Long Domingo Poems
Long Domingo Poems. Below are the most popular long Domingo by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Domingo poems by poem length and keyword.
Baile con migo, hips made from the rhythm of merengés and cumbias, samba, swagger and a pinch of azucar mixed into my backbone.
My first language was Spanish.
Learned from sweet stories told by my papi at bedtime.
My tongue a formation of the stardust of my heritage,
An intertwined galaxy of rolled r’s and the pledge of allegiance.
It was something I would soon forget after I was told it was wrong
Taught a new way to introduce myself “mi nombre es” turned to “my name is” after the girl in my class told me she couldn’t understand me.
So I was taught to reject the language of my family and to be proud to call myself American over Mexican.
Now my Spanish 2 native class seems so god damn foriegn and I can't seem to remember what comes after domingo on my pop quiz.
I would learn to hate my name, much preferring something like Tiffany,
Leaving behind my silent TL and X that sounds like an S because they said it was strange.
When I visit my grandmother all I could do is nod or shake my head,
Because her native language sounds like a tongue twister I can't seem to master.
So she reminds me that the colors in my soul and the rhythm in my bones are blessings and that I come from the Incas, the Mayans, the Aztecs, los Mexicas, who built an empire nunca imaginado.
That we are a children of an oscuro pasado,
A mixture of pain, sadness and oppression,
But we inherited the strength.
We have inherited the passion.
She reminds me that my name holds the power of the most legendary Aztec princesses who ruled with the grace of the most beautiful flower.
So this is for the women that still name their children in nahuatl and the men who wake up on Sunday mornings to listen to Vicente Fernandez with their fathers,
And families that still pass on recipes of arroz con pollo.
Because we are the sons and the daughters,
And we hold the stories,
The journeys of the remembered,
Those who walked through deserts, waded through rivers.
We wear their legacies on our shoulders with pride,
And we do not lose ourselves to broken perceptions,
But rise above with the help of our powerful stories.
Our melodies, our galaxies,
Por que somos Latino-Americanos
And we will not be forgotten
My whole life I knew a man who hates everything.
Who had a distaste about anything,
Even the do-nothings and do-somethings said to anyone,
Because he hates everyone,
So this tale of hate has already begun.
I know, that the man’s probably old,
Because he’s about to blow cause you’re driving too slow,
He’s wearing white tee; and I foresee me brake checking thee.
For the man who hates everything is a old geezer,
Who probably got boiled chicken in his freezer,
smoking daily a weezer.
I met another man, he was a g-man,
He wore a suit from Iran, and a sign
that said “help a pleading veteran if you can,”
With a camo design, but i ain’t blind, this man got no spine,
He had no medals, but used metal, when i questioned he backpedaled,
For he, a man who hates is selfish, just devilish,
Until they achieve their wish, he won’t perish.
I was stopped the other day, by a blue jacket cop,
I didn’t see him he tiptoed, especially he hated my lingo,
When twelve stubbed his big toe, he pulled out his pistol.
Trying to send me to Santo Domingo.
I pondered: Was it the color of my skin, can hate run so thin,
But of course, A man who hates and enforce,
are the same men who make up your police force.
I watched the news, and I knew it was true.
He wore an orange jumpsuit. I bet a substitute
To his gang cloths, in streets where pain grows,
By troubled boys, who think guns are toys, and decide to destroy.
Then they get incarcerated and take supplements to make them feel more hated.
For he, a man who hates, is a product of shared fates,
Of men who rather act like primates than teammates, give us an update.
The last man I met who hate, are the men we elected,
who made america so disconnected,
We ejected the mexican,
Neglected the african,
Disrespected the woman,
Obtaining an imperfected American.
An American who hates, maybe change is to late
The man who hates outnumbers us 10-9-maybe 8.
Because the man who hates is here, there, and everywhere.
The men who hate can be anyone, and everyone.
It’s sad to say, that it’s true to see
That the men who hate, are you and me.
Even as thunder boomed mighty overhead
and power lines on San Domingo Avenue outside
faltered and succumbed to the tempest
the Ortegas stood breathless in the family room, gaze transfixed
upon the television screen like so many deer in the headlights of a truck.
Finally a flash from without, and a snap
extinguished all light within the household. Ten seconds passed
without a sound. Then the father uttered something and
the family members scattered, each returning a moment later
bearing possessions of infinite value. Within a minute,
all had crammed into the station wagon, evacuation route ingrained
within their minds like a seed of hope.
All but one. Manuelito had been lost.
The mother howled and flied back into the house,
tears streaming down her face hard as the rain.
She reached the back porch, and to her eternal shock
found Manuelito standing alone on the beach like a mannequin
eyes locked upon the Cyclops-eye of the storm.
The mother cried out through anguished sobs
in vain, for the howling drone of the wind overpowered all
and when Manuelito turned around to face all that he loved
he did so with all the finality of a grown man
resolved upon his course of action.
The mother abruptly ceased her crying, and
her countenance briefly matched that of her son
as she, too, turned her gaze upon the jewel center of the storm
and was hypnotized by the awesome power of the divine.
At length she regained self-consciousness, and her eyes
darted back to that segment of the beach where her son had been standing
but his figure, like a stream of sand on the dunes of time,
had been replaced by nothingness,
the allure of the unknown and
Poseidon’s call of wild fury
too strong to resist.
a Walk in-
the woods with debussy's
prelude to the afternoon
in my ears
time stands still
the warmth of the sun
music echoing amongst trees
the chant
of songbirds
oh peace and tranquility embrace
the benedictine monks
of santa domingo
a single melodic note
sung in unison
I listen to the ocean surf
the wild
cascading
waves
sweeping
me away
in the voice of nature
time
stands
still
meditation with bach and beethoven
mozart's concerto shuman's fantasy
the piano enchants me
the violins take me away
I am oneness with earth
trees that touch the sky bring
serenity
tranquility
time stands still
morning elegance
storms and wind and soft rain
hidden mountain retreats
enchanted meadows swaying
wild thunder songbird serenades
nightfall's cloak wolves calling
hidden coves and woodland ferns
moss clinging and wild flowers growing
in meadows
blowing hair
picker of buttercups
daisies
dandelions
life is chaotic and confusing
I find the serene and peaceful
amongst ponds and streams
listening to classical music
oh listen to the loons
________________________
January 7, 2016
Free Verse
Entered in the contest, Your Best Free Verse
sponsor, A Poet Destroyer
Seventh Place
Entered in the contest, Free Verse Extravaganza
sponsor, Catie Lindsey
Did not place
Y entonces aquí estoy -
y aquí en blanco me veo,
mi piel -la nevada de medianoche
donde ya nadie me atraviesa
con sus huellas, y sus huellas negras.
Y aquí entonces estoy sola,
la madrugada me canta desinhibida.
Ella canta de las caricias del sol en la mañana,
del balanceo suave de las estrellas,
sus bailes, sus matrimonios de fuego,
y entonces me canta en un susurro apacible
y así me deja sin aliento,
el peso de los secretos de siglos
me llena la boca con cenizas,
que saben a sepultura.
Mi lengua se ha convertido
en la voz de los antiguos.
Y estoy sola,
pero no me siento sola.
Sus dedos difunden,
repartidos en mis párpados,
los muertos resucitan como el sol
en mis ojos.
Y su sabiduría en mi rostro es una lápida,
en mi cuerpo un Domingo de Pascua.
Que se doblan en las arrugas de la mendiga.
Que fluyen como lágrimas de la boca abierta del cielo.
Que son chispas en la memoria de los niños.
Que mantienen las piedras de las pirámides
y llenan grietas en los huesos de las montañas.
Y en verdad, nuestros pies
comienzan a desmoronarse,
a unirse con los raíces del mundo.
Y en verdad estamos solos
pero no nos sentimos solos.
Llevamos al conocimiento en marfil,
al misterio, a la nostalgia olvidada.
En nuestras venas corre la sangre
de guerreros,
en los pulmones
las palabras
de Dios.
Fazer negócios
E viver com amor
é uma relação entre iguais.
O resultado
torna-se real
quando reconhecemos
a nossa humanidade compartilhada.
Fazer negócios
E viver com amor
você está na frente
de alguém
com seu produto
ou negócio
e você
tem as ferramentas à sua disposição
para melhorar a vida
sua e da pessoa próxima
e você age.
Nossa oportunidade
é mostrar
um mundo
mais amável.
Nossa oportunidade
É para cantar músicas
do amanhã -
sonhando um mundo de amor -
planejando oferecer nossa mão,
muitas vezes.
Nossa oportunidade
É para respirar profundamente
e honrar a nós mesmos.
Para pausar e contemplar
apenas porque,
queremos fazer com outras pessoas
como ela quer
que seja feito.
GRITE NÃO AO ABUSO
Apoie a Mulher Empreendedora
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INVISTA NO SER HUMANO DOAÇÃO PARA INCENTIVAR O EMPREENDEDORISMO FEMININO
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Support Entrepreneurial Women
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INVEST IN THE HUMAN DONATION TO ENCOURAGE FEMALE ENTREPRENEURSHIP
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The Dignified Doorman
In the thirties when fish factories in my town closed, the sardines
didn’t swim near shore, they swam further into deep the ocean.
Perhaps collective memory told them not to go near the coastline.
Like the war, it was forgotten when old sardines died out and the new
generation swam too close to shore again, but that was after my
two uncles had gone to America to find work. In New York one of
them, a young man with an immense dignity got a temporary job
as a doorman at a swanky hotel, but he stayed the uniform was
smart and the ladies were very kind to him, free food and lodging.
After twenty years, he came back home and bought a house, cash,
of tips given to him by hotel’s clients and he got married which was
expected of a man with greying hair and a fairly new bungalow.
In the meantime, there had been a war and he got a job as a driver
for the boss of a brewery a job he kept till he retired. A placid man,
more than Domingo, his wife had affairs in the hope of shaking him
out of his placidity he turned the other cheek. Talking about cheeks
when his wife died he moved in with his friend and both of them
lived to be old men, who had found love, if a bit late in life.
It was four am when I entered Colorado Springs Airport. Darkness of the sky was kissing the lips on the face of the mountain. Right around sunrise after I had my morning cappuccino I saw the sight that would speak to my mind and heart. The words came from Pikes Peak. The mountain was red and looked like the flesh of my Red ancestors. A cloud was coming from the mountain in a grey color. I kept thinking of Chief Red Cloud and Chief Crazy Horse on how they lived and wondered what the last thoughts they had before entering into the spirit world. No rain was there, and it would not be until the plane would leave for me to travel to Atlanta and then to the Old World.
I could hear the mountain speaking to my spirit. I was in awe, but in fear of my life. I was making a change that would affect me for the rest of my life. I heard music in the background that I would later come to know as Novis by Santana and Placido Domingo.
After seeing the photo of my plane taking off from my mom, I realized that this plane was the missile (mi-sigh-al) that would change my spirit. It sure did as I am now a world traveler. I have not fear of the air.
From the European and taste of sugar
Depended the Caribbean riches
Produced by extensive manual work
Of Africans enslaved
In colonial plantation economy regime
Amid the hard work
How fast the energy is exhausted,
And hanging over the slaves
The scarce supply in what sordid houses
Nor medical care they had! ...
Marrons
were gangs of runaway slaves
Hidden in the forest
Out of imperial control ...
Charismatic, was François Mackandal
First effective marron leader
Its people inspired with African traditions
United and established in such a way
Secret organizations
Among the slaves of plantations
And six years of rebellion he caused
But oh, although he had been captured
And burned in fire
After his death, armed marrons persisted ...
It was a brutal conflict period
In the colony of Santo Domingo
Leading to total elimination
Of Slavery and the inevitable coming of Independence
Of Haiti as the first republic
Governed by afro-descent people
Antes de tudo
Antes de criticar, espere.
Antes de falar, ouça e escute.
Antes de escrever, pense.
Antes de gastar, ganhe.
Antes de empreender, investigue.
Antes de você orar, perdoe.
Antes de desistires, tenta.
Antes de morrer, dê.
Hoje e sempre
Complete o seu dia
Aprenda com isso ...
amanhã é um novo dia.
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