Long Bulgaria Poems
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Wombles In Space
(Split Into two parts because I suddenly got all Limericky )
Part One
The Wombles are not worldly wise
They look to the ground not the skies
They got on a train, which is hard to explain
Cos the train they got on was a plane
Eventually back on the ground
Uncle Bulgaria frowned
How could it be, that all he could see
Was a sign saying Cape Kennedy
The small telescope in his pocket
He took out and saw a space rocket
He said to his wombling clan,
I’ve spotted a big old tin can
It’s stood there as though we’re expected
Just waiting there to be collected
And while it’s a hell of a can
Am I not a wombling man?
Soon they had clambered aboard
A rumbling sound left them all floored
Orinoco was starting to drift off
And somehow he’d started a lift off
Bulgaria sported a frown
Lord knows how we’re gonna get down
But since were all stuck in this can
I’ve got an exiting new plan
They found a box full of space suits
and one full of magnetic boots
The mission: to gather space trash
To trade up or sell it for cash
Part Two
Then Houston said, we've got a gremlin
The crew ain’t the crew we’re rememberin
A furry ensemble
Each looks like a Womble
Perhaps snuck aboard by the Kremlin
Uncle Bulgaria’s explaining
Orinoco, asleep, ain’t complaining
There’s rubbish to get
They’ve not been beat yet
The cargo bay soon would be straining
The craft dragged a net round the Earth
Catching up junk for it’s worth
It then tried to swallow
Some bits of Apollo
The net didn’t have enough girth
Tobermory’s big invention
For over-sized space junk retention?
A sticky harpoon
A scrapyard on the moon
So that’s taken care of his pension
His plan for retirement luxurious
Was blocked cos the Clangers were furious!
So what could he do
Except grab some glue
A womble space walk is quite curious
He glued all the rubbish together
Which seemed really simple but clever
He made a new planet
Of metal, not granite
Which really was quite an endeavour
On Earth there was mass womble mania
Those wombles, it seems, had got brainier
The latest new game
Was to think up a name
For the planet we now call Womblania
spawned in the summer of 1853
these sliced succulent deep fried wonders
resulted from the demands of a complaining customer
whose ******** led our man, a one,
mr. george crum
to do his best to satisfy the putz in question by
replacing the humdrum n’ waterlogged n’ sodden,
slithery,
pommes de terre
with
his
new
&
improved
(as thin as could possibly be imagined),
drenched in salt,
deep fried & sizzling,
immaculate conception.
and as you can imagine, mr. cornelius vanderbilt
(said unruly customer),
whom mr. crum felt would most assuredly send back the creation he just made,
again,
for his money back,
instead
had something of an ****** of the taste buds!
and so these
“saratoga chips”
came to be the next big thing---
satisfying lovers of starch, grease & salt, everywhere.
it didn’t take long for word to get to canada where they buried them things in
dill pickle,
ketchup,
jalapeño & cheddar,
salt n’ pepper,
roast chicken---or to
austria where they soak em’ in garlic, bulgaria, where paprika is the taste of the day—
& colombia boasts
mayonesa y limón,
egypt popularized the kebob & stuffed vine leave essence of zest,
you got oregano chips in greece
you got the overwhelming majority chomping down the tayto’s in ireland
whereas in
russia
it is caviar, crab and
shashlik
which make the people salivate.
regardless of where you are or what you are doing
you can get some kind of potato chip
yes,
you can suck down that sodium & grease
mmmmmmmm
i
myself
am currently in something of a sour cream n’ onion phase---
and i must say
i praise the day
that crum went back in the
kitchen
&
angrily
whipped up a batch of
yummyness
for
vandy
to
suck
down---
commencing
la revolución de patatas fritas.
2011, Yambol
A poem for My Beloved
1.He is like a bunch of myrrh,
He is gilding my fingers
With fragrance.
He is weaving into between
My breasts, He is cloaking on
My pearl buttons in sunrise redden
Like a droplets of blood,
A necklace of my heart,
A star of cinnamon tree,
A porcelain cup with milk
On a small table,
Till a silver spoon which
He is taking up slowly along
His stifling lips, and like a butterfly
Is swallowing a little chalice of my heart.
My beloved is walking and decreasing.
2. He wakes the forests green like emerald
Hayricks, white droplets, running on the
Face of the sky.
Eyebrows of clouds ,each snowdrop
bowing down
Under His white fingers.
All blade of grass reducing.
The pomegranates are like big chalices
For Holy communion.
My Beloved lifted it.
His back have been cut of
Smart whips, blood veronicas
Shoots up His white skin,
Strained like a drum, for fierce mad
Throng.
My Beloved will never be separated
From my breasts.
Myrrh deeply in my bosom and I
Live from her Holiness,
Golden lichen in golden hoops,
Tightens up my heart.
Beloved how giving out a sweet perfume,
Smells a summer.
Nina Mindova was born in Yambol, Bulgaria.
She graduated at Bulgarian philology, English philology in Paisii Hilendarski university in Plovdiv and Theology in VEBI Sofia..
She is author of six poetry books.
A metaphorical allegory
Real life-or a war story
The first one was to end them all
So they called it great
The next saw evil rise and fall
One's hate had sealed his fate
One Korea to Saigon
Russia to Bulgaria
China to Taiwan
Bloodshed in Syria
My God, oh my dear God
A rhyme to this riddle
A time span, we're in the middle
then rising from the East
conflicts in between
Dragons, bears n beasts!
Silent ears...and calls for peace
The cries...the sighs
The where's and the why's?
The children, the wives
fight or fold...from high up in the sky
the truth out there untold
"kill- means clean"
" infidels, in hell there time convenes "
Paradise for martyrs, now hot under my collar
The hot spots from the steam
An Eagles founding father's??
Please wake me from this dream!
Then Star's and stripes lit up at night!
Stay and Fight or fly away?
Then carnage-all I'd seen!
Yet not to their dismay
To me what did this mean?
Yes Oh yes we'de pay- Learning things- the hard way
So Stubborn us beings
Between two and four
Once blind you're now seeing
The topic here is war
No trees in this here art
From sea to shining sea
A trilogy...we'de play our part
This land for you and me
Why didn't We?...When did it start?
It's planned...
It's World War Three..?
A metaphorical allegory
A real life war story
The first one was to end them all
So they called it great
The next saw evil rise and fall
One's hate had sealed his fate
One Korea to Saigon
Russia to Bulgaria-
China to Taiwan
Bloodshed in Syria
My God, oh my dear God
A rhyme to this riddle
A time span
we're in the middle
Then rising from the East
conflicts in between
Dragons, bears n beasts!
Silent ears...and calls for peace
The cries...the sighs
The where's and the why's?
The children, the wives
fight or fold...from high up in the sky
the truth out there untold
"kill- means clean"
" infidels, in hell there time convenes "
Paradise for martyrs
Now hot under my collar
The hot spots from the steam
An Eagles founding father's??
Please wake me from this dream!
Then Star's and stripes, lit up at night!
Stay and Fight or fly away?
Then carnage-all I'd seen!
Yet not to their dismay
To me what did this mean?
Yes Oh yes we'de pay
Learning things-
the hard way
So Stubborn us beings
Between two and four
Once blind -now seeing
The topic here is war
No trees in this here art
From sea to shining sea
A trilogy...we'de play our part
This land for you and me
Why didn't We?...
When did it start?It's planned...
It's World War Three..?
In Bulgaria, the Nestinari touched me when I was a child
high above the arm to hold, something new and something old.
She said, "Your feet were meant to walk the fire."
A plain proposition I did not understand; I liked the
acrobats, flying and walking the wire.
She asked my permission and I granted it unknowing
that my path diverged that night, cool coals on the ground and
Early morning on the rise, I see more than just shadows now.
In Bulgaria, we walk the fire and our feet do not burn-
in twenty-years time, it will be my turn.
In a trance I spin and the music pumps loud,
"Aye dance", faster like Giselle; and sparks fly
as I kick the soil, embers in the air;
just putting on a show for the crowd.
The glory of tradition passed into me; the fury and
the light; the cool of a glacier in my core.
In Bulgaria, we walk the fire and our feet do not burn-
twilight to daylight, there are always more steps to learn.
D.Goodman 11-26-13
This is a very special day in Bulgaria, my friends. Here -
http://www.balkanfolk.com/news.php?id=23 - you can read more on it.
marigolds
marigolds
San Clemente*
and the sun that is
opening
we will lose ourselves
before they find us
in the eternal searching
for ourselves
(and the mind again
steps over us)
did you recognize the happiness
Ahasver**
marigolds
(like an epoch)
San Clemente
and I am bowing
The original:
*In one lateral chapel there is a shrine with the tomb of Saint Cyril of the
Saints Cyril and Methodius who created the Glagolitic alphabet and Christianized the
Slavs.
**Wandering Jew; the name Ahasver is adapted from Ahasuerus the Persian king in
Esther, who was not a Jew, and whose very name among medieval Jews was an
exemplum of a fool
/from wikipedia/
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
In the southern mountains of Bulgaria
A gruesome discovery had been made
They uncovered hundreds of skeletons
Of vampires that were slayed
They had religious charms beside them
To stop the dead from rising again
And iron stakes still protruding
From their chests of their remains
In the Slavic villages everywhere
Plagues had broken out
And anti-Vampire rituals
Were common scenes throughout
This plague had started to ravage
Populations of medieval times
Hysteria had gripped the people
From the walking dead at night
So the people created an image
In the form of two graves
To resemble the Virgin Mary
With child to keep evil away
In the ancient city of Thracian
Stands a hilltop citadel
In the ruins of Perperikon
A truly living hell
Based On A True Story
© Copyright KC.Leake
4th December 2014
All Rights Reserved
it’s a time of hunger
and of plague
and of starling
the grasshoppers ate up the wheat
the water has another color
can’t be drunk
the children go to someone else’s doors
knock
but they do not answer them
and speak there
behind one crooked tree
something they speak
hisss the wind
that one at least knew
that he was tested
they were staying and speaking to him
even he was seeing
people
sticking needles
under the nails
but you have arms
both left one
and right one
and wrists
and fingers
and a hole
ignite your skin
the wind is from bellow
The author of this poem is from Bulgaria, where he lives and works.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HDK0-hB8y64&feature=related
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Contest: sponsored by Deborah Guzzi
BULGARIA
Poets logged in
From all across the land
Just to share their writing skills
To every woman and every man
From the United States is Matt
And from India Auro too
From Bangladesh is Ashek
All showing what they can do
Thomas from The United States
From The United Kingdom comes Janise
And also from Russia there's Sydney
Just to show how well they manage
Dr. Ram from the USA
Benedito from Brazil
Shows these Poets are focused
And of course very real
Oh, how can I forget Bobb
Whose from The United States
And from Bulgaria, Bozhidar
These Poets show they're great
Finally from The United States
There is Andrew and Monty Too
From Nigeria there is Kelechi
And Nepal Giri showing what too do
So there we have them my friends
From the beginning to the end
On January the Eight
These are The Poets Logged In.