Best Portugal Poems
The Town of Sintra, Portugal
A tourist attraction, a lovable town
With its twisting and turning roads and lanes
Gardens where Eucalyptus and fur have grown
A town that past glory maintains
The mountainous terrains like ups and downs of life
Apartments on top of hills piercing the skies
Serene, calm and free of hustle, bustle and strife
Each and every fruit tree blossoms and thrives
The Castle of Moors on the highest peak
Pronounces the modesty of Muslim kings
The Pena Palace’s adornments a language of glamour speak
The relics of monument bygone memory brings
Scratch the dust and see what lies beneath
Thousands of impressions of yesteryears
The traversing soldier’s with swords in sheath
And Poet Byron’s1 foot-prints as the dust clears
Debonair nobility in Sintra resides
Decency and charm are the wares he sells
For guests red carpet of generosity provides
His life in harmony of nature excels
The Pera Roche of Sintra, the peaches so sweet
The bakeries and bolos with tastes profound
Its pottery and tiles no one can beat
A paradise on earth that people have found
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1. Lord Byron wrote many of his poems sitting in the gardens of Sintra
Foreign Travel- Portugal
It is all that is unspoken that gives a place its atmosphere.....the endless turmoils that come from living....peaceful Celts conquered by Romans
after centuries of resisting. The conquerers monuments still dominate large paved squares .....wide mosaic walking malls with outdoor cafes set a carefree atmosphere. Cobblestones retain the ancient tone of busy roads.
Teal seas sweep out to weathered coastlines ....white buildings jumbled over low hills. Resilient vineyards, olive orchards, cypress and eucalyptus trees, impervious to wind, dot the stony landscape. Dusty green foliage that triumphantly survives between rains.
.....And then there are the people- proud gracious and friendly. A cuisine that is complex but simple in a mind boggling variety. Delicate pastries filled with rich custards, endless varieties of savory pies. Earthy rustic dishes of meat,fish, beans and colorful salads. Buffets crowded with hearty breads, fragrant croissants and inviting desserts. A gastronomic adventure.
....next came the discovery of nesting storks at Comporte, a small coastal,resort town, one hour south of Lisbon. We encountered them in giant stick nests high atop tall chimneys on ancient buildings.
After that -was Casa Palmela ...our most treasured find. A regal, historic residence turned five star hotel. Grand in an old-world style.
Set on a vineyard with low white stucco walls, tall conifers and palms-low-growing with thick sturdy trunks. Who could describe the relaxed balmy atmosphere, the evenings discovering new delicacies and fine wines
in the warm glow of sunset. All too soon we had to leave
But then, why did we leave? To return again, I'm sure.
9/24/17
Foreign travel
Contest Judged: 10/7/2017 1:16:00 PM
Sponsored by: Thvia Shetley
Honorable Mention
Costa, Nacho goals
first World Cup VAR decision-
Ronaldo hat trick
Copyright © 2018 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
Published 2018 in "2018 World Cup Senryu" via wattpad.com
It was in the eighties, a winter day in Funchal,
the capital of Madeira, when a woman gave birth.
She was an anonymous, struggling woman
sailing the seas of poverty, with three other
children to feed.
At first, she hesitated to have this little baby,
the fourth to come, because the family salary
did not cover more. Her husband, a good man,
who fought in a war in Africa for years,
and, in a different way, still fighting with himself,
he was of no help to the family at that time.
Finally, she took a decision as a mum,
to give light to her new baby.
After that moment, nothing changed for years,
until this baby was a little boy.
Then, he started to show signs of being special.
His intelligence, the way he faced life,
his unique behaviour.
He started thinking about turning a football
into his livelihood to have a better future
for himself and his family, and he certainly did.
As a teenager, his father couldn´t help him much,
but he also liked football, so, that fed the boy´s dreams.
He had a hard time in Lisbon at the beginning
of his career at the football school. He also suffered
from bullying, something that helped him to increase
his aims even more.
However, he also had friends
whom he remembers with great affection.
When he was eighteen,
he spread his wings to fly higher. He went to England,
where his dream started to come true.
After that, the Funchal´s star
showed that light that became brighter and brighter.
He was the best football player in the world;
Portugal, England, Spain, Italy, and keep on going.
A little particle coming from a poor Portuguese area
that reached many hearts.
I, personally don´t like football too much,
but I´m really enchanted about stories
that have so much to teach us.
And not only that, but this well-known sportsperson
is also a well-known friend of those who need him.
He really jumped and sorted out hard obstacles
through his life, to achieve the goal he set
for himself as a child.
What a great lesson taught!,
splendid, admirable lady-mum,
outstanding, unbeatable son.
He was born as a shining star,
whose light illuminates many paths to follow,
as a professional sportsman and as a born fighter from humility.
All those talks we had, your breath smoky.
All those plans we had to someday meet.
And then I felt the fear turning my legs icy
while we climbed toward the sky’s craggy peaks.
Were you safe didn’t matter compared to gloom
and encapsulating castle with weird turrets.
I knew you by the peeled bark bared to bloody red,
all cork removed as if we’d sip continually of wine.
I wanted glimpses of you in the twisting streets
along the cathedral, someone to make the world okay.
I wanted to touch your body however beaten or holed
to wonder at the risen glory of angelic choir.
I remained alone, quiet in heart staring at the world’s
star map, hungry for some distant home, just you and me.
And the children we would have had, all graceful
with the bump against wall flight, free from gravity.
How could gravity keep me among trees and seashells
among prehistoric rocks uptilted, among the waves.
While, you. You were you, husky with sorrow
but free within tomorrow and I remained today.
Such are dreams, carried by an aqueduct built
by foreign legions and crumbling to dust as we age.
Do you remember all those talks, the stogie’s curl
of smoke heating the breath and all the places
where we walked together hand in hand along
cobblestone with a ship about to sail and me?
Portugal is a place of dreams
It's natural landscapes covered in
green and yellow
Moderate tempertures all year long
Houses built of dark and light stone
Friendly people greeting you with Benvindos!
Making foreigners feel right at home.
The food alone is worth the trip,
with the freshest sea food
sweet bread, and the finest wines.
Folklore, Carnival, Parades!
One can forget their troubles
in the enchanting beach resorts,
azure waters of the sea, and the silky sands.
It is a place known for the Lusitania horses,
Christopher Columbus's homeland.
Bullfights of the Terceira island
villages with Farmers, Fisherman, Craftsmen.
I am proud it is my families culture.
Please see Gulf of Cadiz
Praia da Rocha Beach
Tour port cellars and bridges
hop-on hop-off buses make travel easy
take oh my cod food tour with Ricardo in Lisbon
A Bridge in Portugal
There had been much rain in the upland and the river ran
full and strong, so forceful that a pillar, on the old bridge,
broke off and half of it fell down.
Misty night when a bus crossed the bridge, plunged down
into churning inferno, for its passengers a few seconds of
terror before death came as a blessing. Thirty people had
been aboard going home, it took hour before families of
the disappeared knew of this immense tragedy.
None was ever seen again but one; a woman found on
the strand in France, skeletal hands pressed to her face,
open mouth and the echo of a scream as eye sockets
accusatorially looked up to a silent the sky.
Summer, a new bridge has been built, but the old one
is still there and daring boys jump from it, for them what
happened a winter eight years ago is history. It must be
that way, life must go on and the river must run towards
the ocean and eternity.
The Unseen Portugal
There are many poor people in Portugal, thousands
of people need on food banks to survive.
Some schools keep open even when closed only so
children can get a warm meal a day.
There is great austerity in Portugal hidden away in
corners the tourist industry never reaches.
The poor live on rice- if they can afford gas to cook it-
but mostly they eat canned food and corn flakes.
Many Portuguese live in houses without sanitation, in
narrow streets many visitors will call picturesque.
Yet on TV cookery programs are running wild, where
chefs show viewers how to cook the best cut of meat.
They tell you about the rich healthy food and where
to buy those appetizing dishes and great wines.
These programs are a display of opulence, a travesty
of reality when there is so much hunger in the land of
historic cities, sunny summers and sandy beaches.
Portugal
On the tree lined avenue in Loulé leaves are beginning
to fall, still green even if a bit paler than normal.
It is afternoon and September, but still hot. Sparrows
are flying in from the inland it is safer in the town then
in the upland where sharp eyed hawks prey on them.
I have been told that in Italy they catch the birds with
big nets, and eat them. Plucked, one cannot be much of
a meal one has to eat at last ten to be full.
Mao, in China, tried to remove sparrows because they
were eating too much crops, an act of utter futility,
but then people with total power go stark raving mad.
I enjoy this moment of subdued day light the ills of
the world is far away. I know of a county called Portugal
I came here and learned to live again.
Portugal on my Mind
The nature so lush I felt like a horse I had to feel my eyes
With beauty and scent
left the asphalted road and walked on a track
till I was consumed by bushes and the sound of the growing
sat on a stone wall took pictures and two hours had gone
and I fell asleep as the sun was setting.
I didn’t hear the mobile ring but woke up when a big dog barked
a black woman came down the track she was worried
If I were ill wanted she could drive me home
I have walked this track for 330 years. She laughed but insisted
I drink some cold water at her house; the water came from a deep well
why do they not make wine that good?
The dog, a pointer, followed me to the asphalt road; its job was done,
the phone rang again my wife wanted to know where I had been
while she was out visiting friends, out walking darling just walking
Portugal in May
These rounded hills surrounding my valley is lush
green with yellow flowers, wish I were a horse, no
jutting military granite jaws around here; God, when
making Portugal, had women in mind.
A flock of sheep eagerly graze have no time to look
up and see the blue spring sky, doomed as they are
to produce wool and meat for Irish stew, watched
over by the shepherd who sits in the shade of a carob
tree and wonders what's for tea.
Pretty red tractors plough soil around olive trees,
perfume of newly mowed grass and roses hang in
translucent air as sun filters through a mystic veil
of aromatic mist of history. Yet, a slight discord in
the day lingers, the donkey is absent, the last one,
a grey jenny, was given to a sanctuary. That is sad,
the long eared made the scenery more peaceful.
Portugal in September.
Perfect translucent day and I can see the peculiar nature again,
as it is no longer a blur of glaring sunlight. It is like meeting
an old friend, one who was rumored to have died, in a country
I will not see again. Evergreens, carob and olive trees lost in
the mist of time, forever alone in the transience of seasons.
I also see glimpses of the sea it doesn’t interest me, not today
anyway, but I do notice it is deep blue and has white sails on.
On my scooter I drive across a narrow bridge they have been
working on so it can take heavy lorries, a road is being built
somewhere out of sight. Wish I were a painter, fair clouds on
azure sky, could be smoke signals sent by an Indian tribe yet
to be discovered, I see the past and future at the same time.
Bewildering, do I drive in a landscape of ancient dreams?
I better stop find at a café, drink a “Bica” (coffee) before I fade
into the mystery of nature and can’t find my way back home.
A small population, familiar situation a testbed with
Health terror
A reason? the motive of jeering part of instigation.?
No to disscussion 'from the ( eu ) this all comes.' as to
The highest death rate per capita, it appears this nation
Succumbs.?
Benafim and Thereabout. (Algarve. Portugal)
The road I walk on is flanked by old stone walls, in fact, the scenery
is crossed by these walls but most of them have fallen down by now,
and behind walls almond trees. I can’t think of anything uglier then
these trees, grey, spindly with a few nuts hanging here and there like
discarded Christmas decor of yesteryear. But come February I will
wake up to a beautiful sight, the almond tree will be full of pink and
white flowers, which it sheds, petal by petal, fooling us to think it
snows in fairyland. Then it will be full of vivid green leaves, not drab
green like olive tree, but verdant as a woman’s dress when going to
a new year ball. This landscape has not seen war for eons, dictators,
presidents and generals have ruled and gone; they never came here
where the land has nothing to offer but beauty. But if you listen well
to nature’s murmour, you can hear an echo from an unseen minaret
an Imam’s melodious voice calling the faithful to prayer.
(Once upon a time Algarve was ruled by Moslems)