Long Immigrated Poems
Long Immigrated Poems. Below are the most popular long Immigrated by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Immigrated poems by poem length and keyword.
If a lighthouse could speak, oh the stories it would tell.
Every crack and crevice holds historic truths or tales.
What plane had visited its’ sky and waters; what lies beneath its sea.
Stories of the keeper’s life; smuggling's it’s seen.
Whose immigrated where; who’s died as their ship went down.
Who survived a sinking craft or whom was never found.
Who killed off all the dolphins and whales, in its vicinity.
Whether a ship sank as whole or was snapped in-two by a storm at sea.
Yes, if a lighthouse could only speak what stories it could tell;
Listen carefully anyway; It may cast a story spell.
4-21-2021
ALL YOURS (Apr 22) Poetry Contest
Brian Strand
Last Names
by Edmund Siejka
Whenever I meet someone
At a party, a restaurant or in line at a store
And the conversation turns to last names
I respond politely
When they ask
What nationality is that?
The question strikes me as anachronistic
Like how old were you when you were born?
For some of us
The spelling and pronunciation
Of our last names can be challenging
Harboring a jumble of
Consonants and vowels
Without rules
But we need to remember
That each last name has a proud past
And each name has a future.
If rudely pressed for an explanation
I sometimes describe my last name as “American”
Clearly stating
That my great grandparents immigrated from Europe
Over a hundred fifty years ago
And we’ve been here ever since.
In this day of fluid identities
My answer seems somewhat vague and evasive
And occasionally met with arched eyebrows
From people I hardly know
But it stops them from asking additional questions
As I feel under no obligation to say more
After all
Didn’t we all come from somewhere else?
In the spring of 1880 young Clifford Griffin immigrated from England to Colorado.
The death of his fiancee left him bereft and he was searchin' for his El Dorado.
He settled in Silver Plume where he and his brother bought the Seven Thirty Mine.
Clifford and his brother Heneage became very rich from ore that assayed very fine!
With all his riches, Clifford chose to live in his lonely cabin above the town.
His only companion was his treasured violin which he played with some renown!
His melancholy melodies wafted down from his mountain aerie 'most every night,
To be heard by the whiskey-guzzlin' hard-scrabble miners to their delight!
Clifford always dressed in black, enjoyed fine cigars and was quite the dashin' bloke!
He seemed content with his solitary life and in business was as solid as an oak!
Alas, death cast its gloomy pall high above Silver Plume one moonlit night.
Instead of sweet violin music, a single shot was heard that left the town affright!
Next morn his mortal remains were found in a grave he'd dug for himself alone.
His heart-broken brother found the pistol with which his brains he had blown.
A grand monument was erected atop the mountain just above Silver Plume,
At the very spot where Clifford lay midst the ponderosa and Columbine bloom!
Mysterious events now occur on that lonely mountainside accordin' to local lore!
'Tis said on moonlit nights sad violin music is heard below on the valley floor!
Folks have seen a black-clad phantom smokin' a cigar and drawin' a bow,
Playin' melancholy music and a wraith in Clifford's likeness a-swayin' to and fro!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Entry for Carol Eastman's "Story Poem" Contest
I immigrated to Canada from Greece, in nineteen seventy-one
It was the best thing in my life that till that moment I had done
Nothing was easy for me since I did not know anyone, I confess
The first thing I had to do was to establish a new address
I had to find work but spoke little of English and not a word of French
This made everything difficult so I couldn't my hunger quench
Little by little though and after many sacrifices from my part
Slowly but steadily I succeded in making a new start
I began to work and at the same time started going to evening school
For I did not wish forever to remain an ignorant fool
Years, painfully, passed by and finally, one day I got my first degree
I learned, English, French, German and also got my Ph.D.
Commenced teaching, found an honest Canadian woman, and tied the knot
Became a Canadian citizen, had children whom I love a lot.
Now I look back on this exciting adventure and gratefully exclaim:
" Thank you, O CANADA, for, without you, my victory couldn't proclaim! "**
© Demetrios Trifiatis
01 July 2021
* This is biographical writing. All words are true!
** Alexander the Great made once a declaration about his teacher who was no other than the famous Greek philosopher, Aristotle. He said: " To my father, I owe my being but to my teacher, I owe my well-being."
Paraphrasing, Alexander, I say: ' To Greece, I owe my being but to Canada, I owe my well-Being." HAPPY CANADA DAY!
She had been indoctrinated to believe her country was free
But she hit the tripwires, had nowhere to flee
She learned the hard way that what she'd been taught
were lies from a regime that couldn't be fought.
His country was designed free, the constitution shows
But there are some paths where nobody goes
There is organized crime, and ideologues on fire
Better keep your mouth shut, or you'll hit a tripwire.
A Mafia immigrated and set up shop
They hired bad scientists, the cream of the crop
Jane didn't know, treated a member with contempt
Soon had to run to doctors, wild, and unkempt
All sorts of health problems, she couldn't understand
She had been a runner, now barely could stand
Couldn't sleep at night, strange symptoms during the day
She had hit a tripwire, and she had to pay.
He saw a pretty woman, her smile drew him in
A slippery slope, maybe a sin.
His life became a horror movie, with villains unseen
he had been in the mire, but they would not let him clean
With glee they fastened on him like a clam
A perverted science, for a once sinning man
They had drugs to make urges go from ember to fire
They plotted his downfall, he had tripped that tripwire
Do we really know what's around us, not to mention who?
Do we know the real rules, and what bad people do?
Is our world inverted, at the wrong moment to find
that we had it all wrong, it doesn't work as designed?
Morning Thoughts
Sunday morning, heavy mist clings to the building
the bay of Cascais is shrouded as a grief-striking widow
inaudibly her sigh, but her eyes are still sea green
Ten days ago, I made a prediction 19000 will die before Israel was sated of spilled blood,
her primitive revenge speaks of Byzantine times
Truly, Israel is a religious state
The local news tells me in the last two years
three hundred thousand Brazilians have immigrated
to Portugal this without fanfare or disapproving remark
from conservative politicians, perhaps they have yet to notice this influx, which I think is positive.
Although Brazil and Portugal are Lucio-phonic, the incomers bring more color and wake up the staid
Portugal often sinks into an abject sentimental Fado.
The Portuguese premier is suspected of corruption, has resigned but will keep his job until a new election
We suspect he will be found not guilty, although he might have had a hand in the till; other people lower in the political landscape will pay the price, but Portugal has a forgiving people, or forgetful, will see them in the assembly again
In Alentejo, there are many men-choir like in Wales, a tradition to stand under a big Carvalho clicking stones together and sing what appears sorrowful tunes
There are no Brazilians in Alentejo one wishes that some of them would come and bring music to the sad songs
Otherwise, I like Alentejo; she has the best red wine in the world, and you can't top that.
.
Written: June 10, 2024, For Eve Roper Contest
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
1/ The eldest son of a family immigrated to the United States.
2/ I'm a bibliophile. I deem myself artistic, empathetic, and spiritual.
3/ I have one son, two daughters, and seven grandchildren.
4/ -I am an advocate for the aesthetic value of one's natural surroundings, spouse, offspring, and grandchildren.
-Dancing flowers, the sound of azure waters on the shore, and the sight of cascades crashing against coral cliffs.
5/ Devote myself to the principles of generosity and tolerance for all.
6/ Handling disrespect and inequity is a chore I'm wary of.
7/ I love traveling globally, especially on cruises, and learning about cultures, traditions, art forms, and history.
8/I am a resident of San Jose, a vibrant city in California.
9/My last name - Sotto.
*****
What a joy it is to hear my kid's laughter return.
Dancing and bustling around me, I long to churn.
The sight of vacant seats at meals makes me grieve.
Unless, when there are happy events to heave!
for-Father Poetry Contest, Sponsored by: Silent One
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his childhood stories told
of when he was
a little scottish boy
grey days...freezing nights
the only way to keep out the bite
was the fires flames a roaring
"tis wasn’t much-but it was me home"
he would say
in his broad accent
but...i could never hear it
when war came
and his father did his duty
[a hero within a young boy`s eyes]
his spinster Aunt came to stay
"I had two mums in those days,"
he would often say-
in his broad accent
but…i could never hear it
he would often tell me
how he collected coal by the railway lines
to add to the night time fire
or the day when a Luftwaffe bomber was shot down
and crashed into a field near his childhood home
he would talk about
nights spent in air raid shelters
or the nights sitting in the dark
he would often say
"you cannae show the hun the way to London"
in his broad accent
but…i could never hear it
the silent piper greeted visitors at the door
he would always welcome them with a "G`day"
and a glass of whisky
[always a cheap one]
but there was something not quite right
about the way he said "G`day"
in his broad accent
but…i could never hear it
its true with what they say about the
Scotch being stingy
[he would say he was just being thrifty]
example- when we left the lights on in a room empty
he would say
"Andre Carnegie doesn’t live here,"
in a sarcastic way
and in his broad accent
but…i could never hear it
------------------------------------------------------------------
explanations of words used in this poem
townhill-a scottish village just outside of dunfermline
G'day-an Aussie greeting for hello
Andre Carnegie-Scottish-American industrialist and philanthropist.[born in
dunfermline immigrated to usa aged 12]
##dad migrated to australia in 1951
There are 144,000 persons living in an open land. All are freemen and women. They have everything they needed to survive until one day when almost all people needed something else to quench their thirst for immortality. Not everyone wanted immortality where there is already peace and harmony in their common lifestyle. Some opted to live a simple life while more people were tempted to search for more to suffice their bodily pleasures.
"Whose idea is this?" one asked.
Many people replied: "Nobody except of some animals that approached us."
The same person asked another question: "How can animals talk to humans... in what language?"
Nobody answered out of the many people of over one hundred thousand.
Many days passed and day by day a group of men and women started moving to a different place. For a very long time where these common people have lived with serenity in the very same old place of peace and laughter, they are now being divided and scattered. No one was able to explain if it's an ideology or a new belief why people started to view things around them differently. People looked at each other in different ways unlike before. More years passed and almost everybody's gone except for a family of eight.
One day, this family discovered the place where almost everybody went... a secluded site believed to be a paradise in the outside, but only hatred and sorrow in the inside. People who immigrated to this new place can no longer return to their old blessed land which they once called "wasteland" -- land of their birth and good values.
Do you know where most people went?... a place immigrants called "Nede."
All six children-members of the only family left outside of the so called "Paradise of Nede" asked themselves if they can survive in the coming years. Their parents answered: "Why worry when you don't live with guilt?"
I only write, but never kill
My blood runs deep, but temperature is still
So deep and caressing as the ocean moves
Over sands and paper, always wet and proves
Reminiscing your memories in me
Reverberating your sweet thoughts of me
Your heart that speaks... my pen that tweaks!
(Prosebite)
A JULY 4TH REFLECTION: 2025
It’s July fourth,
And the POTUS seeks
Elimination
Of immigration
In America,
Although his parents
Immigrated here:
Father coming from
Hilter’s Germany
Which id the womb
Of the fascistic type
Of politics of
The POTUS today,
In his bigoted
Power mongering
Issuing of laws
That are so unjust;
And forcing Congress
To pass likewise laws
To ensure making
This land great again,
In its mockery
Of independence
And justice for all,
In this so-called land
Of democracy,
Built on land severed
From indigenous
Free occupancy;
How strange this must be
Following Juneteenth
And for descendants
Of who this land was:
Hey, it’s July fourth,
Independence day
In America;
Have a blessful day
In celebrating
In divine wisdom
And its clear guidance
In making this land
Again, the land of
The free, with justice
And equality
For all who live here
In God’s onederful
Oneness of onement:-