Best Conquistadors Poems
When doves on evenings, calm and still, call out a hollow tone,
They rouse a medley, old as time, so few have ever known.
The whispered lines of its refrains resound of yesterday,
In ancient tales and bygone trails that man cannot portray.
I’ve rode and worked along a trail throughout my many years.
I’ve heard the tales the sages tell of raging Longhorn steers,
Of soldiers marching single file or mounted days on end,
Of Indians, conquistadors and Rangers tracking men.
Mackenzie Trail is not well known for time obscures its fame,
But high regard is placed on it by those who know its name.
Its story’s scribed in black and white, its remnants etched in stone,
Its way was marked by sweat and blood, by grave and bleaching bone.
The broad frontier that it traversed had yet to be surveyed
And danger seemed to lie in wait at every turn and grade.
From Fort Clark Springs to forts on north, it led Mackenzie’s men
To risk their lives out on the trail, then brought them home again.
A mound lies near Mackenzie Lake, where horse thieves met despair,
For Rangers tracked their hurried trail and hung them then and there.
And near a barn not far away, in Live Oaks’ blissful shade,
The remnants of a camp still lie where soldiers often laid.
I’ve rode the trail and damned the rock that cost my horse a shoe.
I’ve crossed its draws that filled with rain and made my lips turn blue.
Its rugged paths have tested me and all who’ve come this way,
Yet, it remains my trail through time, my bond with yesterday.
Mackenzie Trail will long survive, a monument to will,
That I recall when I ride near on evenings, calm and still;
When doves exclaim in harmony, their lonely, hollow tone
And rouse the medley, old as time, so few have ever known.
Categories:
conquistadors, adventure, cowboy-western, historyold, horse,
Form:
Quatrain
You hear about
the Black slave trade
but you never hear about
the white slave trade
Vikings stole
the Irish and scottish
selling them
for the white slave trade
Even today
the female slave trade
continues in all cultures
it should not be
about colour
It should be about
man's inhumanity to man
As a world
we should stand
against abuse
teach your children
to hate
the colour of a mans skin
you teach your children
to abuse people
teach your children
to hate abuse
you create a world
that loves peace
Anger and hatred
build violence
yet there has already been
too much violence
ninety five million
American Indians
Killed and abused
by the spanish
conquistadors
Ten millions
africans killed
to line the pockets
of king Leopold the second
Millions of Jewish people
killed in the second world war
Man's inhumanity to man
every day
we prove that we can hate
yet
creating more violence
is not the answer
and only leads
to the cycle of war.
Categories:
conquistadors, history, ireland, slam, slavery,
Form:
Narrative
"Laid Upon Their Alters"
qhapaq hucha
it begins at birth
the most precious
resource of all
we are registered,
audited, one by one
under the rod measured
by lizard rule
the capacocha
children of complacency
dumbed down, some
thorns, uppity, removed
heads counted
to be held high
as trophies, those played
and won
for the greater good
oh yes,
we belong;
we belong,
we’ve always belonged,
to the ruling class
sapa inca
orders sacrifice, daily
all are held up to the Sun
of the others’ huacas,
accountable,
we are ears of corn
sheared and scattered
kurnels sown to replenish
a new world
fresh crops
laid upon
their oily alters
falls the empires
one by one
like conquistadors
they dissolve us
holy sees parted
red and bleeding
we are all children
well drugged
foreplay for prophecies
all war rooms
cleanly wiped
disinfected, by fire
baptised deja vu
submerged
together
we are something else
to behold
realm of the four parts
these final moments
matter
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
“With their royalty and focus of worship destroyed,
the general population readily accepted Spanish rule
as “what was done.” This created local assistance which,
along with outside factors, allowed the Spanish
to completely conquer the region by 1572,
marking the end of the Inca Empire.“
“This pattern of manipulating a people’s concept
of ideological power, in conjunction with
relational and material power,
is seen throughout history
and is often a large component
of the fall of great empires.”
"That’s why the banalities matter.
When the real issues come up, healthy states,
the ones capable of handling and minimizing
everyday dysfunction, have a great deal more capacity
to respond than those happily waltzing toward their end.
But by the time the obvious, glaring crisis arrives
and the true scale of the problem becomes clear, it’s far too late.
The disaster—a major crisis of political legitimacy, a pandemic,
a climate catastrophe—doesn’t so much break the system
as show just how broken the system already was."
Categories:
conquistadors, humanity, muse, perspective,
Form:
Narrative
Do we see the world
through rose coloured glasses
Durst cut up the bodies of people
Psychologists say
He must have a mental illness
perhaps but the spanish
conquistadors cut up the bodies
of american indian babies
did they all have a mental illness
the New Zealand Maori
had the victory feast
where they sat and ate
the captives that lost their battle
culture after culture has been
cannibalistic treating each other
in horrible ways
did they all have mental problems
look back through history
and every culture every race
has treated others horribly
The American indian tied
a man legs to two different bending trees
and used the trees to split him in two
the Japanese Used slivers of bamboo
to take off one nail at a time
The English had hung drawn a quartered
a man was hung then dragged through the town
behind horses before being cut in four
with his head put on a stake
to warn others
not to break the law
The Russians attacked and killed
their Czar and his family
killing their aristocracy
to create a Communistic state
do they all have a mental disorders
or are all people capable
of horrific behaviours
I don't think that
I could ever do what has been done
but how much
of who am i
has been taught to me over the years
if I had been brought up in a different way
could I be a different person
How much do we owe to God
the bible teaches love thy neighbour
the bible became the foundation of our laws
is civilisation just a fabric
a facade
an illusion
created to make ourselves feel better about life
are we progressing toward paradise on earth
or are we heading back into the depths
of deprivation
Is man just an animal waiting to be unleashed
or is he the scholar
the lover waiting to grow
Imagine the bomb going down on Iraq
their metal fragments slicing like knives
through a two year old
Granted they attack the world
they use children as cannon fodder bombs
when will human beings learn to love all people
no matter what colour we are all the same
Categories:
conquistadors, abuse, people, prejudice,
Form:
Narrative
From Valhalla’s fortress of spears and shields,
Valkyrie riders make their daily runs…
Crossing Bifrost to Midgard’s battlefields,
Harvesting warriors till Ragnorak comes.
Flying from Valhalla on their war horses,
Thundering hooves beat like old battle drums,
Odin’s blond daughters watching the forces--
Harvesting warriors till Ragnorak comes.
Legionnaires, Pikemen, Hussars and Spartans;
Storm Troopers, Crusaders and Saracens;
Musketeers, Vikings, and Gladiators;
Watusi, Cossacks, and Conquistadors.
As long as men hear the sounds of war drums,
They’ll harvest the best till Ragnorak comes.
Valkyries search for those to stand vanguard,
Recruiting Odin’s Einherjar armies.
Warriors pass Valgrind to live in Asgard--
Honored to be served by the Valkyries.
Hoplites, Commandoes, and Mujahideens;
Samurais, Yeomen, and US Marines;
Guerrilas, Dragoons, and Panzer Tankers;
Grenadiers, Mamelukes, and Bezerkers.
As long as men hear the sounds of war drums,
Valkyries harvest till Ragnorak comes.
Categories:
conquistadors, death, mythology, religion, song,
Form:
Lyric
My Saint John flow on
Through forest, marsh and town's spread
Tablecloth of stars
Conquistadors gone
The blue herons walk alone
In moonlight's silence
River and lone night
Memory is a wind's hope
Rustling swamps for gold
Let us keep our thoughts
In slow meandering lakes
The salt sea invites
Less Timucuan
Waken find us new remnants
In Ferdinand's dream
Love wilts in salt tears
The heart snakes the bush of grief
Tense as beauty stares.
Waleka, Rio
De Corrientes, Rio
De San Juan, the same
A gaudy green thrill
Peace sanctuary of births
Life from life flowing
Still at Sawgrass breast,
The Seminole blood of strength
I from Afric's tent
We the better ore
Than gleaming figment of fort
Lovers on this shore
Sea abandoned child
Scarred and aching love consoles
Tributary feasts.
O otters swim deep
Beneath the currents I weep
But a shrimp of tear
What is gone is gone
The sun makes still day's new dawn
Oceans carry on
Ships cargo joy fresh
As pines from which warblers sing
Magics of today.
My Saint John flow on
O'er fertile grounds of sweet love
Blooming moonlight still.
Categories:
conquistadors, allegory, nature
Form:
Haiku
Early
Before Sunrise
They came in ships of steel
Bearing great gifts, all we needed
To die
Categories:
conquistadors, betrayal, war,
Form:
Cinquain
From river to the sea, an ocean of blood, filled with cries of children;
peace is broken, homes destroyed, lives shattered, a sea of refugees fleeing torrential bombs, under the ether of Western civilization resisting a ceasefire.
From river to the sea, Palestine is on the brink, like an express train to unspeakable tragedy befalling a whole nation, slated for extinction.
History's marching backward, to Rwanda and Auschwitz, a clever strategem for land without its original people, invaded by European settlers citing holy book to lay their claims, like Spanish conquistadors, proclaiming an "empty continent."
From river to the sea, a nation rises and put down like new Spartacus, mutinous against their slavery, and the new King Cnut desperately summoning the waves for Eretz Israel, with no more checkpoints and separation walls; they're only needed for an apartheid state.
From river to the sea, priceless treasures, highlighting architectural ensembles of centuries, buried under the chorus 'finish them,' finish them all, old, young, women, children, their animals too. The magic of land that spawned world religions suddenly has dwindled to a trickle of humanity, the catharsis of a crisis of spirit, shutting down conscience, and soon new settler homes shall be built on tower of skulls, with Gaza's unwelcome beaches available to western tourists again, offering kayakers great thrills at discounted prices, with its banks lined with daffodils and new palm trees, so the pleasure boats can anchor for a day to take advantage of the whirlpools of new resorts with a big sign, no Palestinian allowed.
From river to the sea, the light glows within the dispossessed, and with each martyr, their spirit of resistance blooms, and the saga lingers: Palestine will be free, and Jews and Muslims shall live together in peace.
Categories:
conquistadors, anger,
Form:
Free verse
I've heard it said that if all the people
who ever lived and died, were buried together,
it would fill the size of Spain.
No gazpacho, no El Greco
No Flamenco and no Bolero
Just row upon row, with nowhere to go
on a Saturday night
Dead all over, nothing to do
Of course Guernica might fit in
as would certainly, the Inquisition
overseen by some church patrician
staking out his historical place
in God's eyes, of liturgical grace
But who would be then accepting
a place of Conquistadors amors
if all the American continents
couldn't be relied on to be invaded?
There's still the rest of Europe.
But stones and dates of birth and death
as far to horizon as can be seen
would be enough to put anybody off
Pablo Casals and his pals would
flee for less shaded climes
and maybe start again, in Portuguese
Pamplona's bulls unknown to run
would only be cast in marbled stone
above the heads of political deads,
world-famous and anonymous unknowns
So perhaps it's best to strew the gone
over on and around the world beyond
continental lands to north and south
to spread the wealth by word and mouth
We all in time will, without exception
join the breathless dance of sleep
Leave the Iberian Peninsula to
Basques, the Castilians and Catalans
The lifeless can lie in hinterlands
peering up from past the Pyrenees
© Goode Guy 2013-07-27
Categories:
conquistadors, death, introspection, life,
Form:
Narrative
Aye, Spanish Needles, far from native shore
We the Diaspora exult to meet
Though our station, not what we dreamt of yore
Is battered by grimy dust and slimed sleet
Aye, Spanish Needles, still unbowed you stand
A dazzling prince in a far foreign land.
Dreaming gold reposed on ivory stars
Where evening's chill draws near the weary night
Shining still despite dusty mannered cars
Aloof in their suburban hedge from blight
I see you huddled in mass fore my eyes
Aching through El Dorado's balmy sighs
Extreme doubt supposed in old poet's tale
Of woodland springs and love's certain patience
Your hardy forms admit a desert gale
Thrashing grim your tropic resilience,
Beside beaten edges, and brackish yards
Still hold time's beauty against fate's crude cards.
Aye, Spanish Needles, resident aliens
From another shore, what long age brought you
From the ocean's salt milk, and fresh grievance
To stake your claim to Conquistadors' clue
This Florida had breast to fountain new youth?
Will you now tell islands this empty truth?
Juan Ponce De Leon took back nothing too
Except the joy of the great river here
But I have seen gold softened by silk dew
On regal petals protesting time's wear
And I have kept better company than
Ribault, Jackson, or the old Cowford clan.
Aye, Spanish Needles, brother of the earth
With me, dare my heart now its hope to green
Like you from this rustic place telling mirth
In golden gold and whitest white yet seen
Something in your character is changed here
Something common is now a beauty rare.
It is the mettle of our birth for each pain
To mirth, and wear love's beauty like the stars
Singing redemption songs with tears for rain
And count for medals our battles bright scars
Aye, Spanish Needles, bright golden and white
My heart like a ship rejoice you hold the light.
Beside the beaten edge in full abandon
There prolific in your numbers, a car
Of rubbery resilience, in my
Categories:
conquistadors, hope, inspirational, natureheart, old,
Form:
Verse
(The Spanish conquerors of the
Americas read out their legal
document, the "Requerimiento",
to the Indians. Failure to comply
meant the Spanish were free to
do what they wanted.)
Conquistadors in Vera Cruz
found themselves a radical ruse.
If pillaging was muy, muy lento,
they just whipped out Requerimiento.
Composed in fifteen seventeen,
this document was ultra-mean.
It won more scraps than Robert E. Lee,
was deadlier than DDT.
Suppose you met an Aztec mob
that wasn't happy to be robbed,
and far from handing on a platter
its gold and silver, wives and daughters,
was minded to contest the matter,
Requerimiento got unrolled.
In legal Latin, gooks were told
with lots of quid and quod and quaem,
exactly what was sought of them.
The royal writ was read aloud
to help the puzzled Aztec crowd.
So none may later look askance,
the dinks got every sporting chance.
All the Aztecs had to do
(clause forty-nine of section two)
was pay the pope an entry fee,
accept infallibility,
and send some gold to line his coffers.
Who could baulk at such an offer?
Clause fifty-eight - the Spanish king
must get his cut of Aztec bling.
They're hazy over "king" and "Spain"?
We'll have long decades to explain.
They don't respond? It simply means
we blow them all to smithereens.
The finer points can wait till later.
Non-compliance means they're traitors.
We've read the thing, so now we're free
of all responsibility
for theft or damage, flood or fire,
and if perchance it should transpire
that they don't dig what's going down,
why, take it up with Cross and Crown.
Thank God it's not like that today.
Before we step into the fray,
we tell them they're a "conflict zone",
and send in laser-guided drones.
If they accept their crude religion
is now a dead and pointless pigeon,
and take divorce and teenage moms,
then we won't use our cluster bombs.
There's other stuff here, on our list -
like Coca-Cola, lobbyists,
The Dukes of Hazzard, John McCain,
obesity and acid rain ...
at least we don't do like before,
and sell them, as we wade ashore
to occupy their ancient land,
some junk they'll never understand.
Categories:
conquistadors, history,
Form:
Quatrain
Standing proud are the buildings they’ve erected
Bold and tall, contemporarily dressed
in concrete and metal attire
Architects of the future
laying down their visionary foundation in the present
Rising up from the ground
are their impure skyscraper dreams of global domination
A false resurrection,
that in due time will be torn down
Can’t you see it?
Look at the ancient Roman Coliseum,
a picture of antiquity
Showing us what the future of
modern conquerors will be
Broken down stones covered with weeds,
portal doors to the gladiator arena cast asunder
Ancient roars
no longer yielding
any amphitheater noise
All of their false high places
rent crumbling to the ground
Can’t you see it?
Look at the ancient Egyptian Pyramids,
a picture of antiquity
Showing us what the future of
modern conquistadors will be
Pharaonis schemes of world domination dreams,
chambers of a death tomb buried in dirt green
Ancient sepulchers
of twice wicked evil men,
who didn’t believe in God’s miracles
These be the pictures of antiquity,
showing us the flawed structures of inhumanity
These be the pictures of antiquity,
created by architects of a doomed history
Categories:
conquistadors, analogy, judgement, perspective, truth,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Live Oak, emphasis on the Live,
hundreds of years older than me,
bolder than me, demystifying history
through skin and bark. So, what am I
at 70?--an eager pup, wired
to write. So, what are you, old stoic?
gorilla of silence--grandeur
noblisse'd to guard the silence.
Ghosted in moss, you are perennial
Christmas, garlanded in gauze
by airy, deep-breathing conquistadors
who came to take, and stayed to give
their gray-on-gray, until eyes
surprised by bright green vines,
find, like me, homing space
in a provident place. How I love
this coast, this barrier island,
this weathered retreat
of the millionaire's boast! Yet, oaks,
unimpressed, stretch beyond
miniscule balconies, where sitting,
I have a life to seize, a day
unwritten.
Categories:
conquistadors, philosophy
Form:
Free verse
She is a widow, never wanting to marry again, never defiling her vows,
her five children have moved to other parts of the United States;
and they seldom visit her, except on the very special season of Christmas,
when she adorns her home with garlands and lights to honor the Child Jesus...
Her name is Amelia, a petite lady from Andalusia,whose passion is writing poems,
and her Spanish accent is somewhat heavy, but the words are clear and precise;
on long summer's nights she speaks of her native land...meadows covered with camellias,
and tells tales of Columbus and the Conquistadors with feathered helmets...
She was quite beautiful in her younger days, daises in her dark, lustruos hair,
and sea-colored eyes that resembled the Mediterranean Sea, which brought her nostalgia;
and she often wore a folklorist costume of stripes of bright orange and yellow like her flag,
and now she's confined to a wheelchair looking sad...who has camellias for Amelia?
This past spring I planted a dozen of camellias plants in the empty and barren lawn,
hoping they would bloom when she would stare at the huge Atlantic Ocean;
and with eyes as sharp as a youngster, Amelia would see her beloved Spain,
and those lush meadows covered with camellias to bring her bitter-sweet pain.
In the quite hours of an early August' morning, Amelia rose to say her prayers,
and with the rosary in her devoted hands, she peaked outside and surprisingly smiled;
a beautiful garden of camellias appearing in front of her joyous eyes... she was so delighted,
but she couldn't go outside and caress them, but thought to herself, " Someone cares! "
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Categories:
conquistadors, devotion, faith, happiness, history,
Form:
Narrative
PART I.
I.
each night...
I think about the moment when we'll vanish
on the doormat of an empty house
because I know some day they will come -
the malignant conquistadors and their moon colored hounds
when this century of the sleepless will come to an end
so I'm trying to unravel the missing monologues
while indulging in many contradictions
stranded on remote beaches
seeking the redemption with sand in my hair
like a famished cormorant rambling the landfill
in a very weird mental state
II.
it's becoming clear...
that time has shunned this godforsaken place
and as I'm following the familiar landmarks
following the strange candlelit pathways
I know that your bedroom is in a saltwater heaven
far away from the angry masses
becalming myself in my transient refuge
while you're deploying your crying talent
we went loose from our moorings and you refused the safety buoy
now tide of our sensations is coming up fast
turning us into these crumpled wrecks
left to rust at the shallow bay
III.
these sleeping islands...
are just relics of my hopes, diaries of fading sunlight
after we carved our scriptures on the dormant rocks
creating museums of our own memories
at the very edge of despair
and I think that we'll never be missed
you, me and my companion of delusions
but remember dear, there are no boundaries
be sure that I'd row my soul over the vast seas
to see you standing on the abandoned shoreline
and our handprints will fossilize in the interim
imprinting the fatal visions to rocky soil
Categories:
conquistadors, lost love, ocean, pain,
Form:
Epic