Long Gypsies Poems
Long Gypsies Poems. Below are the most popular long Gypsies by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gypsies poems by poem length and keyword.
A mural painter? Why not? I asked myself.
My husband was inside, glued to a Lazy-Boy recliner
watching five TVs simultaneously.
He would not have a fit about something he did not see, right?
How often does he come to the porch anyway?
I began to plot out my legacy, something to leave the family.
To reassure them that their assessment of me is sound.
I am crazier than a mouse running into a cat’s mouth.
I was grinning as wide as I have ever grinned, as I plotted.
Drawing my ideas out in full scale, with pencil.
What to plan? Faeries, dragons, witches, gypsies, unicorns too.
All of my canvases are done in cartoon form; I am a natural at this.
I wanted more colors though, at least twenty of them.
I took inventory of my mural paints – red, black, gold, green, pink, blue.
Ordered sixteen more colors; this is going to be gloriously gaudy.
My sister came over when I was drawing the idea out in pencil.
It was going to be large; fifty feet long; covering the entire back of the house.
“I wouldn’t paint siding if I were you,” she said prissily.
Good thing she isn’t me, isn’t it?
And good thing she did not know my husband was home.
She is a tattle-tale in addition to being brazenly bossy.
Reincarnated, I will come back as a mustached and bearded Italian organ grinder,
I will live in Rome, Italy and play my home-made barrel organ in the streets,
My pet spider monkey, Shark, will happily grab up silver coins, as a reminder.
And we will make the beautifully-dressed Roma gypsies jump and laugh and squeak.
I will grind out the best songs, and Ellen will discover us and want to put us on TV.
Shark and I will be flown to America, where we will be applauded and approved.
We will play romantic music for everyone, and be as obnoxious as we can be.
We will be a hit with no one on that plane, people who are boring, and not easily moved.
We will be offered millions of dollars, to leave our wonderful streets of Rome.
But we will make our escape, not caring about the fame or the money,
For spider monkeys and organ grinders know the beauty of being in their home,
And we have a cozy nest, with our llamas and our elephant, named Honey.
Watch out, guys!
"Clap hands, clap hands,
Till father comes home,
For father's got money"
Children play a game called "King of the Hill"
"Ena, mena, mona, mite.
Pasca, laura, bona, bite.
Eggs, butter, cheese, bread.
Stick, stock, stone dead"
He is great in business, real estate and entertainment
"Build it up with iron and steel,
Iron and steel, iron and steel,
Build it up with iron and steel,
My fair lady"
What are his politics and faith
"It's a long way to Tipperary,
It's a long way to go,
It's a long way to Tipperary"
He just talked about his D*ck size
"Rumour, rumour, pump and derry*
Prick his heart and burn his body
And send his soul to purgatory"
(*Derry means to have a strong dislike for something)
Millions of ordinary Americans support him 100%
"My Mother said, I never should
Play with the gypsies in the wood"
He says "I will be the greatest jobs presidential that God ever created."
"The fox went on a chilly night,
He prayed to the moon to give him light,
For he had many a mile to go that night
Before he reached the
Town-o, town-o, town-o,"
Donald Trump will he win or lose
"Round and round the earth is turning,
Turning always into morning,
And from morning into night"
Owner of one of the most famous commercial jet aircraft in the world is 747
................... fly free
"Glory to the newborn King,
Peace on earth, and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!"
Joyful, all ye nations rise,
Join the triumph of the skies "
08.03.2016
A-L Andresen :)
Songs & Rhymes In English
http://www.mamalisa.com
Here are my instructions for when I leave this world to go into the “magic realm of possibilities”, the heaven on another plane. For it will be so much better, it will make this Earth life seem like the bowels of hell. Some of us are doing our best to create a heaven on earth here, but it’s still not heaven. Right?
When I pass through to my next adventure, I do not want sadness. I do not expect and will not appreciate wailing or whining. This earthly body which is worn out, and toothless does not want or need an expensive casket or a tombstone. Have you met me? Would I want you to give people a sad place to go and feel badly? Here are my specifications, short, sweet, and to be followed by whomever cares.
Laugh loud and hard, tell funny stories, pretend I was a comedienne. Be glad because I am in a very jazzy, graciously wonderful place. Dance and whirl and twirl and hum. I want you to celebrate my life with a “party.” If you make my grandchildren cry, I will hunt you down, and you will have the next party.
I want you to play my favorite songs –“99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall- all verses, and I mean it, “Puff the Magic Dragon”, and Cher’s “Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves.” If you really want to get carried away, you may play Liza Minnelli’s “Liza with a Z”. But be careful; this could easily hook you forever on her music.
If someone loves me enough to do this, please read Samuel Coleridge’s poem “Kubla Khan” at my celebration of life party. I guarantee I will be there, and I will love it! Thanks in advance.
5.
all long the day i beg
i beg rice pulses oil salt
royal blood
in exchange i also distribute
peace… peace… and peace…
and the horses of the gypsies making
a dip-swimming in the peace-water
in the canto of my begging
holding a whole body of love
i learn how to be burnt
by the shadow of the trees
i give up all my courage
to book a room in your youth
only for me
6.
going upstairs on the railway foot-bridge
i see the strong light of neon-lamps
the girl from the avtar of the flex
induced trance
the aroma of chhatim-flower in the air
and the song of a blind-beggar
with tambourine
those neon-light flex-women
beggar’s-song and flower odour
i see they are all alive
in the canto of my begging
under the evening-star
7.
in the canto of my begging
at the day’s end
the moon that rises behind the rain-tree
i put up in her hands
the lemon-leaves the water-balloons the goal-kicks
that i have had throughout the day
by begging
and i beg from her the magic-wand
by the touch of which the date-palm
that was someday burnt by a thunder-bolt
in front of the church
looks very infatuating
and my dress as a beggar gradually
becomes a royal-dress
Theres a gathering in Britain now, the concerned are active
They are determined and how.' To show to the world a
Healthy example.' In the balance is all freedom this is not
Just a sample.' The eugenists genocidalists are going to
Meet real faces, real humans; out active.' On swiss streets
Just well balanced humans, many intelligent and clever.'
And scoros can't buy them out 'thats from never to never.! Lets
Just get our minds, active and apply reason with logic.'
Alsol I think they won't let us down!!) As they bring this time a tonic!
All the proofs and writings, all the records of it to switzerland!
These warriors are sound! Though some facts will leave you soured, for in 1975 I have found.)
Gypsies could be' held as the slaves of any Swiss person
Check it out.' Read the Bible counter and count the lies' they are
Spreading to the world, no more falseness or running its time.' decide!
Pray! 'and to stand is the solution, and all' spread the news!
Wide and far.' Be prepared gather, to hear the (One voice) air some
Views.!
Through whatever, means they are proofed? Are they are getting tested?
I offer you' take the time; and freedom to choose.!
A jerrybuilt jumble, so shoddy, diminished;
just cubes of grey concrete with windows and doors.
It started to crumble the day it was finished.
Franco’s “solution” for gypsies and moors.
It’s called “La Dehesa”, the pasture, the grange.
The old ones say once there were orchards here, too.
It’s undergone quite a formidable change:
there’s nothing but concrete obscuring the view.
Like rabbits in hutches we live in our flats,
with neighbours on both sides, below and above,
surrounded by dustbins and children and cats,
and noises of squabbling, noises of love.
Each Sunday, some woman (I can’t tell you where)
starts singing, as morning creeps in through the shutters.
Flamenco, like woodsmoke, just hangs in the air,
and laps over drainpipes and outlets and gutters.
She’s clearly a gypsy. I can’t say I’ve seen her,
but singing is thoughtless, as easy as breathing,
and something about her, her aural demeanour,
is caught in her song, which comes seeping and seething
through windows and clothes lines, as if by osmosis.
She sings for herself. She’s not grabbing attention.
There’s no petty ego. Aesthetic hypnosis
is selfless. Seduction, without condescension.
She sings of her pain and her ecstasy. Both
can be borne on the air, like a children’s balloon.
Her art is unconscious, leguminous growth,
yet as hauntingly lovely as the light of the moon.
Gitanos, gitanas – delinquents and whores.
Well, maybe – but, seeing those ravishing eyes,
or hearing The Song as it wavers and soars,
I know in my soul where my sympathy lies.
FAIRIES IN THE EVENTIDE
Scented little pillows
filled with little seeds.
A fairy makes quite a fuss,
fingers like dust ~ pulling &
lusting for the aromatherapy.
Like a jeweled mosquito, she won’t let go.
~ I ultimately let her fly ~
Now she’s gained the coveted prize.
“Mmm, ahh,” she says, then sneezes,
flutters away with her lighthearted squeeze.
Pesky little fairies now bother me in the eventide ~
with wings of diamond, emerald, and sapphire.
They twinkle past my eyes, like precious dust,
Bedazzling me, begging me to sew a sachet.
Jealous little gypsies, they are, currying favor,
prodding my gigantic fingers to sew.
I’m quite tired by morning light, and it all seems
an annoying dream, except for lingering stardust.
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
They are around my way like the autumn leaves.
Anybody can call them gypsies, tramps, and thieves.
Cher can describe my neighbors with her hit song.
The title being descriptive certainly is not wrong.
Some of my lawn furniture was stolen this spring.
Who would be low enough to do such a thing?
These neighbors roam like gypsies all over the place.
They speak broken English and have a ruddy face.
There’s no way they can finance their way now and beyond.
Each one is a tramp and the epitome of a vagabond.
Are they looking for a job? I don’t think they care.
When you see them in the neighborhood, you had better beware.
May 9,2012
Gypsies
Across a misty channel
Sensor fingers
Stretch
Through foggy, silent waves
Where two souls embrace
In expeditions of speechless discovery
Two minds stand naked,
Face to face,
With wordless words
Each knowing the inner rhyme
Of another soul –
Intimate outside skin and limbs.
Across the barriers of minutes, hours, months
Two silent gypsies wander,
Through heartbeats
They stand, then gaze,
Connected to each other -
Escapees of the spoken word;
Outside the limits of ticking clocks
Two hearts touch
And see the signature of yet another
Self
At the address of the not yet arrived,
Undelivered.
Across the minutes and the moonlight
Pushing past the stealthy march of mysteries
Two fugitives flee holding hands
Leaving footprints
Escaping lines and spaces
Of a calendar;
Two almost strangers stand
At the mystic gates of the unknown -
Today’s unwanted guests
Intruders in tomorrow’s dwelling -
Thieves of time -
Fate’s despoilers.
Across the walls of midnight’s
Crumbling castles
Two wanderers peer into fleeting glimpses
Briefly understanding
The images and ghosts
Taking shape in the mist undefined;
Two stowaways crouch in secret coves,
Hidden from eyes born into mortality
In the warehouse of the borning
To see and not quite
Understand
Young future’s dance.
Across all barriers of time and space
Two gypsies touch outside galaxies to identify
Vague daylight outlines- dim midnight contours -
Embracing imprints,
Acknowledgment of events to come -
Words still unspoken;
Two souls run past the morning
Then return in recognition
For they now stand
Outside of themselves -
Vagabonds of facts
Nomads escaping demands for proof in black and white.
Great minds get the memo.