Best Grande Poems
Now this is quiet a famous little stream, many untold story
The muddy waters run slow, but don't let it fool you when it comes alive
Divides the United States and Mexico, but it is just a line
Old Cottonwood trees and quick sand, some cross it for glory
A history of out laws crossed it fleeing into Mexico, some did not survive
Maybe holding up a bank or stealing from a gold mine
Long yesterdays ago, Pancho Villa and his raiders came
They robbed and killed, then head back to their sanctuary
Some though him to be a hero, to the poor he was a giver
He was an out law, that is where he got his fame
Even today there are those that will argue to the contrary
After he did his damage, he always crossed that river
Those muddy waters have seen a lot and still active
It has been a battle ground, many old cowboy songs sung
But like history, the old river changes too
Sometimes history is not very attractive
Those cottonwoods have seen many horse and cow thieves hung
Back in those days that what they had to do
The tides of the old river have changed. smugglers bring drugs to this side
No longer six shooters, it is machine guns now days
No more cowboys and Indians, now cocaine desperado thugs
Anything goes there, no such thing as pride
And the old river once again has had to change it's ways
It is all because of damn old drugs
Pene Grande (what I learned from the web today)
When you talk about mummies, Pene Grande
Would best be discussed when the kids were away
He was a mummy famed in his life
For having (well something that sure pleased his wife)
When he passed on, his new mummy home
Was in Palermo, Sicily’s old catacomb
The story is told of a young newlywed
Whose less than large husband was not much in bed
So she took a cloth and rubber Pene Grande’s fame
Then turned to her husband and rubbed him the same
The next night she lay with her husband and felt
A much greater presence and her heart did melt
When she opened her eyes, she screamed No, No, Sir!
For it was the ghost of Pene upon her
Everyone thought her crazy but it happened again
The next time with her husband, it sure wasn’t him
An exorcist said to get rid of the ghost
We must capture him when he exits the host
So a metal codpiece was affixed to her mate
And the lady lay back as a bit of ghost bait
Then as if on cue, Pene Grande came forth
Just as her husband was pointing due north
Then holy water was sprinkled and “poof”
The ghost was expelled, her husband the proof
Pene Grande’s spirit went back on his shelf
Left the husband’s small unit a mere ghost of itself
As for the ghost, he gained quite a crowd
Of little old ladies whose husbands stood proud
Rubbed by their women who wanted to lay
Even with ghosts for a “Pene Grande”
But the mummy’s now locked up so no one can touch
Cause even for Pene – too much is too much
Pro Patria Mori
Missouri volunteers bit bullets, watched
as Santa Ana's baggage washed
their brazen hair, hip deep
in the Rio Grande.
The ancient river moved across the land
Like slow drool down a leather cheek.
Bang! Paul Bunyan's balls
rolled down the Great Divide, rattled
across the porcelain sea.
Oh, the girls!
Hair hot and black, Whoopee!
Their tongues as pink as baby fat.
Now tongs drop a hissing crepe
on the defoliated plate. Butter complicates
our fingers, soils the bib.
We crack a claw. Like a crib
at Benin, wary and dull,
the eagle fills his nest with skulls.
Nickelodeon’s Ariana Grande
Sings like the delicate blossoms in May
Yet the singing bird is often heard
As the dancing diva to kiss the herd
The anatomist’s delight,
or his dilemma?
Yes, she is...
Odalisque...
how could she be less than perfect?
Surely Ingres didn’t get it wrong
when he painted her nude flesh
so voluptuous as to be tactile,
reclining oh so languid
on her left side,
alone in this exotic
blue velvet draped room,
looking directly at me
over her right shoulder,
betraying nothing
of her inner dialogue.
She’s aware of my presence;
how could it be otherwise?
Surely she must feel the heat
of my rapt voyeur’s stare
on her sinuous, sensuous back.
Which brings me to the issue of anatomy,
the facts of her body.
According to anatomists
who’ve given long hours
to the study of her bones,
hidden though they may be,
she’s spectacularly deformed.
You see, her head is too small,
her neck too long,
her arms aren’t the same length
(the left is shorter than the right),
she has five extra lumbar vertebrae
that twist her spine
into an impossible relationship with her pelvis,
thereby rotating her lower body
so as to enhance her porcelain sexuality.
Speaking strictly for myself in this matter,
I couldn’t care less about the facts.
I’m delighted that art trumped science,
that reality can be elongated, rotated,
and manipulated to achieve perfection.
http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Jean_Auguste_Dominique_Ingres,_La_Grande_Odalisque,_1814.jpg
The city doesn’t need any elevators
Or escalators or anything to push people up
There are no clouds in this brightened city
no bourgeoisie emancipation, no atypical beauty
silicon bosoms out on the overstretched skies
mechanical tirades of the undiluted selves
the cubicles at Grande elevators are full of
lowered shallow spaces of begotten lies
should the company now start manufacturing soaps?
or narcissistic pleasures of the condescending physical realm
and illegal sex tapes with real orgasms?
But would any of these have any upsurge
On the emotionless lonely workers
who have thrown people up all this while
keeping a low profile in this profane job
the crowded elevators do not inspire any orgy
or clichéd electricity failure induced seductions
there are just too many of them (not the orgies!!)
the office of Grande, meaning big and great and great as desolate
is densely illuminated with the low intensity money saver bulbs
waiting to die their organic death as they are un-switchable
the products, by the way, are now “auto maintained”
the elevator which doesn't work well
changes itself
the one which is an escapist shoots itself up,
beyond the last floor, turning into precarious ash
the loneliness in the office, which is on the ground floor
is only equal to a fugitive bird
without a pinch of shelter in this extended, tall,
gyrating and syrupy city
poet Louis A. BorgoPoet's PagePoemsQuotesCommentsStatsBiographySend MessageShare on FacebookShare on Twitter
Poems by Louis A. Borgo : 10 / 217 « prev. poem next poem »
A Sunday Afternoon On The Island Of La Grande Jatte - Poem by Louis A. Borgo
If a moment of rest is under a tree of a hat
Hat's off under an umbrella,
How sometime tile of the hat is a gesture fair well of catch,
Parting one language why is true romance between lover of lovers,
I' am in love with love with the idea of being in love,
Maintains look of appears shadow no mistake as of age,
Looks and colors to appease shelter the attain of a admire,
Flirt or a bit of a hick up gentlemen attire hold true.
The beach the sea scenery as it finest,
Night out days in does it hold true?
The beauty if a captivated of image would have to be,
In the portrait,
Living understand is not,
Of the moment.
Life evolve technology enhance do we adapt,
Or is Adaptability,
That hold concern.
Take for instinct blood fusion or cell respiration,
Adaptability and adaptation suit the character?
Yet develop true gentlemen,
Gentlemen Attire.
Une grande armée de moi!
J'ai été debout où tu m'as laissé
Priant pour que tu viennes me chercher
Mais maintenant, j'ai trouvé mon souffle blessé
Et ma seconde peau qui est déchirée
Eh bien, je sais ce que tu pensais
Quand tu m'as cassé en morceaux
Tu pensais de me regarder s'effacer
Mais j'ai donné chaque morceau un nom
Un de moi est plus sage,
Un de moi est plus fort
Un autre est un combatant,
Et il ya mille et un visages de moi!
Bienvenue sur ma révolution sacrée
Tous tes murs vont s'effondrer Cette fois,
tu auras un goût du perdre comlpet Cette fois,
la table va tourne en fait
Je vois un aperçu de la reconnaissance
Ta meilleure décision de l'heur
Il est désormais ta pire erreur
Oui c'est trop tard pour ton renaissance
Alors, comment tu te sens?
De comprendre que je vais te battre
Que je peux te vaincre
Que ce sont les plus doux pour moi
Maintenant que je suis plus sage
Maintenant que je suis plus fort
Maintenant que je suis un combattant
Et il ya mille et un visages de moi
Je me lèverai contre toi
Il ya mille et un visages de moi
Pourque tu m'as cassé chaque fois
Tu va affronter une grande armée de moi!!!
Ariana Grande, a gorgeous talented lady
A songbird from heaven, a voice smooth as gravy
Notes exquisite
Phrasing so delicate
Her sultry vibes are velvety and chocolaty
I'm not a fan of today's music scene
BUT if you've never heard Ariana Grande sing
You're in for a treat
Pure voice so complete
A glorious songbird you'll know what I mean
SO GRANDE LOVE
allure, passions, loving
dedicated importune, caress submitable retaining
Love for her
~
So I sore Love Her
surly do
undeniable
02/24/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
It aches the heart to see you cold.
We’d not believe had we been told,
That we’d get to meet the day
The hands of death snatch you away.
But alas! That time is here
And now we’ve lost our granny dear.
We’ll miss you much, the tongue can’t tell,
That tree from which we apples fell.
We’ll miss that voice, the words it dealt,
Those hands that nursed us back to health.
Rest granny, rest, you’ve done your part
You’ll live forever dear in our hearts.
Rest Mami, rest in the Lord’s bosom,
And know your seeds will grow and blossom.
Your time is here, the baton’s passed,
We’ll do our best to hold on fast
To values learned, the lessons taught
And cherish too the blessings brought.
It pains to bid farewell to one so dear,
So teary eyed, we say a Dieu grande mere.
SEURAT GRANDE JATTE EKPHRASED
Colour intermingled
divisions
juxtapose
&
complement
a supposed
‘as is’ moment
dot..
by dot..
promenade
activity
frozen forever
_Para ter um grande dia,
Hoje; e sempre
Pegue a sua bolsa de crenças
Marque um caminho,
ponha seu sonho a viajar!
_Para ter um grande dia,
ponha seu sonho a viajar,
Em cada trecho
Marque a sua presença.
_Para ter um grande dia,
Número,
ritmo,
velocidade, distância, dimensão...
_Para ter um grande dia,
Tenha nos teus olhos,
e no teu pulso,
a tua memória.
_Para ter um grande dia,
Faça já o que tem que ser feito
Faça já
Um pouco a mais.
Remember shutting that impossible-to-close door?
Well, the planks have been torn down
That door has been open once more...
And my effort to feel good in life,
Second choice...rebound.
I said I'd wait for you, my love.
What more must I do to be believable?
I am replacing my hurting with random stuff
And my effort to smile...unachievable.
No matter how enjoyable I seem
No matter how much fake laughter escapes my throat.
I think of what I wanted with you...and unrealistic dream.
An isolated castle with an uncrossable moat.
I had real feelings for you.
Didn't they show?
Truth hurts: You and I can never be.
My age...three years too high
Your age...three years too low.
I am faced as of now to leave once more.
I am unhappy and unkempt as I was before.
I trusted my instinct and I have to take responsibility.
My choices were not of a mature manner, my love.
But no matter what I am always going to be here...
you will see.
I am no ANGEL sent from Heaven above
But I can be your HERO when you are in severe need.
I will always, always love you
But as for this, my love...
This is...the Grand Finale.