Long Festival Poems
Long Festival Poems. Below are the most popular long Festival by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Festival poems by poem length and keyword.
Far off the beaten track and trail
on quest for music’s Holy Grail
led pilgrims on biblical scale
more than can be counted.
With midsummer sun on our cheek
in tents to shelter we did seek
and pitched them at its highest peak
on a hilltop mounted
As we climbed the lean of the hill
my beer I would try not to spill
and sat with the great unwashed till
olé and adios.
It was I, El Skeet, amigo,
in my poncho and sombrero
half-cut like a loco gringo
who waved “vaya con dios!”
We lit yet another hash bong
all up in smoke like Cheech & Chong
and passed it to each one along
under the cop radars.
Till late as wasted brain cells flag
with every mind trip headfu-ck drag
I tucked in to my sleeping bag
on the hill ‘neath the stars
As music and mayhem did rage
back in next summer’s youthful age
we camped closer to the big stage
by a shallow hollow.
I’d sit and watch the crowds go by
in the hot sun and dust and dry
under a big Waikato sky
from our camp on tent row
And as I ripped in with the guys
to our grog trailer of supplies
we made a hanging chain of ties
with every pull tab rent.
Waiting for Cold Chisel that night
with a superdoob glowing bright
I was fuc-kin’ high as a kite
and lurched back to my tent
The next day I woke in a daze
and walked off my drunken malaise
when I heard singing songs of praise
in some weird sh-it I saw.
Tambourine hippies, punks and geeks
and chanting Hari Krishna freaks
burnt incense in clay painted cheeks
so I got high some more
Yet in a hot wet and wild hour
stoned in the unisex shower
I gazed many a sweet flower
in their naked splendour.
We bathed too in waters that flowed
down where the lazy river bowed
lest my head spontaneous explode
on my three day bender
That night by the stars we were led
as above a smoky sky bled
when out The Enz rocked “I See Red”
and fired a burning flare.
In the spirit of Sweetwaters
we lived among at close quarters
sons of Bacchus and his daughters
and I so revelled there
Written: November 2009
Sweetwaters was an annual three
day music festival back in 1980s.
Bring the Nzu and
Kola nut
Take it to the
stranger among us,
Let him kiss it and
be bless.
Let him rub the Nzu
on his arms then his
fore head.
It is our tradition
here not to neglect
A humble stranger in
our land.
We kiss suffering on
the lips, it harm us
not.
We measure our joy
with dance and
laughter.
pour the oil in the
calabash
Roast the yam and
break the kolanut,
Let the youngest
among us break and
share it.
Pour the dry gin on
the ground and bless
the gods
Our forefathers must
drink before we
taste ours
Angry will they be
if they taste not
the gin.
It is our tradition
here in Nkporoland.
The maiden must not
touch the raging
masquerade
Keep them afar off
from the here, let
them smell not of
it.
All the young men
must be present at
the Iza Afa festival
and then the young
women must not be
excluded from the
Igboto Nma festival
in the village
square.
When is the
initiation into the
masks spirit taken
place?
Warn all the young
men to partake, it
is our tradition
Never allow the she
goat deliver in
pain,
Go call the elders
to look after its
delivering.
The snake must never
be in group like the
beads
It is an abomination
not among the
tradition.
Gather the cowries
and the white chalk
and assemble the
youth in the shrine
Lets pour the goat
blood for the
sacrifices
The gos will hear us
this time after
We went astray from
it in foolishness.
Call on the widow
among us, i heard
there was one.
Her hair must be
Barbe thoroughly
She must bath and
drink the water used
on
Her deceased husband
bath.
The Umu Ada must be
there
It is the tradition
here.
Let the Umu Ada
check the maidens
Of their virginity
before they dance
Let them deep their
hands into the hole
One after the other
to check the fruits.
It is part of the
traditions.
The king must not
set his eyes on a
rotten
Shining meals which
are set for the
vultures.
Let not a child
whistles in the day
Let not a girl child
come out to the
Agbala naked
Under the initiation
in festival of
virginity.
We all must set the
tradition going
It is our right and
liberty to excel.
Neglect not the
wisdom of the elders
In his wisdom exist
pure and holy.
Our fore fathers
must be happy and
free
when we all observe
the traditions
Of Nkporoland in its
pure heart.
Have you ever felt such a silken mist? A shower of rain that can cleanse the soul? Have you ever reached up to touch God on the face and He converted your heart instantly? Have you ever wondered what heaven was all about and was drawn to it more than ever now? Showers of love pour out from the heart of our Creator.
The Latter Rain is a supernatural rain. It is the outpouring of the love of God. The Latter Rain is a mist of affection, a last minute call upon the hearts of His divine creation. Yes, this rain shower, this shower of his affection, is just for you. It was planned this way since the beginning of time, and here we are standing side by side soaking up the wondrous presence of God. He is all around us as He blankets us with His mighty love.
Have you ever wanted to tell someone how much you love them and yet you couldn't find the words to speak? You always became tongue-tied over praying with others, but somehow your prayers come more easily? This is the outpouring of the mist of the essence of God. This is the Latter Rain.
Put your umbrellas away and dance through the rain. Dance as though you don't care who is watching. Let your face get moistened first and then your hair. Run through the streets professing your love for God. He is the maker of rain! He is the maker of your heart too! This is the Festival of the Latter Rain!
The Lord has chosen Kenya to be the first country to receive the outpouring of this rain, although the mist began several weeks ago all across this planet... It has been experienced by many of the end time's workers as jolts of Holy Spirit electricity that have come down from the throne room of God. It is in every city upon this planet. It will drench every person that reaches up to experience God during these latter days. Pray for the lost. Pray for those who do not care for the things of God. Perhaps the Latter Rain will be their last chance to receive the wonderful love of our Creator. Once the rapture of the bride of Christ has occurred, the Latter Rain will go away. It will be like a cool mist that has also evacuated the earth. A glorious fog that will dissipate.
Reach up to God and allow His Holy Presence to touch you and your loved ones. Experience the Latter Rains today! Ask Him to show you and He will!
Joel 2:23, Zechariah 10:1, James 5:7
Written by Gwendolen Rix
2-7-15
White Christmas is not what many people think it is
As we know Christmas is a lively annual festival
Celebrated seven days before the end of the year
Of the Nativity of Jesus. Christmas is a joyful, colorful
And wonderful feast, where stars glow and glisten.
People who live not too far from the cold North Pole
Always dream of a snowy or white Christmas
Where Mother Nature is frosted and crystallized
And the streets are paved with black or clear ice.
Christmas is celebrated by billions across the universe
It is a major festival of hope, happiness and lights
Northerners often dream of a very cold or snowy Christmas
Which brings powerful nostalgic feelings of yesteryear
When children used to listen.
Nowadays, Christmas is multicultural and highly colorful
Bing Crosby wrote of a ‘White Christmas’ for everybody
Living in the world, where imagination brings Hope, Noël,
Yule and Joy, regardless of the religion, creed, gender or race.
Copyright © December, 2023, Hébert Logerie, all rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Blanca Navidad No Lo Es
Blanca Navidad no es lo que mucha gente piensa que es
Como sabemos, la Navidad es una animada fiesta anual
Que muchos festejan siete días antes de fin del año
La Natividad de Jesús. La Navidad es una fiesta
Que es alegre, colorida y maravillosa, donde las estrellas brillan.
Personas que viven no muy lejos del frío Polo Norte
Sueñan siempre de una Blanca o Nevada Navidad
Donde la madre naturaleza está congelada y cristalizada
Y las calles pavimentadas con hielo transparente o ngro.
Millones de personas en todo el universo celebran la Navidad
Que es una gran fiesta de esperanza, de felicidad y de luces
Los norteños suelen soñar con una Navidad muy fría
Lo que trae poderosos sentimientos nostálgicos de antaño
Cuando los niños solían escuchar.
Hoy en día, la Navidad es multicultural y llena de color
Bing Crosby escribió de una "Blanca Navidad" para todos
Que viven en un mundo donde la imaginación trae esperanza
Festividad y alegría, sin importar la religión, credo, género o raza.
PD Traducción de ‘White Christmas Is Not’ por Hébert Logerie
Copyright © diciembre de 2023, Hébert Logerie, todos los derechos reservados.
Hébert Logerie es autor de varias colecciones de poemas.
The food was indeed, Greek.
My first Greek Frappe!
A most divine, heavenly treat.
Gods must have created this.
So far beyond good!
In gigantic glasses,with ice chips.
It was as good as an Ouzo on the rocks!
The Festival on Saturday was terribly
overcrowded,
I wanted to leave,before it started.
Fashion in the USA,no kidding has truly
grown retarded!
I like seeing men as men, not dressed as
obese 13 year old boys, sporting baseball
caps.
And the beauty of women?
Tossed away like toys, now women
only dress as boys?
My years are catching up with me,
I must hearedtdly admit.
I wanted to run from an American
culture that is so far from fashion
phenomenally adrift!
Like buffalo we were overcome with
the most fashionably unfit.
I sat with my daughter drinking a
Frappe.
And my only thought was how soon
and how fast we could get away!
I lost my appetite to eat with American
bisons!
With god-ugly toes jutting out of
cheap, plastic flip-flops.
Fat leaping out of obnoxious holes on
jeans of 300 pound women?
Ah, kill me now and let me go to
heaven!
I lost my appetite to eat midst this
hellish plethora of dirty feet.
And hair from hell to top off this
ungodly, human feat.
Then came beautiful girls, their
arms skewed with tattoos so ugly.
My desire to escape hit me much
more than suddenly.
I did have a Pastitsio, that was
yummy!
Just had to keep my eyes off the
volcanic, bulging tummies.
Thank goodness there were not
many children there!
Their mothers, the size of German
tanks would have squashed them
into instant mummies!
I did buy an icon of Christos and
Panayiota holding her child
Both in a carved wooden case.
Now this brought a smile to my
face!
And a turquoise evil-eye bracelet
with crystals, to ward off any
future toe and bison disgrace!
Greek bread we brought to take
home.
I swore up and down to never
leave my home, to roam.
Greek cookies, Kourabiedes,
and Greek bread, seemed to
calm my confused head.
Perhaps, going on a Saturday
was the worst possible choice.
Maybe I can go blindfolded next
year and hush my voice?
Or not go at all?
Still have PTSD, after what I
always previously I experienced
as a yearly treat.
It once was like going to a ball!
September 10, 2029
The attendees were not Greeks.
Form:
I had been placed in chains
Where the cripples shed their canes
And the blind regained the art of seeing.
It was a robbers’ den
And as all God fearing men,
I had assets needed freeing.
Sometimes the poet’s muse
Is a bride who will refuse
All his conjugal solicitations.
He must lure to bed
Any tramp that turns his head
With unchaste alliterations:
And so it goes...
He’d lived his life alone
In a hermitage of stone
Where he rang those bells for all occasions;
Like the feasts of saints,
For the widows’ sad complaints,
And for joyous celebrations.
It's said confusion rules
At the Festival of Fools
And the scene below just seemed to prove it.
So he clambered down
And was regent of the crown
Till Claude Frollo’s hand removed it.
He smelled her perfumed hair
From across Cathedral Square
And the fragrance soothed his loss of hearing;
For her silent dance
Cast a soul ensnaring trance
Both enticing and endearing.
She was a barefoot girl
With her gypsy skirt a swirl
As the minstrels played a tarantella;
Graceful as fabric spun
From a gently setting sun,
And he pined for Esméralda.
But when the maid fell hard
For the Captain of the Guard
As a villain plotted her seduction,
His trust was put to test
On a futile, wicked quest
In abetting her abduction.
And so he bore the blame
When the warden called his name
As they bared his back to take a whipping.
He felt each lash stroke bleed,
The injustice of the deed
Set those righteous scales to tipping.
While the Archdeacon's kin,
Who was guilty of the sin,
Stalked the halls as Satan’s emissary,
A young girl’s tortured plea
Brought his fool to guarantee
Esméralda's sanctuary.
In a defiant act
When the rebel mob attacked,
He strained his crooked back to save the maiden;
And called the angels home
With the tolling of Guillaume,
Like hard currency to trade in.
He ran from wall to wall,
Hurling curses at them all,
Raining molten lead down on the rabble,
From the gargoyles’ throats
To the beggars’ ragged coats
In a symphony of babble.
But it was all in vain;
He could laugh himself insane,
Still those oaken doors were being battered,
And the dénouement
Left his ashes in the straw,
Proving love was all that mattered.
Transitions and Contrasts: Just like the Seasons
Scorching, sweltering, drying, draining
The Candle of the Sky, now a supernova
Chirping birds cry out for drops of draught,
The strays of streets too, dying or suffering.
The poor farmer’s heart, broken,
Like his dry and barren field and feet.
His wife’s sweaty palms trying to support
The pot on her head, and the babe on her hip;
Her anchal over her face, trying in vain,
To shield it from heat and dust.
Fifty miles away,
The businessman complained,
His AC is not good enough, and he can’t sleep.
Then the rains come down,
Soaking the land, pleasing the heart.
Kids splashing and screaming,
Coffee mugs and snack trays steaming,
Isn’t it time for music and romance?
But the single mother who couldn’t go to work,
Worried about her leaking roof
And her child’s still wet school uniform.
Spring came, colours and flowers,
Is there a fragrance always in the air?
Butterflies and dragonflies shimmering,
It’s time for festivals, (is it Onam yet?)*
Shouldn’t there be new clothes and feasts?
Oh, but no one back home, no one remains.
And for the grandpa who is alone in the bungalow,
What for is Onam if he is alone?
Winter comes with lights, gifts and carols.
Shimmering stars, bells and beauty.
Christmas and New Year,
Glory to God and Peace on earth,
Beauty and smiles; love and hope,
But is there a hope for the freezing homeless
Their hunger and longing
For bread and lodging?
Autumn stood there, silent witness,
Forgotten, yet calm and composed.
Trying to get rid of the scorching heat,
Before the squall and cold numbness come.
And they repeat year after year,
Never letting the world forget,
All is dynamic,
Constant in its inconsistency
.We puny mortals, mere actors, observers,
Too turn sentimental, passionate and cold.
Shed tears like the monsoon,
Turn angry like summer,
Cold like the winter
And fragrant like the spring.
We see the pain around,
Sometimes lament, sometimes turn angry,
Often be apathetic but still hope for Spring.
*Onam is the spring festival of Kerala, a state in India which also marks reunion of families and
nostalgia for home. In the urbanised world often this gets ignored as family
reunions rarely happen, therefore dampening the spirit of the festival.
Midst the mulga and the gidyea out beyond the old Paroo
runs a road which leads to Yowah and a great place it is too.
Where the populace is smitten by an urge they can’t withstand:
Its the lust to find the queen of gems, beneath a timeless land.
With her tantalising beauty and her taunting, twinkling eyes,
Its the radiance of this desert child her lovers highly prize.
Suitors come from every walk of life, from countries quite diverse
and she keeps them courting tirelessly exacting quite a purse.
And the charm of her charisma casts a spell they can’t escape,
so they’ve built a little township there amid that red landscape.
Quite relentless is their quest to toil, a constant ritual,
and they love their leisure moments like their Opal Festival.
Chris and I were asked to join them and present our bush verse show
through the festival proceedings and replied, “We’d love to go.”
First we entertained the children at the school there for a spell
then our host, Gwen Burney, took us for a tour that went down well.
We were shown the local opal fields and dug for Yowah nuts,
then we lunched and watched some golfers sink some rather dubious putts.
But the opal bug had bitten and we sought a licence out,
for we planned to do some noodling or at least just poke about.
But the torture of the digging with just handpicks proved too tough
and we chucked the towel in quickly as we’d simply had enough.
Down in spirits we decided to search out the mulberry wine
there at Roy’s, not far from Gwen’s place, which was said to be real fine.
After scoffing down a sample we were feeling mighty good
and old Roy was sympathetic to our plight and understood.
He produced a bar and shovel and a bottle of his brew,
then we headed back to noodle with our outlook all anew.
Well we dug and sipped and dug and sipped, oblivious to pain
and the next two days we carried on and did it all again.
We were up each morning early and sat cracking all our nuts,
though our hands were full of blisters and a mass of little cuts.
We were both now surely smitten and could not resist her will,
for the bug had surely bitten and we talk about it still.
Yes, its tantalizing colour and its taunting texture’s fine
and we’re flamin' well addicted to Roy’s home-made mulberry wine.
In my little village, Nkporo,
We celebrate the Iza Afa Festival
And the Most Magnificent Igboto Nma Festival.
The two are more than four hundred years old,
Our forebears told us that it began with
Their ancestors who immigrated from Heaven
When Chukwu was sharing the earth to broken Humans.
They got their teethless share of the earth and
There the magical festival began to grow teeth.
It is celebrated in the Eight Villages of Nkporo
But, not at the same time nor the same earthless year;
On that day of the treasured celebration, everyone is a nobody and somebody,
The wind would howls in sweet poetry,
the trees would dance back and forth in a blissful form,
And the papers and leaves go up in merriment.
Then the open windows shut with a clapping hands
Welcoming the house roofs which rattles with songs.
The most dreaded guilty masquarades come out,
Helter skelter, the lost children run here and there;
As their homes skip and elude them in the square.
The Villagers feel nothing but the joy of excitment in the air,
As the dusty sand fill the tensed atmosphere.
The houses clear and the streets is filled with people.
Then, the men and women of the festival comes out
All glowing and shining like the sun in their ragalias.
A bright flash takes the entire village,
The whistler whistles by in an unknown tone,
The Igboto Nma people are excited and joyful too
Because they would soon stop the payment of taxes
And levies among their age Grades.
Their responsibilities in the village ceased as they drop the heavy knife on the village square.
But the new responsibilities now lies on
The shoulders of the Iza Afa age Grade
Who are now being initiated into a new phase of Life.
The Igboto Nma clans leave a legacy to be remembered for in the innocent virgin community.
The sky in joy makes night of the day,
A noise that deafened comes from all the corners of the land,
Then the Eze Aja blesses them all and pray for long life and prosperit.
The rain makers keep the rain far off,
The fortune teller and the diviner dances all
Through the day and night,
At the end of their rituals at the village square,
They all goes to their tents and celebrate till dusk.
Food and drinks are abundant till the next day,
It always a day to reckon with in Nkporoland.
We lost our “UMOJA”, the basic concept and core value of our being “We, therefore, I am”, at the time of our history that began some 300 years ago. We didn’t step on the soil of New World with a dream like many others, but hauled on the ground like a cargo as merchandise. We were each treated individually as a unit but not tied as a family or group bonded together by the same dialect.
Misery was the food we’d been feeding to fill our empty stomach, agony was the water we’d been drinking to quench our thirst, depth of our footmarks were the weights we’d been carrying, our lives were trial after trial of thorny path. No matter how hard we worked, our baskets were empty. No matter how much we labored, returns of our toils were unbearable lashes. No matter how humbly we begged and ardently prayed, God always turned His face away from us.
But all those detestable days are gone as second millennium faded away. Shackles of curse are removed from our neck and wrists. Our burdens are removed from our back. The reward of our day’s of labor is reasonable wage. Why don’t we embrace one another with joy because only thing remain is our determination.
As daybreak sun is rising from yonder horizon, our darkest day has passed; for daybreak light is brighter than ever and pleasant as spring breath, we have good reason to celebrate for a moment. Nevertheless, don’t prolong the time of festival because it may make you stray from reality and to dwell in farfetched world.
As long as you don’t fold the wings but spread wide and keep flapping them, though sometimes encountering high wind, you can fly higher than the highest ridges of a mountain. If you keep swimming upstream, though you may confront falls and rapids, you’ll come to your old home where your parents risked their lives to spawn and enable you to hatch from an egg one day, and rejoice overflowing water in the ocean to gladden your life. If you dart with a swift gallop not abandoning tomorrow’s dream, no matter how immeasurably vast is the wilderness, you’ll reach the horizon before sun sinks into the other side of the world.
It’s the time to restore our “UMOJA” a laudable custom once we lost during our darkest days, recover “UMOJA” our ancestral heritage the good moral standard to sustain “I as us.”