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Best Culture Poems

Below are the all-time best Culture poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of culture poems written by PoetrySoup members

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Home Culture by Laurie, Lindsay
Black Culture White Society by brown, tiara
America the Worlds Hope for Peace and Prosperity Has Become A Culture of Death by Jennings, Marilyn
Miss Bahamian Culture by Pratt, Mia A.S.
COOKIE CUTTER CULTURE by Wood, Dave
Enduring Spinning: Agriculture, Culture and War by Ronnow, Robert
Democracy of culture: I, Icon by DE PAZ, Mario
Maintenance culture by nnoli, richard
GARDEN OF CULTURE by Jolo, Neldy
Souls of our culture by Halliday, Mark J.

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The Best Culture Poems

Details | Culture Poem | |

Ancient Warrior

I see the wrinkles in your suntanned brow,
You carried burdens then; you see them now.
You’ve heard the cries your people who in pain,
Have shed their tears two hundred years like rain. 

Your sad brown eyes, reflecting now the sky
I see the wings of eagles flying by
Beside you stands an Appaloosa mare
Her spirit one with you now over there.

You hear the drums, they bid you to come near,
Your spirit drawn the beats they ring so clear.
Song like prayers are chanted through the night,
Calling you come, and help them end their plight.  

You’ve heard sad cries and now stand at their side,
You join the prayers with both arms open wide,
United spirits sing until the dawn,
When in the fire’s flames a golden fawn.

Remembering a smile crosses your face,
When tribes were one with Mother Nature’s grace.
The lakes and streams flowing with waters clear,
Flow sadly now, the planet lives in fear.

The weightless feathers that adorn your head
Your tribes grey future weighed you down instead.
Now breathing deep you smell the winds of change
While here on earth your people rearrange.

Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 
10.21.2014
Giorgio A.V. Contest 
Iambic Pentameter 
1st place

Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014

More great poems below...


Details | Culture Poem | |

Lifes Simplicity Maintained

You were born in a specialist clinic I was born at the front door of my house we both came into this world and survived. You’ve been eating foreign cuisines and expensive delicacies I’ve been taking porridge and traditional soups we both have grown and are a significant part of the society. You go to school in Jeeps and exotic vehicles I use public transport and finish it up with a walk we both went to learning institutions and acquired knowledge. You roll with the high and mighty and get a super model married I’m surrounded by the middle class and marries one never will be in Wikipedia we both are active in the food chain and wonderfully living our lives. You become a CEO or rather own a firm I get employed by you to run your empire we both sure need each other to function and drive. Gold and Diamonds will decorate the casket of your funeral mine may not even be worthy of a coffin, just a plain box we’ll nevertheless be dead and our chapter closed without preference. It is only a pathology when the eye gets larger than its socket, comparison cuts the muscles of esteem and gives greed a new suit, making simplicity a very complex attribute to attain and a life full of complexities a better friend to existence. Life is simple, we just make it complicated. A civil servant wants to live at par with a tycoon allowing his throat tie down the strength of his hands. Every destination has different roads, be it the highway or a rocky path. Take the one within your speed limit, the timing may show some reaching before or better than others but the most important thing is, the destination reached as achievement is decorated while life stay simple.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2015


Details | Culture Poem | |

MADE IN CHINA

"Made In China"

They can have my money
If it saves me money

The toys I played with when I was young,
Says I enjoyed their hands
The Labels read 
"MADE IN CHINA"

The cheap material on my back, the shoes I wore. 
How easily they faded and tore
However, I enjoyed their hands
The Tags on my rags;
"MADE IN CHINA"

The car I own saves money on gas
A tiny Honda Civic, takes me everywhere
I love my sweet silver car
"Manufactured in China"

The never been used--Made in the USA--cookware I own,
Says, I don't work hard at all:)
Yummy to Chinese all you can eat take Outs  
Thank you China for being part of this world
Better Yet!
Thank you China, for making this world a part of yours.

MADE IN CHINA 
Shipped easily in a box

~SKAT~

Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2013


Details | Culture Poem | |

Cyber real

Has the convenience of technology 
inoculated us from reality?
Do androids dream of electric sheep?
I pray the code my soul to keep?
Does your universe live within 4G
Or megapixel infinity?
Which memory lies within
The one that was
Or the one that's been
Or how much gig how much ram?
Which reality is true?
Cyber me
Or cyber you?
Cyber bully
Cyber crime
Cyber hate 
Cyber time?
Cyber boxer
Or cyber brief?
Who is the real identity thief?
Cyber pleasure
Cyber pain
Hours spent glaring into the screen
Choosing an alternate username.
Status updates and trending tweets
Fill your mind and rob your sleep.
Clever hashtags and Instagram 
Will shape your image and gain more friends.
Is the you you've shaped in cyberspace 
The same you I'd see face to face?
We hide behind our computer screens
And criticize with brutal ease.
Virtual reality
Is buying souls of men you see 
And robbing the ability to dream real dreams.
I want to conquer something real
That I can grab that I can feel.
I want to touch life and hold on tight
I want to unblock true friends
And "like" real sights.
I want conversation face to face
In real world time
In a real world place.

Copyright © Kelly Crenshaw | Year Posted 2014


Details | Culture Poem | |

This is not a poem--- A singled out page

-THIS IS NOT A POEM-

Hey, Poets stop by, give me a shout out.
Tell Me Where You Are From;)
I promise I won't show up on your doorstep.


If you are having a bad day, let me have it
If you have awesome news, don't be greedy 
---SHARE! SHARE!
By all means  --- SHARE THE NEWS!!!


.................  LOVE THE POET DESTROYER 

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2015


Details | Culture Poem | |

Mirror Ball

I'm sure this hill is where it stood.
Amazing shapes of stuccoed wood.
A glass-brick, neon stream-lined place.
As if it flew from outer space,

A swing band auditorium,
An Art Deco emporium,
When romance, innocent in pace,
From dancing to a teasing chase.

The town grew west in modern haste
And down it came, without a trace.
The war and culture's change in taste,
Predestined doom, the past erased.

The future sighs, with solemn face
The wrecking ball, the glittered waste
No plaque to read "Historic Sight".
The swirling dust, a dance goodnight.


Gene Bourne
08-01-14
.

Copyright © Gene Bourne | Year Posted 2014


Details | Culture Poem | |

A Love Story

The girl is an ultra-modern scholar, 
Belongs with an upper-middle class family. 
Looking very nice, smart, gets angry suddenly. 
She reads M.A in English at Presidency University. 
She is assimilating to the ideas of Shakespeare, 
Shelley, Keats, Neruda, Byron...
Fluently speaks English, loves cricket. 
Shoulders are shaken by expression.
She cries alone, laughs with everyone....

The girl is very good.

The boy is a post-modern educated son of a lower-middle class family.
He studies M.A in Bengali at Calcutta University.
He is assimilating to the routes of Vaishnab literature,
Ideas of Bharatchandra, Rabindranath Tagore, Nazrul, Jibanananda...
Writes poems, sings song, loves football.
He walks on the high-street and observes people.
He laughs alone, listens to everyone...

The boy is very good.


They are attracted by the opposite personality!
The  girl wants that her lover will be a modern man.
The boy thinks that his lover will become as the mind of his. 
 
They are changing silently
Losing individuality.

Time flows.
Love goes to another address... 

SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA

Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2014


Details | Culture Poem | |

THROUGH THE 80s



A time for many a part-time passion, like the discarded skin of Esprit jeans and low-hip waistline baring pierced navel with flavor of a chase on the run… would he dare confess real love as the world tolled for Lady Diana and Charles? You with me… moon to sun, fire to burn our eyes… I swing on an illusion and steal the time away, rustling along a Mustang’s back seat, while some 8-CD tract pleads, "Do you think I’m sexy,’’ dipping in steams of instant affection. How deep-cheeked your thrills like Indiana Jones , knocking me off-balance: and I, a fool ignoring the pain that you may never Stand By Me, never in blinks of thousand stars, a recycled tune melting in the sand now you’re just ozone’s hole... I wrap the scenes along Route 25, as bittersweet time passes by. Alone. Kelly Deschler's Decades Contest ``Do You Think I'm Sexy and Stand By Me-- top 80s songs

Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2015


Details | Culture Poem | |

A KING ARTHUR HOME

                  
An age-spotted hand pulls back faded flour sack curtains
in the window of an old run-down farmhouse
A woman    gray hair combed neatly into a bun
peers across the side fence that belched 
most of its pickets during the last fierce storm

She looks at the knotted wire clothesline
Remembers when it was filled with
little slips covered in miniature pansies
and the King Arthur logo
flapping in the springtime breeze

She preferred King Arthur to Gold Medal
for the flour sacks washed up softer
felt nicer against the skin

Her generation learned to make over
make do    or do without

Her little girl once got excited 
to pick the designs on new bags of flour
Then happily rode the pedal 
on the treadle sewing machine 
while mother stitched a new pinafore

The woman slowly moves into the kitchen
Washes up remnants of a lonely meal
Dries one cup and one plate 
with a neatly hemmed flour sack towel

Remembers how she always kept
her girl’s hair in tight pigtails
tied with store-bought ribbons
Some things    small things
didn’t have to be made by hand

Remembers the day her girl removed the braids    
combed thick hair to fall loosely about her shoulders
and stepped smartly through the door
in search of her own life
So many years ago

She does now    as she did then
and cries softly into her flour sack apron




For Whatever Happened to Flour Sacks contest 
sponsored by Judy Konos

Copyright © Monterey Sirak | Year Posted 2013


Details | Culture Poem | |

Comin' Hame - Coming Home -Scottish Dialect

A angry sky, as cauld as Loch Lomon'
fair drew me out from cot o' peat, an' bed.
The wolves wus wailin', an' thund'r respond'd
Ah gather'd tam, me tartan, an' dug Red.
To  'orse ah took an' found the 'erd sam 'urt. 
The 'ungry wolves 'ad already fed. 
Inta the bi'er blaw, the rill ah skirt 
thro braes a white, t'ward ham an' fire burnin'
the bleatin' sheep, the 'orse an' ah alert.
We wud mak it hame, stomaches churnin'
O smell the peat fire on the wild wind now,
'ear the cows faint distant ca', a lowin'
'erself wud know, we'r near ta the brow.
Noo, we 'ad beat the storm hame, an' kep' me vow.



Dedicated to Jimbo Goff & James Fraser
and the spirit of Robin Burns

See About the Poem

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2014


Details | Culture Poem | |

Well of Souls

How many souls live on the edge,
Between the gutter and the ledge?

A hopeless fear crawls in their gut,
Each day, another endless rut.

The moments pass profoundly slow
Sad, bitter winds are all that blow.

A man lay huddled near the bin
Hoping death will take him in.

Frozen tears, on wrinkled cheeks
Frostbitten ears, and shoes that leak.

His mind forgets the games of tag,
Old Crockett's hill, where down they'd slide.

A summer rain, the puddles deep
Out catchin' toads, to tame and keep.

His life began with dimpled cheeks,
Red tousled hair, and hide 'n seek.

A tough old Dad who tricked and teased
A pretty Mom who smiled with ease.

They had a farm with fields of hay
A few old hogs, and bills to pay.

One summer day, the sky turned black.
A howling wind brought down their shack.

Dad sold the hogs, and cut the hay.
The farm was lost, we drove away.

The next two years were grim and lean.
Dad broke his back, to feed us beans.

When winter came our food ran out.
We found old Dad hung by a rope.

Without poor Dad, no food or fire;
Mom took my hand, the day was dire.

The Sister's face looked mean and sour.
I thought of Mom most every hour.

They scrubbed my back until it bled.
cut off my hair, then I got fed.

'Twas many years before I left,
My Mom had died a tragic death.

Now all alone, I lived and slept.
I begged for food, and sometimes wept.

A life of days and endless woe,
Now time is dead, and death too slow.

As you walk by those 'homeless freaks'
Remember me, with dimpled cheeks.




Copyright © Kimberly Shaw | Year Posted 2014


Details | Culture Poem | |

Sunbonnet


She shuffled by our house, so slow and bent,
No second thought of where the lady went.
On her return, no one around to see.
A shaded path, she blended with the trees.

We children always giggled, as she passed.
A group emboldens others to harrass.
Our high pitched jeering from a hidden niche,
The frail, sunbonnet lady, we yelled "witch".

One day a fever kept me home from class.
I saw her weary shuffle down the path.
My over-active need to know convened.
I followed with excitement and unseen.

A house engulfed by weeds grown thick and tall,
As vines of every species claimed the walls.
Around the side, a window to peek in; 
A man in bed with twisted, throbbing limbs.
.
The lady rubbed a salve to ease his pain.
And hummed a long forgotten song's refrain.

I blurted all I'd seen to mom and dad.
He stood in shocked alert and mom grew sad.

How soon the path was plowed into a drive,
A grocer truck and red-light cops arrived.
I last recall a fancy bike, brand new.
Events seem blurred, with growing up to do.
.


Gene Bourne.
07-17-14




.

Copyright © Gene Bourne | Year Posted 2014


Details | Culture Poem | |

Broken English

I love my broken English

Am in love with my broken English

Am honored to have two other languages

The ability to think from language to language is one that many don't experience 
The ability to bring vibes from one language to another is one, that many envy

Sometimes it's like a train, English flows easily before it gets to a halt
Sometimes it's a bus with many stops, some harsh, some dash, some flash
And some mistakenly whether car or train, crash 
Some like aeroplane, are up there in the air
Building their own castles
Creating unfamiliar words

Whether writing from kikuyu to English 
Or kikuyu to Swahili and then to English 
Or just writing from the little dash of English that I learnt from my English classes,
With poetry,I can still escape 
Whether in the veiled grammatical errors
        Or just like a volatile chameleon

Copyright © njeri hunjeri | Year Posted 2015


Details | Culture Poem | |

The Devil's Game

you pick and choose
you buy and sell
you never lose
you live so well
your dying wish
is that you'll be
so bloody rich
then all will see
your name in lights
above the stars
to live poor bites
you've come too far
you steal
you fake
you deal
you take
a life
a son
a knife 
a gun
and now you're old
and now you're gray
though you were told
up till today
that greed is good
that things are life
under the hood
you're rife with strife
and now the grave
for your name calls
you're not so brave
you'll take the fall
then cry
and sob
you'll  die
a snob
your stuff
will rot
your bluff's
been shot
the world will see
the world will hear
the desperate pleas
the worthless tears 
your name will rot
your things will rust
your meted lot
your life's a bust
why live a lie
why trust in gold
we all must die
we all turn cold

we all will die
we all turn cold

Copyright © The Seeker | Year Posted 2016


Details | Culture Poem | |

The Meaning of Bread and Tortillas

"Mi primo" means my cousin in Spanish.
He calls me his "primita"- little cousin.
This is the story of how mi primo
Taught me about the meaning of bread;
Of the meaning of tortillas...
He and I are exchanging languages 
Over Dairy Queen chicken strips;
I repeat the words he teaches me
Back to him in my all-american 
White girl accent,
Trying to learn how to Salsa 
With a tongue that only knows
How to stumble over the trills
And rapid-fire hot-sauce syllables-
He makes me say them again and
Again until I sound like a distorted 
Calle 13 track on repeat...
Mi primo offers me the bread
That came with his meal;
I ask him why he doesn't want it.
He says he doesn't eat bread;
He is Hispanic; he eats tortillas-
Do I know tortillas?-
He gestures, indicates the 
Flat, full moon-shaped
Circle of a torilla with his hands.
Si, I know tortillas.
What I want to know is-
What the heck do tortillas have to do
With whether you eat bread or not?
So mi primo tells me una historia
About a guy he knows,
20-something and something else...
All his family came from Guatemala;
He was brought up going to a church 
With a pastor that preached sermons
That trilled like heavenly trumpets;
He has skin that was colored warm 
As if he had grown up kissed by 
The sun of his family's homeland;
He knew how to speak English but
His mother tongue was always Spanish-
His cousins were his best friends
Because being "un Guate" means
Knowing the meaning of "la familia"...
He learned at age 21
That he was born in America.
Eagerly, he shed his Hispanicness like
A snake skin that had grown too tight,
Clutching at the revelation of his birthplace
Like a get-out-of-jail free card,
Hides the color of his face behind
The red, white, and blue of his
Irrevocable Americanness... 
He doesn't go to church anymore,
Because American guys don't 
Have time for God;
He buys big, fancy cars he doesn't have 
A prayer of paying off because
American girls are supposed to like
That kind of thing;
He tries not to remember 
The meaning of la familia...
And he always eats bread-
His tongue has suddenly turned
Too American to abide the taste,
The flatness, of las tortillas...
He is the reason that mi primo cannot 
Abide the taste of bread, too thick
With the flavor of betrayed heritage
To sit easy in his stomach...
Mi primo offers me,
His little blonde all-American cousin,
The bread he doesn't want.
I wonder if one day he'll
Mean the word "primita" enough
To offer me a tortilla.

Copyright © Cameron Hartley | Year Posted 2014


Details | Culture Poem | |

Pisa not Pizza

                                                                             XXXXXXXXXXX
                                                                           ONE HUNDRED
                                                                          NINETY AND NI
                                                                         NE YEARS TIME
                                                               XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
                                                              IS WHAT IT TOOK TO BUILD
                                                             THIS TOWER IN AN ITALIAN
                                                           CITY BEHIND ITS CATHEDRAL
                                                          XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
                                                        THIS FREE STANDING TOWER
                                                       IN THE CITY OF PISA WAS FOR
                                                      THE CATHEDRALS LARGE BELL
                                                     XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
                                                    THUS BEING THE BELL TOWER
                                                   THE TOWER BEGAN LEANING
                                                  DURING THE CONTRUCTION 
                                                 XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
                                                 LATER ONE SIDE OF THE BASE 
                                                WAS DISCOVERED TO BE TOO
                                               SOFT A FOUNDATION FOR IT
                                              XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
                                             SO GUESS THEY NEVER READ
                                           THE STORY ABOUT BUILDING
                                          ON SAND OR WAS IT THEIRS
                                         XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
                                        IT STARTED LEANING MORE
                                       AND MORE OVER DECADES
                                      THEN IT LOOKED  LIKE THIS 
                                    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
                                   THIS TOWER HAS BECOME
                                  VERY FAMOUS OVER THE
                                YEARS AND IS KNOWN AS
                               THE LEANING TOWER OF
                             PISA FOUND IN THE CITY
                            PISA IN TUSCANY ITALY

Brenda Meier-Hans 
09.16.2014

Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014


Details | Culture Poem | |

COURAGE VS CONFLICT

COURAGE VS. CONFLICT
The history of man defines Ape as a primate. Man seems to be in that mind-set today. He lives life as pent because he denies himself religious freedoms. God refined humankind once before and, therefore, he will do the same once more. The factor ends when iniquity meets perilous world. The mania of man will bring forth extinction. In parable, the elderly wisdom was predefined by the life they had lived since the beginning of time. They had seen themselves within their prime and captured these elements through their way of life. Their beauty was not a basis to define. They were primates of mammal and nomadic. Their skin was olive nonwhite via sunshine. They hunted with self-made weapons and brought back a feast many times. However, one male cultivated the mind. He invented weapons for prosperity. An abundance of wealth all received.
Today is venturous. Humankind has crested to another prehistoric image. Our originations through inventions and development have implemented innovations. Our minds must continue to reinvent not to become another mandrill. The core of our existence relies on this. We are human beings and the highest intelligence. Insofar as, we are not predetermine. Insofar as, we are no predestine to a grandeur form. Insofar as, we see no more adjustments that are required for humankind physiological form. We have peaked physiologically. Therefore, we will henceforth to inform our mental faculty. ____________________________________________________|
Penned on October 19, 2014!

Copyright © Verlena S. Walker | Year Posted 2014


Details | Culture Poem | |

Tibetan Tears

My heart aches for
Your hearts that break. 
I shed tears mingling with 
Yours for the forgotten years;
The tortured monks and nuns…
For your people who suffer still
With no voice to teach
Your hopeless, hungry, young.
Only your elder's tears
Know of the deep sorrow
Of your lost lives, lost culture,
Your sacred Buddhist beliefs,
Your divine history that
Continues to be destroyed.
Even as your dead fall
You do not hate…
You only wish to liberate
Those loving souls who
Remain as strangers in their
Own beloved land.
Let me be your voice
To join with other voices that
Will help you attain freedom.

Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2014


Details | Culture Poem | |

Echo

My Echo you repeat my every word. Like my shadow if you could take form you would emulate my every move. The boom of my voice is heard in your noise. The Sound’s I make can be reverberated in your tongue. My Mirror Voice. You Mirror my vibrations. My Song you Shall Resonate in your head through My Ricocheting Whisper’s. Reaffirm My position’s that I State in My speech. And Affirmate my Goals in mine Poem. Speak The word’s I utter. Talk With a endorsement of MI HI Rata-tat-tat. Rebound the rhythmic pattern of my musical pulse. Pattern they self After My beat. Mimic The text that comes from my


Aperture. Reply using the same parroting pronouncement. Say the verbalization as a means to communicate in a mocking manner My Formulation‘s. Express in a clone like way the discussion I emitted. Transmit the answer to my speculation. Gossip in a recap like restatement of my decree. Avowal the Testimony of my Declaration line for line. Sing the Lyrics of my estuary. Phrase My Opine in your own Intone. Preach My civil Rants in your Own Discourse. Lecture The Sermon I Contrived. Orate The Report I Fabricated. Spin a lie I Concocted from my Gateway. Hold Forth My Designed Oration. Account my Dreamt Up Rejoinder. Narrate My Command in a Echo. You are My Echo Forever a Homily of my Facilitation of libretto. The Stanza you shall dissertate Will be Hypothetically a Optimization and Embodiment, of my Announcement. Show through your versification my pretend Address. I can continue to Surmise falsified Common place trite’s Which you can Plagiarize in such a replicated Duplication and Carbon Copy of my Idiom. The Dialect you Twin in your Reproduction Mechanism.

I Vow with my Blood to Let you Reduce my spoken lexicon into Mass Production. The Prophecy that is in my Psalms you placed into your Synthesizer to Build a Perfect Reprint. Finish your Assessment of my jargon and Yatter a facsimile of the limerick I have concluded in a

jocund like manner. Counterfeit my inflection using every known vocab in your diction. Epitomize in every manner my orotund Divinations. Devise a summation that is a Consecration of my simple Proclamation.

Copyright © Della Vossa | Year Posted 2014


Details | Culture Poem | |

Trapped

My spirit and soul are trapped in this vessel of flesh. They scream to escape and to be liberated and soar on the breezes of life. To frolic freely among the trees, among the clouds and to run without weight and care.

My spirit and soul are trapped and they want to get out. Out from under all the stress and demand in life out from all the evil and hate of the world.

My spirit and soul are trapped in demand to perform, to keep a smile when I am down, to keep a stiff upper lip.

My spirit and soul are trapped to work for things and objects, to keep up with Jones and Kardashians. 

My spirit and soul are trapped into believing that all men are made equal when the reality of this world says different, that only green currency is the great equalizer. 

My spirit and soul are trapped into believing that single is not wholeness that it is necessary to be joined with another body to be view without stigma.

My spirit and soul are trapped in a body not acceptable because it's fat, it's woman and it's black and aging.

My spirit and soul are trapped and they are screaming to be free... screaming to reveal all the possibilities of how good life could be if I just didn't give a damn about who thinks what about me.

Copyright © Kellie Thomas | Year Posted 2013


Details | Culture Poem | |

An Unshakable Identity

hospitality, peace and mutual respect; we’ve chosen because the key to our prosperity is love, unity and cooperation settlers now on the cheat as our true identity is kept frozen but no matter what! We will reverse it with our landmark ordination the threats against our heritage and culture may have risen it has kept us unique, unshakable and uncompromising though there are bastard judases in every dozen the failure and exposure of their deeds are amusing the buckles of our identity we will never loosen no matter how the invader tries strategizing or putting our inheritance into some sort of categorizing No! is the answer, none of us will lose being a complete citizen

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2015


Details | Culture Poem | |

Notes on Dating a Latino: What You Don't Learn in High School Spanish Class

One. Latino boys like Buffalo Wild Wings. It isn't clear why, but it's definitely emerging as a pattern.

Two. Latino boys are persistent. When he asks to kiss you for the first time, say no. Why? Because you've known him for a matter of weeks and he is not your boyfriend yet. Don't worry... he will continue to ask every week until you say yes.

Three. Latino boys are really good kissers.

Four. Latino boys love their family. His cousins are best friends, so you probably already know several of them. If any of his cousins also like you, you might think this is problematic. Your boyfriend will tell you that it's normal, and it's just because they're jealous, and not to worry about it. You will probably worry about it anyway. Sometimes it's better to let things go.

Five. Latino boys are romantic. He will tell you how he loves you in two languages and struggle to find an apt metaphor which he can pronounce in the English language. Since his English isn't perfect, he uses his hands to compensate when he speaks,  uses a tilt of his head, a shift in his voice; he says most with his eyes, when he isn't speaking at all.

Six. Notice how he lights up when he smiles at you, like the sunrise... remember that the word for smile in Spanish is sonrisa.

Seven. When he offers to teach you the meringue, say yes. When you trip over each other's feet, laugh. When his face moves close to yours... kiss him.

Eight. When your racist father starts talking about socioeconomic classes, remind him that unlike your brother's American friends, your friends are sober. (Well, more sober. Do not bring up tequila. They're not potheads, at least.) Besides, your Spanish teacher is thrilled with your miraculous improvement in spoken Spanish.

Nine. When you go bowling with him and his cousins and he whispers in your ear that people are staring at us, tell him it's just because they're jealous that I have a boyfriend that will dance with me in public.

Ten. "Te amo" is a phrase that sounds prettiest when whispered.

Copyright © Cameron Hartley | Year Posted 2014


Details | Culture Poem | |

INNER BEAUTIES PROMISE

How many emotional tears have we so cried, us the unperfected,
The Barbie generational rejected, or Ken doll unrealistic Idol worship.
Cursed by society’s vision of ultimate beauty, wake up world
For are we all not human, and subject to fragilities faults of reality.
Oh to remove the textured veils of the masked disguised,
To reveal the inner face of grace hidden within the soul itself.
For true beauty lies inside the heart of innocence,
Or underneath the timeless wrinkles of ages experience,
One must just remove the blinders of ignorance, to see it
In clarities truth sight line of view.
Where are these mythical people of perfections achievement?
From where do they dwell, or come from these visions of
Illusionary beings, which we so strive to be like?
Nay do suffer the youth of the future to measure up,
To an irrational delusion, a mirages camouflage of lies
Deceit.
Dreaming child of occult fiction, this is deadly ground
From which you tread upon, for reality vision is obscured
By plastic surgeries faults hoods of realism.
Vintage are the mirrors in this fun house of lies,
Let us cover these soul suffocating devices,
Or shatter the glass of reflected illusions.
Then shall we embrace our differences, allowing the next
Generation to breathe a long sigh, of relief at last.
To accept and express their own individuality without
Social oppression, or misconceptions of beauty,
Then enriching the world with glorious infusions
Of unguarded inspirational promise.
What a wondrous planet of enlightment this would
Be if utopia really could exist, unfettered by mankind’s
Unclouded mind of perfection.
Forever after all is short time in the eyes of humanity,
Let us hold our children high and nurturing them with love
And respect, no matter what, not judging them by their
Beauty marks of imperfections,
Instead allowing them to shine in the glow of inspiration
Eternal.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2014


Details | Culture Poem | |

Call Me Insensitive

You call me insensitive,
But I don't believe that's true;
Because, you see,
It's all about me.
It's not about you.

You say your opinion doesn’t matter,
That I’ve no respect for your point of view;
But I do if we agree,
Because it’s all about me.
It’s not about you.

You say I’ve no compassion,
No feelings for your troubles or your blues;
But none of us is issue free,
And mine are all about me;
But…not about you.

A time old adage, 
“To thine own self be true.”,
Is all about choices you see.
My choices are all about me,
And, certainly, not about you.

So, when free or forced to make your choices
You’ll understand and know it’s true 
To decide what will or will not be,
Won’t be at all about me;
It will be all about you

But special moments confront each of us,
When what matters isn’t “Me”.
And while these moments are few,
They’re not about me, not about you.
For a time, it’s all about “We.”

Yes, “…no man is an island.”
Is a valid point of view;
But if it’s not about “We”, 
Then it’s all about me.
Sorry.  It’s not about you.

Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014


Details | Culture Poem | |

SPIRIT RIDER

Alone figure stands, 
On sunsets rock.
Summers hot breezes brush,
Against bare skins flesh.
Stalking the ageless path.
Behold histories Indian brave, 
Man, and horse intertwined.
Symbiotic beings joined,
They are one.
The spirit rider gallops, 
Across freedoms trail.
Cautiously, allying arrow unto bow,
Aiming swiftly his shot to kill.
Guardian’s raging bull charges,
Forward.
Protectors sacrifice, blood mingles,
Amongst dust clouds aftermath, 
His majesty lies slain.
Dark brown eyes close, 
Glimpsing blue sky for the,
Last time.
Heavens prairies, welcome destiny's,
Honorable foe,
The hunter kneels beside the giant's,
Stilled heart,
Giving thanks, singing chants rise,
Ascending heights greener, 
Pastures unto a higher plain.
It echoes in valleys deep,
Touching the lands of his,
 Fore fathers.
Tonight beneath flames tribal fires,
Rhythms beating drums, gives praise,
Many shall celebrate, feasting,
 In memories tribute,

  BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2013