful flowers.
“**** the nature follow the ball,” an irate Brit 
shouted at me. In the mood of fitting in, I did 
that, but l let my membership payment laps. 

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

PORTUGUESE WINE

      PORTUGUESE WINE
Bar tending lady,
when you come around, would you please         
bring me another glass of Portuguese wine             
and have a little smile--just for me?
You drive me crazy, bar tending lady,
I think I love you.
Bar tening lady,
I don't know the games people play.
If I had another glass of Portuguese wine
I'd think of something better to say.
You drive me crazy, bar tending lady,
I think I love you.
If I had another glass of Portuguese wine,
my whole world would look just fine.
If I had another glass of Portuguese wine,
I'd try to make you mine!
Don't you think you know what I have on my mind?
Give an indication, when you bring me
my Portuguese wine!
Bar tending lady,
I don't know exactly what to do.
If I had another glass of Portuguese wine,
I'd try to make you dreams come true.
You drive me crazy, bar tending lady,
I think I love you.
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

At the VFW Post in Buang, Phillipines


At the VFW Post in Buang, Philippines they know Macarthur
Staggering off then
Swaggering back onto
These Philippines Islands and the
 Wail of Hirohito
Drowning in chorus with the headsman’s gush of 
Bloodstained tears
Upon the occasion
Of Bataan
Remembered.

Then in repose off old Mactan, there still smiles
 Lapu Lapu in his 
Billion particles
Drifting a sea to the 
Portuguese dance of
Forgotten melodies while 
Sugarcane hills
Rise in symphony for Jose Rizal and the 
Three hundred and some odd year smoldering hue of
 Senior Legazpi 
Clutching the 
 Sunrise brilliant over 
Manila
Gleaming.


For the sand still whispers to the 
 Prodigal bow of 
Yamashita’s gunboat and the  
 Mindanao lair of two old samurai 
Forever glistening in the jungle deep as
 God’s Perfection crescendos to the 
Indefatigable,
Invincible,
Infinitely indelible thought that 
Battle,
Broken in all man can make,
Fades
Forever.  

So when does Empire reek
It’s savage 
On the splendid meek
In lands long gotten over
 Purchased souls as the 
Old boys
 Master around 
Three dollar specials and the 
Endless clink of San Miguels join
Hank Williams in an aging jukebox
Carefully laid for one night,
When all the glories of a thousand years are
Wonderfully recited in an 
Afternoon when a 
Sunglass wearing, 
Corn-cob pipe-smoking,
“Look at me now” presence of a 
Gangly man
Dashed ashore in the 
 Post mortem swelter of a
 Gallant soldier’s 
Passing?

September 2009 Jeff Troyer


Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Why Now

The alley is like ink
Dark and fluid
I keep close to the walls
As I can see nothing
Everything is dank and dark
Except the moaning 
I hear in the darkness
Someone is hurt
I heard a gunshot
A clear pop in the night
I am not a Good Samaritan
But help is needed
And I am the first responder
I soon stumble over a woman 
Lying in a puddle of water
Bleeding from the chest
A sucking chest wound
The worst kind
I kneel down beside here
She tries to speak
But I cannot understand 
What sounds like Portuguese
Please is all I can make out
I tear her clothing
And try to stop the bleeding
She’s not going to make it
Too much blood
And not enough time
I try and perform last rights
And I see desperation in her eyes
Why now they scream
Why here they cry
I hold her hand 
And close my ears
For the sound of death is deafening.