Long Arab Poems
Long Arab Poems. Below are the most popular long Arab by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Arab poems by poem length and keyword.
Mornin coffee thinkin of you!
Simmers thoughts of a wonderful brew,
as dreams of romance percolate into view!
Such an awesome aroma I sense,
if we were to become more intense!
How's about a warm slow roast,
somethin that you'll like the most!
And if you want to make it nice'n hot,
know Im gonna like you a lot!
Here's some sugar for your cup dear,
with visions of holding you near!
Cafe au' lait is a tasty treat,
but bet your the one thats really sweet!
What a rich blend we've found,
and I look forward to stickin around!
Guess I better get a bigger pot,
well considerin all the luv you got!
Starbucks gives you lots of frothy foam,
you know I cant wait to get you all alone!
Wishin you have a bottomless mug,
so I can give ya lotsa hugs!
Hey care for some Arab-bic-ka,
you wont mind if I grab-at-ya!
Gettin dizzy the smells so heavenly robust,
why honey you might like if I just go for bust!
Want to wait for a traditional slow drip,
and get better acquainted with your upper 'n lower lip!
Expresso has a very strong flavor,
but girl it's you I really want to savor!
Fix'in yours up all real creamy,
and gettin it nice and steamy!
Oh so sweet and yummy,
brings a taste of joy to my tummy!
Shots of Kahluha makes a good intoxicating mix,
and I would crave to give you a nice fix!
Yep just hoping that you'll spike my cup,
and really stiffin things up!
Darlin for you I'm makin it strong,
so maybe I can kiss ya all night long!
And anytime your ready to take a drink,
deep within your arms I long to sink!
Be glad to fix ya a mocha delite,
and still be kiss'in ya come early daylight!
Next there comes a double shot latte,
your turn to show me how your so risque!
Carefully made you'll never find any course grounds,
your tearin me up with all them sweet moanin sounds!
Just ask me to prepare yours with a french press,
and surely you wont last long in that lil mini dress!
Amazing what happens when you roast a little bean,
lacey silk stockings tempt where to get in between!
Just hollar whenever you want a cappuccino,
now what about that juicy maraschino!
Ahhh the heated scent is so incredibly aromatic,
why honey never knew your so kinky 'n acrobatic!
So whenever you ponder for your cup,
k-n-o-w that I'd like to just fill you right up!
Mmmm talkin bout good to the last drop,
whoa babe I'm about ready to pop!
Thinkin you might go for a really fine grind,
I'm about ready to lose my mind!
Seven Mossad Agents came to Norway a winter day
when a snow drowns the needs of the homeless
asleep in a shop's doorway absorbing the sarcastic smell
of coffee and the aroma of a Napoleon cream cake.
Their mission was to assassinate a man called a terrorist
by them, but freedom fighters by others.
The target had been located, a man of 47 bearded, with
prematurely gray hair, Semitic features, and a nose somewhat bigger than what is the norm in a Nordic land
He works as a waiter at a cafe, and take the bus home
a quarter past ten in the evening, to his bed-sit, about ten minutes ride from the town.
The group needed two taxis to take them to a hotel called, “Larsen's ski lodge” a pleasant little place with
modern IKEA furniture, giving rooms an airy ambiance
the group went to work at once, the leader carrying a
heavy mobile phone, trying to make contact to base, one presumes an embassy, but failed.
One of the women donned a blond wig, walked to the cafe to be sure their target was there
a quarter past ten two men entered the bus, one of them
who spoke a few word in Swedish, asked for two ticket to Husly which was the lat stop before the bur turned around and back to town
when the “terrorist” alighted the bus the two assassins followed.
No point going into details here, but they got their man
and hid his body in a snow drift.
Cooley, they stood by the stop to catch the bus on its return trip, smoking cigarettes of a foreign brand oblivious eyes saw them at the bus stop
The assassins had overlooked one thing, the man had a girlfriend and when he didn't appeared as usual she went out looking for him with the help of neighbors
Her boyfriend was found in the snowdrift
the police quickly knew what they were dealing with
but since they, the local police were not armed, they waited for reinforcement, when in the morning the assassin group came out to go to the railways station
the group were arrested.
Then the bomb dropped, they had murdered the wrong man, another Arab, they quickly insinuated was a terrorist too, what else was he doing in Norway
The court case took a long time, one of the prosecutors
fell in love with the woman with a fake wig, tried to
say she was an innocent bystander, it didn't wash
the case dragged on, in the end, and since the holocaust
was invoked, the guilty only got a few years.
Do you think I care
For your phony Arab spring
And dead trees and hot wind
I have never seen a spring without seed popping from the soil
I should know I am made from the dust of the earth
Spring must have rain and bring flowers
Like the peace people use to sell in California
Before I knew they were only exploited slaves
Following someone else's agenda
Muttering words that were meaningless to their existence
You see what I cannot believe in what I see again
I am a man of faith, and have always been
Since the blindfold fell like scales of history
There is no Arab spring
Only the death of the old undying resistance
That would not conform to nothing but self
Only the death of people in the street
Who does not know the puppiteer willed them
For if they return from the dead
What will they see
Only the same old things more dilapidated than before
Only the invisible hand doing visible things
Killing people and calling it spring
That the new world order may prevail
As a new nomenclature
For the same old stuff that has made us barren
And berefted us of dreams
I want my children to better off than I have been
I can only entrust to me
Sleeping at their door armed with a prayer and an angel
That is who we were
Before the primitive hordes came from the sea
Before the sea people defied the bounds of their habitation
Before our empires were stolen
And we ended up in cages at the Bronx zoo
Yeah, you should read that story too
It is only by prayers we suruvive
It is the mystic part of us, the first part they derided
Calling it animism, or some dark sinister stuff
Making us afraid to own ourselves
We abandoned everything and found no berth
In their new economic order
For we were always commodities or some sort of value in exchange
So those high sounding, idealistic documents
They copied from what we believe but could not bring to pass
Those constitutions were not about us nor our possibility
For we were not construed to have humanity enough for that.
Then are we suddenly men again
That the Arab spring should be something more than a sinister thing.
I stop believing in Trojan horses long ago
I mean it is there as a gift
But I will keep working the night shift
When there is no moon
Just remember what is the color of my skin
Because all things work together for good
And I cannot walk by sight in the darkness
So I live by faith in season and out of season.
concerning Iran (a brief letter to the american voter)
dear miss or mister
still-believing-in-the-“dream”---
which face that you see being displayed on your
screens,
do you think will get us into a war with Iran
first?
will it be mr. hope & change,
whose translucent slogans were
transparent to many of us,
even prior to his ascendance,
whose own hands became bloodied/dirtied on
the way up,
and who now spends his time
twisting on the marionette stage
to the hand motions of the moneyed interests
who fueled his first campaign &
who have fueled his present one?
as the manipulators of mr. hope & change
make him continue to strangle Iran with sanctions,
pull funding from Palestine &
pump more & more money into
militarized & already nuclear
Israel,
will the region get any more peaceful?
will all the countries who showed their dissent with the
Arab Spring
then become the little slaves that the empire wants them to be
under mr. hope & change,
further gearing up hatred,
encouraging the next 9/11 on US soil
as a direct result?
hmmm.
will it be mr. romney, mr. santorum, mr. gingrich or
mr. perry, whose combined complete lack of concern for the
citizen of the empire & wanton militancy
will sacrifice everything to crush the last stronghold
left in the region
(who refuses to bend over the table for america
so that it can install another Shah &
rape it of its oil)
in the name of the war on “Islamic Fundamentalism,”
whose characteristics seem all too familiar
if you are watching the whole thing happen from a television in
the
“Evil Empire?”
hmmm.
will these iron-fisted capitalists
who make fun of the unrest within their own country
by blaming the unemployed for the occupation of wall st. etc.,
march into Iran
(like the christian caped crusaders that ya know they see themselves
as---finally getting to convert the infidels after all these years,
with the big american military *****)
like they marched into Iraq &
they marched into Afghanistan
only a few years ago,
to incinerate the country &
start building permanent bases there with money that
could have been spent on
universal healthcare for americans,
better education for american children,
new employment opportunities through making america
green &
paying off our own debt?
how many Iranian citizens are going to die because of
the american empire’s hegemony & hubris?
hmmm.
Here comes my father;
“Sheikh Al-Arab.”
My mother made him, also, tea with milk and “gargoosh.”
Now, time to fill “al-azyar” (water clay-containers);
They are under the two huge trees in front of our house.
Their waters are “sabeel,” for everyone passing by;
Might be going to, or coming from, Moslab’s boat.
Might be going to, or coming from, Dirar’s shop.
“Sheikh Al-Arab” fills “al-azyar” from the “toromba” (water-pump).
His children are glad to help;
Excited by the “toromba”:
Its handle makes a musical sound as it goes up and down.
Its water is clear.
And it beats brining water from the Nile.
---------
Here goes Abdul-Hameed;
Leaving to his farm.
Riding his old weak gray donkey;
Holding his lunch bag.
Probably bread and dates;
Probably hard-boiled eggs;
Probably leftover from last night dinner.
He already had breakfast;
His wife made him, also, tea with milk and “gargoosh.”
The donkey’s lunch will be grass from the field
The donkey’s lunch will be fresh.
---------
Here comes Nafeesa;
Leaving the “zareeba” (animals’ shelter).
Today, her goats were generous;
Lots of milk.
Her husband and children are waiting;
Time for tea with milk and “gargoosh.”
Her dog accompanied her to the “zareeba”;
And back from the “zareeba.”
But, no tea, no milk, and no “gargoosh”;
Probably an old bone.
Only when Nafeesa’s husband slaughters a lamb;
“Kibda” (kidney) for breakfast.
And lots of meat for everyone.
And for the dog.
And for other village’s dogs.
---------
Here comes Widad and her four children;
Carrying one, and three behind her.
They are going to “jiddo” (grandfather);
They will all have tea and milk and “gargoosh.”
“Jiddo” is waiting and it is getting late;
Widad will feed them all
They walk hurriedly in the dirt street;
Dust arises behind them.
Two children walk barefoot;
The lucky third has old slippers.
Two children wear few clothes;
The lucky third looks better.
“Jiddo” is waiting; more speed; more dust.
---------
Here comes Khadeeja;
The little thin girl, carrying a plate.
She is going to Zahra’s house;
Zahra makes “zalabiya” (fried dough balls).
There will be Zainab, Alawiya, and Fatima;
All sitting on the ground, around the “saj” (big wood-fire fry-pan).
All almost sleep;
All patiently waiting;
Zahra’s “zalabiya” is cooking.
---------
(to be continued) .....
From Nabob of Junagarh, of Nizam—
Collecting tax on cotton and the kind,
The taxing job having strained of my calm,
I’d stayed at a quiet place, though haunted
And scary, a lovely place no less still,
Deserted now, it was a grand retreat—
River Suista telling in many ways
Babbling tales through every single pebble,
Leaping like a skillful dancing damsel,
What unforgettable and fateful days!
I still recall that flight of a plenum
Of hundred fifty steps to that river,
A solitary marble palace, plumb
Along the river, and etched as ever
In my mind, ah amid sprawling foothills,
No soul around to whisper of its ills!
The palace, two and half centuries old,
And built by a ruler of Muslim mould,
For private pleasures, luxuries enrolled:
Jets of rose water from fountains spurting
To cool rooms amply made of marbles cold,
Young Persian nymphets there entertaining,
Mohammad the Emperor, too tired, blasé,
Arab maids disheveled before bathing,
Their soft naked feet ‘pon water splashing,
Singing, trying to please him in odd ways,
Whilst wine poured forth as ample as water,
Afar, tears poured forth from a lost daughter.
Fountains no more now found, songs too have ceased,
Nor snow white feet, ever gracefully step
Upon the white marbles that remain cold,
The vast halls filled are with cess collectors,
And men like me oppressed with solitude,
Deprived of warmth o that be womanhood,
My old office clerk had me amply warned,
‘Pass days should you so like, but never nights
if you care', I’d waved him off with a laugh.
Servants agreed to work only till dark,
Which, I ignored, a tusk as a dog's bark.
The house of ill repute spared was by thieves
Like a nightmare, I sneezed at that as well,
And worked hard on long hours till lights grew grey,
Returning at night too jaded and tired,
Sinking deep into bed unto sleep mired.
_____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana,
divided in I to XIII parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
You have been running around the world looking for a diamond girl; You have been running around the world making unfair investment and driving the interest right up to heaven.
You have stolen the gold from off shore and bury it beneath the dirt; you have crossed the line and interfere with the divine. The world is one big mass spinning around in a looking glass, it can see you from every angle and when the sun goes down and the moon rises up you will see your shadow on the wall.
You have been running around the world from Bahrain to Kuwait, knocking on every door and spilling oil on the gulf shore. You spend time romancing in the UAE in expensive hotel and mingling with young boys whose puberty is wrapped in keffiyeh on top of their head and marrying them off to innocent girls whose Virginity is stacked underneath their bed, and the old men seducing the pauper at gun point, with black tea and a jar of ice.
This morning I stood between the line and the divine piecing together the mystical trail that will get you over the rail, there is no imaginary line and I keep telling you that from time to time you have got to find the mouth of the cave that run through my grandfather land and track the connection with the gulf
.A tunnel is manmade but a cave is designed by nature to provide human shelter. It begins somewhere in Qatar and ends somewhere in the great mosque of Mecca, oh what great tragedy lies at the foot to the cave.
From the beginning of time the Arab were bold, they were skillful men with beautiful women and they had their work cut out for them. They were the best traders in town and they could build a castle on top of the mountain with a hammer and a stick and they could sweep you off your feet with their indigenous barging techniques.
They were skillful fighters and strong mountain divers; they knew the mountain like the back of my hands and they could run up and down the mountain in seconds and find peace in heaven but something went wrong when the Europeans invaded the Arabs.
They give them fifty-three for fifty-two and got a brand-new pair of shoes.
You have one more assignment to do before the mission is complete.
As spoken by the Voice of Wisdom
O House of Israel,
Heed the sound of the wind that carries ancient truth across the sands of time.
Once you wandered through deserts and kingdoms,
Once you suffered at the hands of empires and tyrants,
And the world wept for you—
So great was your sorrow that even your enemies offered you a home among strangers.
In the year of man, 1948,
Your banner rose among nations, a fig tree reborn.
You were embraced not with steel,
But with sympathy,
Not with fire,
But with the open palms of those who knew grief.
Palestine did not draw sword at your arrival—
The people opened their gates.
Arab hearts, once warm, extended olive branches,
Their tongues tasting of hospitality, not hatred.
The children of Ishmael made room for the children of Jacob.
But tell me, O Israel,
Where has your wisdom gone?
Have you not read the Psalms of David?
Did Moses not teach you the weight of the stranger’s tears?
You were welcomed, yet you conquered.
You were protected, yet you occupied.
You turned the promise of sanctuary
Into an empire of watchtowers and blockades.
Your defense turned into offense,
Your wall of safety became a prison for others.
The same anguish you once endured,
You have now inflicted.
And now behold—
The desert echoes with bitterness,
The blood of children calls from the soil of Gaza,
And the ancient prophets tremble in their graves.
The nations, once silent, begin to whisper.
The Middle East, 473 million strong,
Watches and waits, wounded and awakened.
Will seven million stand against the tide of centuries?
The covenant you had with justice—
You have traded for iron domes.
But remember, O Israel:
Peace was your greatest weapon,
Wisdom your strongest shield.
But you drew the sword, and now the sword returns.
Do not say you were not warned.
For as the African proverb says,
"The hyena called the ants, and the ants beat him to death."
O land of Abraham,
You still have time to choose the path of peace.
Not all gates are yet closed.
The Lion and the Lamb may still lie together.
But know this—if pride be your compass,
Then desolation shall be your inheritance.
The future does not belong to those who conquer,
But to those who reconcile.
Let wisdom return to Jerusalem,
Lest Jerusalem fall again.
Itinerant mercenary shrouded with penitent robe
Shining beacon for terrorists around the globe
Hermetic curmudgeon; gun-toting xenophobe
Zealous provacateur who for ardent jihadists did probe
Material wealth a means; establishing a caliphate the end
Seeking Arab-royalty's, sovereign-sheikdoms to rend
Scourge of terror to blight all that western values defend
Sharia law to govern Middle East; Allah's dividend
Great Satan's engine to throttle
Region's fealty to bottle
Suicide pilots struck the monuments we coddle
Gratuitious shards and blood stains did the landscape mottle
President Bush promised swift revenge
Ordered Taliban to stop Osama's bloody binge
Mullah Omar reneged; Bushes' saber rattling had a malodorous tinge
U.S forces did the Taliban's quarters singe
Alquaida's overseas operations are diminished
But Alquaida's mission not finished
Alquaida cells in Iraq, Afghanistan bravely battle, mettle distinguished
Nevertheless, the infidel forces not extinguished
Gitmo detainees probed for information
Trite torture brought about stunning reformation
Stressed warrior's fealty to leader declined in isolated station
Under duration, divulged details about Bin Laden's method of operation
Osama's couriers cover blown
Seeds for fruitful harvest are sown
Courier's redoubt canvassed with satellite, drone
Intelligence on compound, residents CIA did hone
Calculated risk; Navy Seals in choppers did alight
Flying quietly with fiery portents into the calm night
Hoping the briny tentacles of terror to blight
Cresting over the shadowy compound; objective in sight
Down the dangling ladders vigilant Seals did repel
Into the throes of darkness descending into the mouth of hell
Perimeter defense, early warning signals were of no avail
Osama's stunned tenants could only stand fast or bail
Each obstacle, human shield the Seals did meticulously fell
Carefully following the trail to the Holy Grail
Entering Osama's room, rending the sacral veil
The caged warrior with precision did shell
Osama's dead body packed in a unmarked crate
Transported vicariously to lab, identity to equate
Identity confirmed; vigilant menace had met his fate
Un-consecrated remains tossed into sea; watery tomb his final estate
1.
Why do we persecute this Jesus?
this Palestinian Jew, with claim
to one almighty God?
Ahh! let me home, it’s all too
much, and no avail.
so I Longinus, leader of Pilate’s guard,
which nailed him up, (he never complained)
gave him up, his broken body to his
mother and the crowd; Oh! pitiful
crying and moaning, gnashing of teeth
in their pious, bloody grief
yet….he spoke to me, this Arab, this Jew,
with his eyes, he looked resolute and calm:
and a smile (aghast!) he had for me.
and the earth trembled and shook;
afraid;
they loved him the many, I could see,
and I spoke out loud the words that I
believed, that he was real, and one with
he above!
and they looked at me, my men, and scowled,
ahh!...who are they to know?
and time and days passed. And I deserted:
2.
and I took on the garb of wanderer, so as to
be free, and sensed a great commotion;
“he’s back!. He’s never dead!”
and I was led by disciples’ horny hands, for they
knew me now, to a tomb, gaping hole and door-stone
rolled aside.
and they shouted “where is he? where’s the master?”
and a passing storm became a torrent and the rivers
swelled and the winds blew their strong wind,
and took away the grave’s harsh stink: then as
quickly as it had begun, a sound like the rumble
of a quake, split the sky and sunlight, warmed
and dried the earth around.
and there the master in shining white,
fresh with neat trimmed beard, as if out
for a walk with kith and kin, came.
and up on a mountain we followed to the
top, and he spoke; but because of the great
clamor all about him, I could only catch a
few words,
“make new disciples,” “ teach” and something
about him always being with us.
and then (I tell no lie)…his body took up to the
warm sky, with flowing robes and a choir of heavenly
verse, the likes of which I had never heard.
and he was gone.
3.
and I taught his words, for some time after; and each
time I spoke I felt grown; and so, I lived my life:
but not for long; and soon I took his place and bid
the sorry world, this place, a painful goodbye.
and when next I saw his smile, his tearful foreign
eye; I swelled; and went to his side:
and he placed his hand in mine.