Long Barrio Poems
Long Barrio Poems. Below are the most popular long Barrio by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Barrio poems by poem length and keyword.
That folded barrio flour,
Candor candied blemish
Was found
Beside my times
Nestled curtsey
Pliant blush
Confi, confetti
Tower piza tall
Ballerina repose throw rugs
Of roja fiends
The upright ends alone
You know you got
Just what it takes
The stairway from I do
Baby you lost
What I take
There in wait
I am planned forwards
Rest of mind, escapes in days
Mare on jaunt
Fred nostaire?
Parent hatred and fair
Whims and spotlighting darkness
A posting flyer of despair beautifully written
Collide in hides
Invites and excentric
Repulsive conversion of meeting place
School ties and community bland
No one laughs as loudly or as exuberantly as a child
from the ghetto or the barrio.
I know, for I have worked with children
from a ghetto for six years, and from a barrio for five.
They have learned to laugh with absolute pure flat out sugar joy.
Their excited piercing scream-laugh can go from zero to sixty in seconds.
Every good moment for them is a victory lap.
For it is a moment when they realize their brothers and sisters are all alive.
No one has been shot in a drive by.
No one has found a dead body in the park today.
It might be a moment that Mom is not shooting up heroin.
It may be a moment that Dad comes home and does not beat on anyone.
But these children know how to celebrate a good moment.
Sure, they can be loud, but they have earned this right.
They might be dancing with pure joy because you gave them a piece of sausage pizza.
They might be jumping up and down with pure happy because you ate lunch with them.
I relish creating moments like these with the children I work with.
There is no laughter more boisterous, more happy, or more joyous than the laughter
of a child who knows how to cherish a moment.
If I can give one child a day, this moment, it is enough.
My job is done.
In Cities in Flight
transformations are chronicled over generations.
It can make us cry
out for the genius occurring
now and in our past. How
the unseen, unknown participant
was made known to himself
through devotion to those outside himself. He
guides his city
into space.
So, the father and the teacher
guide the family and the student
through the close spaces of knowledge
and obligation. And perform
the history that surrounds them.
Good actors and directors,
philosophers and physicists,
soldiers and foresters.
Today
steam rose from the asphalt
because the sun
has arrived in place, powerful, equinoxal
as the human song
that receives it.
Two big deer
Lope cautiously
Off the open road.
Two crows
Fly low
Above the Oswegatchie.
Frank Bassett
forester since '57
marks a stand of maple and black cherry
for selective cutting. His actions today
will be noted
by another forester, also acting alone,
in the 21st century.
New York City
in a froth of creativity
Pacino and Sheen in Julius Caesar,
Sonny Rollins at Town Hall,
films opening, one
that portrays the flamboyant style
and dedication
of a barrio public school teacher.
You cannot act alone.
You must belong
in your heart
to the flight humanity makes in Spring, north
toward wild flowers
in geese chevrons.
MANLY TROUSERS PRESSED INTO EJACTULATING SPATS THIS man of god large belly and buttons with a big gollywog voice \his madness of conviction for personal interpretation //behind psychosis and need for control.
ticks and rolls his eyes his lips rubberish proclaiming righteousness:
for dullards — persuasive. ]\
Both sides feed the madness; one side — a voice of God!
the other; REPENT so intelligence prevails,
while the spirit and soul snitches
weak mindsEAT confused souls.
the grey light of not KNOWING,
our lightheaded twic twoc inlgy attacks
a need for clarity.
a world spins unknowingly as though
consciousness is ether.
i too admit it is oppressive
how man espouses thoughts into reality!
lot of his physiognomy;
their manly trousers pressed into
ejaculating spats.
blind eye leads to face — well-runed.
THIS dance!
This trance! Silence breakers.
An old man in beige, like a janitor
in the back bedroom of a barrio waiting on the lid to drop.
the priest is dropping his trousers.
NARCOTICS: the ancient gods and our feelings towards them
a lance of fire – a brain with a mother’s milk.
a protective shield, thanks to the invention of machine
purity also possible for many.
NEED to know needs to know callousness accepts.
conduit and refined quartz weather radar connects,
the asphalt bridge crossing a broad river of chemicals
A DREAM, a heaven’s journeY.
The soul journeys through a desert of twisted words, a
psychic bubble where five guys in sandals watch a laser show
but not really see a cartoon mouse
and a smiley guy climbing the mountain that houses
a naked reptile with a webbed hand that flings
its claws.
Of kindness
:: 12.21.2020 ::
There is one thing that I surely know
God will be there no matter where you go
God's presence is in every single place
and in most every person in the human race
in God's kingdom there is always room for you
just accept His Son Jesus as your Savior too
God is the only one true king
to Him fame nor fortune doesn't mean a thing
be you poor, middle class, or filthy rich
wear designer or discount clothes or don't even own a stitch
be you black or white, brown, red or blue
accept God's kind and let The Holy Spirit be in you
In every city, town, village or barrio
God will be there no matter where you go
If you live in the projects, a condo or even in the park
accept God's light, dwell no longer in the dark
If you live the high-life or a little closer to the ground
believe in God's word for with It you will be found
God is the shepherd who tends to all of our souls
let Him guide you in life, no matter where you go
be you a worker whose collar is blue or white
take the walk with Jesus in faith and not by sight
be you a CEO, a ditch digger or just someone's mom
in God's embrace you won't receive any harm
God does not discriminate or care about your status in life
He only wants you to follow His gospel and His Son Jesus Christ
so come unto Jehovah and let His love for you overflow
for God will be with you, no matter where you go
The night was not for sleeping.
It was for the drag of headlights
against the skin of wet asphalt,
for the torn-down column
spitting its weight into the earth —
too heavy for a backhoe,
too stubborn for goodbye.
EMs Barrio curled in on itself,
a hive of borrowed beds
and half-finished dreams.
I sat outside its hum,
counting the breaks between engines,
each jeepney’s arrival a breath,
each departure an emptying.
The last one wore its driver like an afterthought —
shoulders pressed forward,
face carrying the rust of decades.
The radio died mid-verse,
as if ashamed of how thin it had grown.
I do not smoke.
But that night
I inhaled the exhaust of his leaving,
kept it in my lungs
long enough to taste
what it might be like
to disappear slowly
past a stranger’s gaze.
(Legazpi City, 1997)
Moonlight tango
It was a Saturday night, in Buenos Aires, 10:30pm, to be exact. It was a hot summers night, and you could see, and feel, the steam rising from the cobblestone street, here in La Boca barrio*. This is where it all began over a hundred years ago, and you can still see pictures of tangos faded heroes of yesteryear hanging on the walls.
The tango hall was packed with caballeros* in their suits and suspenders, and the damas* dressed in their red dresses, and stiletto heels. Still feels like the roaring 20's fedora hats and all! With a glance, and a flick of his baton, the orchestra leader motions to the bandoneon* player to begin, and so he starts dum dum dum, dum dum, dum dum dum.
The men tilt their fedoras slightly to one side, and stride ever so elegantly across the hall to pick their partner, and together they glide over the black and white checkered marble tile dance floor. The moonlight filters through the skylights, illuminating the smokey haze, that permeates the Milonga* hall.
The dancers have their gazes fixed on each other, and they move and glide to the incessant syncopated rhythm of the bandoneon. The violins and cellos join in with their plucking sound matching the tempo of 2-4 time. The dancers are dancing chest to chest, and then cheek to cheek, moving and gyrating, in time to the beat. As the tempo picks up the pace, arms and legs entwine, and then separate and entwine again. Spinning and twirling, strutting and whirling, they dance into a frenzy, at a frenetic speed, all the while staring with a look of love, (or at least of passionate desire) and what else would you expect to see dancing the moonlight tango?
* La Boca barrio- downtown neighborhood where tango was born
*Caballero(s)-gentleman(men)
*Damas- Ladies
*Milonga- tango dance hall
*Bandoneon- Small accordion style instrument.
John Derek Hamilton
February 07,2017
I speak to you, my people
you who move like turtles through oceans never built to hold us.
Slow has never meant weak;
it means we carry whole histories on our backs
and still glide forward.
We cross waters where tides lift certain fish toward open light,
while currents drag our kin into colder, hidden streams.
I won’t name the forces
if you’ve ever fought a current meant to break you,
you already understand.
We see pirates on the horizon,
hungry for anything shining, our shells, our stories,
our quiet, steady brilliance.
They circle and reach,
yet we slip past their nets,
wise from surviving the first storms.
Still, we move
pulse steady, shells heavy with memory.
We carry drums from Africa,
songs from Borikén,
and the whispers of every barrio, favela, and village
where our people rise from dust again and again.
Every rhythm becomes a compass.
Every ancestor becomes a star.
Though waves test our breath
and storms try to claim our direction,
we do not drown.
We do not disappear.
Somewhere ahead is the shore we shape ourselves
warm as brown skin in sunlight,
alive with children who never learned to fear the tide.
A place where our shells can rest,
where our stories breathe free.
So I say to you again, my people:
You are the turtle
rising, landing, thriving.
We have always reached the shore.
We always will.
I’m the heartbeat of salsa, the rhythm of the conga,
Where Tito Puente’s spirit still dances on Third Avenue.
My murals speak louder than words—
Che Guevara, Celia Cruz, and the Spirit of East Harlem
Painted on every wall, telling stories of pride.
El Museo del Barrio stands tall,
A testament to our Latinx heritage,
While La Marqueta bustles with flavors of the island.
Oh, you think you’ve got the soul?
I birthed the Harlem Renaissance,
Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston walked my streets.
The Apollo Theater echoes with the voices of legends,
And Rucker Park? It’s where streetball met the NBA.
My brownstones whisper tales of Strivers’ Row,
And Marcus Garvey Park stands as a monument to our history.
But have you seen my festivals?
The Puerto Rican Day Parade lights up 116th,
A sea of flags and music filling the air.
My bodegas hum with reggaeton beats,
And the scent of arroz con gandules wafts through the streets.
We honor our roots with pride and passion,
A community united by rhythm and tradition.
I’ve got my own rhythm, my own flair,
From the sounds of jazz to the gospel in the air.
Sylvia’s serves up soul food with a side of history,
And the Studio Museum showcases Black artistry.
My streets are lined with stories of resilience and grace,
A tapestry woven with every face.
True, our paths have crossed and intertwined,
But our spirits remain distinct, uniquely defined.
El Barrio pulses with a Latin beat,
While Harlem’s heart echoes with African roots beneath.
Together, we form a mosaic so grand,
A testament to the cultures that built this land.
He has no poetic garden to gaze upon
no outside to the inside of this room
Soft breaths of brothers 1, 2 and 3
like the breeze on the asphalt playground
of his tiny school, one mile away.
No light shines in his window
No birds sing hymns from leafing trees
No sign of spring or fall or summer
display beyond the sill.
In this place where nothing grows
is life, but hidden from the world
and the grand and stylish homes
(with their fruit trees and fancy lawns)
Within these walls with brothers 1, 2 and 3
mama collapses, exhausted on the sofa
and papa snores loudly from the floor.
He prevails with dreams and plans and sadness
in leaps and bounds and setbacks
between school lunches and cafe con leche for breakfast.
In the place where nothing grows, he lives.