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The Little Portuguese Princess by de Casanove, Mathieu

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The Best Portuguese Poems

Details | Portuguese Poem | Create an image from this poem.


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

Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2010

Details | Portuguese Poem | Create an image from this 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


Copyright © Mohammad Yamin | Year Posted 2010

Details | Portuguese Poem | Create an image from this 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 Bic Gi-Sa's Landscape and Towns Contest 

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2010

Details | Portuguese Poem | Create an image from this 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.

Copyright © Gert W. Knop | Year Posted 2010

Details | Portuguese Poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Whips Of History - 4

Injustice is just an inconvenience until it is proven...
When the sun hit their helmets it startled the very souls of the natives
a signal upon their eyes that spoke like a siren of ill prophecy to the bone,
the armaments of a hell that hushed any hope of mythical tribal ties,
steel and steeds struck and trampled stone age traditions
and the Cross and Crown crushed the crowds that gathered for the Conquistadors, 
arquebus bursts blew away bodies like brittle straw bundles
crossbows crippling the courage of Indians with crosscut arrows,
Spanish war dogs demonic in pursuit of pagan bowels 
tearing into Incan and Aztec flesh with furious fangs,
Virococha and Quetzalcoatl were not to be found in the battles
but in the temple plazas the hot blood did spill into a new calander of rites,
the mita of a hundred generations meted out for an ecomienda of ceaseless serfdom,
men and women converted, not to a new class of faith, but a new caste of animal kingdom,

Men and women converted, not to a new class of faith, but a new caste of animal kingdom, 
Captain we've lost three more this morning,  the flux fever has finished their fight,
that's thirteen total since we disembarked from the Ivory Coast ladden like a whale with 375 of them...
The Dahomey warlords do not believe in the blood of their captives, nor pity their plight
the Portuguese,  French and English store them like wet wood in the beach barracks
and here on the Sea Lion we lie them down like sweating corpses,
Toby, I've been shipping in this trade triangle for 18 years, pretending that its just business, 
the stink and screams of human cargo are spoiling my soul, forcing slow tears,
the ocean used to look so blue to me, now it's just a rolling swell of suffering, 
ring the bell three times for Neptune, before tossing them into the deep tide at twilight, 
tell Jenson that I value his sea smarts, but that if I see him torment another human being
I will burn a hole through his throat with a fire iron and hang him from the front mast,
my conscience won't allow me to be a courier of insanity anymore,
every voyage begins with innocence, and all must end with admitting who and what you are...

Every voyage begins with innocence,  and all must end with admitting who and what you are...
Today a man was freed who's back has the scars of a thousand cruelties, 
abolition freed his will to the labor of liberty yet his soul cannot escape the field master,
blood stains upon unrefined cotton he has not forgotten in his sleeping cries,
his great grandmother spoke of stars in an African sky
his grandfather revealed traditions told quietly about ancient spirits,
when his Mother died under the sun he didn't ask why
and as his Father fought the overseer he knew what honor is,
by 1810 Denmark, Britain, and the United States of America had banned transatlantic slave trading, 
Sierra Leone had become an industrious colony of former slaves,
by 1865 civil war in the United States dismantled slavery,
the 13th and 14th Amendments became the pillars of a new nation's days,
oh how fast the fields have grown,
so much more for our future to fathom,

I will beat you with it, choke you with it, and love you with it,
your beauty Avia, will survive in the legend of Goshen's price,
brutality is in the very bedrock here, within the law insanity kept,
yet it are the truly noble whom rise to death with confidence, 
slay the symbols of captivity and you'll be set free,
Gentlemen,  behold, the wild yet curious Laurentia, an unexplored beauty,
wonder not what good your purpose is, the soul knows what must be,
we will escape to the frontier where our love and independence have priority, 
We will be the trustees of life's passions...
the world has awoken to our march, to our lightning it will listen,
Captivity can be the catalyst for self empowering revelations...
Injustice is just an inconvenience until it is proven...
men and women converted, not to a new class of faith, but to a new caste of animal kingdom, 
Every voyage begins with innocence,  and all must end by admitting who and what you are...
so much more for our future to fathom,
this whip is a relic of war -

I began composing this epic on July 3rd,
and completed the work on August 7th,
investing approximately 135 hours of intellect. 
Also, I did not compose the 15th sonnet
prior to writing the preceeding 14 sonnets...Justin A. Bordner

Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2016

Details | Portuguese Poem | Create an image from this 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.

Copyright © Roy Jerden | Year Posted 2013

Details | Portuguese Poem | Create an image from this 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.

written 2014
contest Wind sponsor Skat

Copyright © Shadow Hamilton | Year Posted 2014

Details | Portuguese Poem | Create an image from this 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,
And Antarctica.

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

Copyright © Abdulhafeez Oyewole | Year Posted 2013

Details | Portuguese Poem | Create an image from this poem.


All Porto geese 
speak Portuguese.

Volodymyr Knyr

Copyright © Volodymyr Knyr | Year Posted 2014

Details | Portuguese Poem | Create an image from this 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. 

Copyright © Stephen Kilmer | Year Posted 2013

Details | Portuguese Poem | Create an image from this poem.


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* 


Copyright © Wilma Neels | Year Posted 2013

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Land of The kings

A name reflective of its traditional kingship is its identity, showcasing a cultural strength and heritage. A huge trader with an Asian giant is this land upholding the Kwanza like the Indian respect to its Rupee. Indifference is shown to the culture of tipping; substances like cigarettes can stand as replacement to cash. The semba is a mother influence to many others like the samba of Brazil and it has a zero tolerance approach towards its public structures and security zones. It is an epitome of the continent’s blessing in wealth and resources this land shakes hands with the black diamonds from beneath but once bowed its head to the rule of the Portuguese. Now standing as free as a large open space, yet still humiliated by the shackles of the African curse.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2015

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a gay sonnet

A Friday of Gayness 

Today I drove to Faro town I wanted a meal of tuna steak with 
onions at the café I used to frequent fifteen years ago.
The place had gone upmarket and so had the prices one waiter 
remembered me but not my wife and she took a dislike to him  
said he was effeminate; the café has two parts, one with a wine bar 
I mostly sat there.  Oscar Wilde came in or someone looking as him, 
he remarked of what he had observed during the day an intelligent 
mind who could recite his own poems beautifully .

I decide to become gay too, to be frivolous and happy, but avoid 
the sex thing the very thought made me shudder.
Alas, I had to drive my wife home I tried to translate some of 
Oscar`s remarks into Portuguese, she didn`t think it was funny
But that was my fault telling jokes is not my metier so I was 
back being my pedestrian self 

Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2016

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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. 

Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta | Year Posted 2010

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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.

Copyright © farah chamma | Year Posted 2013

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the pleasure of old age

The pleasure of old age 
This is good morning only been up twice in the night and not 
Stumbled over furniture, his wife kept filling the house with 
Unwanted things. When he protest she says he lacks artistic sense. 
A good morning because he was able to empty his bladder 
Without sounding like a cat on a hot tin roof - yes I know-

Whoever when young thought of the simple Act of evacuation? 
The pleasure it is to do so without using 
A suppository, the simple enjoyment of the thriving completed. 
There is, especially when old, a certain sexual pleasure of 
A body that functions, it can so easily go wrong, that extra 
Glass of whisky, a glass of wine one should have left
Untouched on the table, with a cloth clean as a cerulean sky. 

Today he would only have soup for Lunch and no red wine. 
Better be on the safe and alive. But there are moments he 
Thinks “what does it matters you are dying anyway; silly man.”
 God didn’t give you extra time to read slimming magazines 
But to be a connoisseur of Portuguese red wine, that is mild as 
Spring and dreamy as a horse chewing hay in his stable when 
It rains and the farmer has gone to Sunday mass.  

Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2014

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Germinate the seed for ten weeks inside
Petunia grows in the ground with minerals
Pink petals and a stem
I say it is not a flower
It is Gregory
Petunia came from South America
A different culture cultivating plants
I don’t speak their language; Spanish, Portuguese 
So Gregory it is
My Master’s degree is in botany
I have a PHD in flower
There is no petunia in religion or philosophy
None in the world according to me
According to my political affiliation and relations
There is Gregory
I water it and give it sun and take it for a walk
It continues with pink petals and a stem
One day it will grow into a fine young man
A president
Exactly as I planned 
It will not just run a country
But a vegetative state
Exactly as I said

Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2014

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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

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 

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 
Infinitely indelible thought that 
Broken in all man can make,

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 

September 2009 Jeff Troyer

Copyright © Jeff Troyer | Year Posted 2010

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''My princess diddles on the shores of Brazil''

My princess diddles on the shores of Brazil;
in clear, crude notes her lips curse in Portuguese;
her lewdness makes the earth and sun stand still--
what a tragedy if she were just a tease!
To gaze upon her rude face is what I don't miss;
to greet her with a vulgar, vile embrace
and kiss her sex would give her the greatest bliss--
the thought repels me and makes my heart race!
The distance between us, like a thick mist,
keeps us apart. But I by heaven swear
that someday we'll have our disgusting tryst
nevertheless in the same hemisphere. 
     And if she's not against waiting for me,
     I'll do my best to diddle her by the sea!

Copyright © Ngoc Nguyen | Year Posted 2014

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To Your Majesty, One Big....

...Hoender - Afrikaans, Pulë - Albanian, ???? - Arabic, ?????? - Belarusian, ???? - Bulgarian, 
Pollastre - Catalan, ? - Chinese (Simplified), ? - Chinese (Traditional), Piletina - Croatian, 
Kurecí - Czech, Kylling - Danish, Kip - Dutch, Kanaliha - Estonian, Manok - Filipino, 
Kana - Finnish, Galiña - Galician, ??t?p???? - Greek, ??? - Hebrew, ???? - Hindi, Csirke - 
Hungarian, Kjúklingur - Icelandic, Ayam - Indonesian, Sicín - Irish, ?? - Japanese, 
??? - Korean, Calis - Latvian, Vištiena - Lithuanian, ??????? - Macedonian, 
Ayam - Malay, Kylling - Norwegian, ???? - Persian, Kurczak - Polish, Pui - Romanian, 
?????? - Russian, ???????? -  Serbian, Kuracie - Slovak, Kuku - Swahili, Kyckling - Swedish, 
??? - Thai, Tavuk - Turkish, ????? - Ukrainian, Gà - Vietnamese, Cyw Iâr - Welsh, 
????? - Yiddish, Huhn - German, Frango - Portuguese, Poulet - French, Pollo - Italian, 
Pollo - Spanish, Chicken - Maltese, Chicken - Slovenian, Chicken - English.,...-=.....-=..-=..-
=......HA! HA! HA!...for old times sake...lol...Your Kidster, Your Majesty.

Copyright © SillyBilly theKidster | Year Posted 2010

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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.   

Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2011

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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.

Copyright © Charles Clive | Year Posted 2012

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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.    

Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2013

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a life of dreams

This life of Dreams 

I have been in bed today, yesterday after taking up waking
I was so enthusiastic that I overdid it took pictures planned
The fell I was going to walk tomorrow had heard I could see 
Wild boars there. I got overtired and sat on a stone under 
A tree since it began raining. I looked like a scarecrow 
A farmer picked me up and planted me in his field, and I hung
There to someone heard my cry for help.

The farmer apologised the Portuguese are polite people 
When not driving cars on narrow road then they become 
Murderous bullies and shout expletives at people who try 
To cross the road with the slowness of an aged person, and
To think the Portuguese young care about their old parents. 

Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2016

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Matutinal Features

Another dark warm day with an heavy atmosphere/Humid
Not into dark days and my washing machine is noisily killing me, 
Coffee the life hike up
The always nice counter persons/English, Spanish, Portuguese/I always try to focus on something/A newspaper/Then seeking for my needs/ as a conversationalist I like to see what's going on and the exchange of views, ideas and information/ Today the chitchat was
Immigration/Vibes from educated people/Sincere desire for the other welfare and wellbeing I think

O Variety! 
O Benignant Good-Hearted Goddess!  
O Bless, Boost Bless Boost!

My Bus
My matutinal route/Beautiful faces/ African-American women/All beautiful shinning souls/After a certain age they look epic to me/ There's a mystic that I cannot explain/Even risking an overstatement my perception is clear/Larger-than-life women/Eyes nose mouth chin,Faces of charisma.
The physiognomy in different moods and perspectives the art of judging facial features is one of my hobbies/Indicators expressing person's temper, character
Returning/Same Bus/Mix of cultures/5 most spoken languages in the planet were certainly represented/Creole that I try to understand but due to the mixing of semantics and dialects the understanding is disperse/Arab phrases/Compliments/Outside someone with a lost insight a disoriented soul shouting, crying out something/Preoccupied I made a quick prayer/ The connection with deity always brings Peace/Mother and daughter getting out pampering and nurturing each other and my sense of wellbeing/ ANOTHER STOP/There is always someone yelling on the phone in a larger bus stop/Commuters generally respond with hungry and startled faces/Some look comprehensive and complacent/I reaffirm my decision not to go mobile/It's about human behaviour/ An obvious addiction/ I lost several friends because of mobile intolerance/It's something imbibed in our culture to an extreme like coffee, tea, sugar, alcohol /With a liability/To alienate communication beyond the bounds of what is acceptable/A compulsive addictive behaviour that is killing conversation, the rules of etiquette and killing/BROAD AND MARKET/People greeting one another with genuine satisfaction on the rush to get inside, entrepreneurs and employees in business suits/THE IRONBOUND/Where a great part of the gastronomic world tastes are represented, construction in each corner "Lets Move Forward"/ People jogging in the park/destination/John Paul II Plaza

Copyright © PEDROS FERNANDES | Year Posted 2013