Long Ira Poems
Long Ira Poems. Below are the most popular long Ira by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ira poems by poem length and keyword.
Que solo soy un muerta sobre la faz
Que no me he dado cuenta nadamas
Que mi estancia en el mundo se acabó
Mi misión persona simplemente fracasó Puras culpas y desilusiones y tristeza cargo en mi alma
Que voy a conocer pronto el infierno
Que permanentemente iré a dormir
Y que próximamente sabré que se siente morir pero con mi Coca Cola Por que no quiero ir me sola ....
Señor cuida a mi hijo y a los míos, líbralos de todo mal
Hay quien dijo que más de un round no les iba aguantar y gane varias peleas
Un saludo dela muerta que sigue dando de qué hablar
Por que no a todos me quisieron con una mano cuento los verdaderos amigos y me sobran dedos ,, en la otra con la familia que cuento y también me sobran tres dedos incondicionalmente mi abuelita y mi tía querida como las extraño...
Sé que hay una raya que ya no voy a omitir no le temo ala muerte porque muerta mi alma está desde hace tiempo vive atormentada por los recuerdos que duelen día con día
Que el destino es quien va a decidir
Como será mi muerte ....
Más allá de la noche que me cubre,
negra como el abismo insondable, En la azarosas garras de las circunstancias
no he gemido ni llorado.
Sometida a los golpes del azar
mi alma sangra,
Más allá de este lugar de ira y llantos
yace sino el horror de la sombra,
Y aún la amenaza de los años
me halla y me hallará sin temor.
No importa cuán estrecha sea la puerta, del infierno
soy la dueña de mi destino, me empujó a este tumulto entre las nubes;
todo parecía sueño , de todo hice memoria,
los años por venir me parecieron
vano aliento,
vano aliento los años transcurridos
en igualdad con esta vida y esta muerte que no odio a quienes son mis enemigos,
no amo a quienes debo defender nunca supe como querer por que no me supe querer ami misma ... mi vida amorosa un fracaso como la Coca Cola mala En la amarga muerte encontre mi destino.
En la amarga muerte te vi y con una sonrisa te deje partir.
En la amarga muerte vi tu rostro y tu oscuridad con gusto recibi,en tu morada habite, en tus labios me perdi y no senti mas la muerte. la amarga muerte
te ame hasta la muerte
ahora se que mi muerte fuisteis tu
cabalgas en mi cerebro
y mueres en mi corazon
mi muerte fuiste tu
por eso me encuentro aqui sola y llorando con un sentimiento que no puedo explicar
Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: White Boys
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: August/1995
I want to do
just like
the white boys
do -
Wear
six hundred
dollar
shoes,
and
dress
in
the finest
of
suits -
I want
a
six figure
income,
to splurge
at
Fred Segal's,
on
Melrose
avenue -
I want to
jog
with
my dog,
while
pushing
my child
in a
stroller -
I want to
send
my children,
to
only
the best
of
schools -
I want a
pristine
neighbourhood
in a
gated
community -
And
style
in a
Bentley,
through
Hollywood -
Just like
the
white boys
do -
I want to
live
in
Beverly Hills,
and
hob nob
with
my
constituents-
I want to
have
A-1
credit,
to
charge
on
Rodeo Drive -
I want a
foyer
filled
with
roses -
and
a
Butler
passing
out
horsd'oeuvres,
champaign,
and
caviar -
And
I want to
travel,
in a
Lincoln
Town car -
What
I really want
is
equal rights,
regardless
of
colour -
Just like
the
white boys
do -
Who
wouldn't
want to
ride
a horse
under
the
golden
sun,
on
the
beach
in
Malibu -
Just like
the
white boys
do
I want to
explore
life
under
the sea
in a
submarine -
I want stocks,
bonds, CD's
and
Ira account's
too -
a
Yacht,
Lear Jet,
and
a
home
in
Peru -
Just like
the white boys
do -
I want to be
in
every
television
commercial,
every
movie,
and
smile for
the
camera,
when they
call
my name -
Just like
the
white boys
do -
I want it
all -
even a
star
on the
walk of fame -
I want to
expose
the
myth,
shown
around
the
world,
that
only
white boys
are
doing
everything -
I want to
Sky Dive,
Hang Glide,
and
fly
in a
Hot Air
balloon -
I want to
fall
from
the sky
in
a
parachute -
I want to
golf;
play
board games,
and
speed race
in
a boat -
I want to
drive
a
jacked-up
truck -
and
lasso
a horse
with
a
rope -
Just like
the
white boys
do -
I want to
Snowboard,
parasail,
ski,
and
wind surf -
And
I want to
dine with
Royalty,
like
Kings
and
Queens -
I want to
be
on the
cover
of every
magazine -
I want it
all -
Just like
the
white boys
do -
I
The historical record shows many intimate connections between Arabs, Muslims, Hebrews and Jews, and Babylon. The nation we equate with Israel began as tribes in the deserts of Arabia. Some of them were allies, some opponents, of the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH). However, we know his Uncle-in-law was Jewish via Khadijah, and helped the Prophet reject the fear he was insane, for hearing Gabriel speak some of the Old Testament scriptures to him.
II
The synagogue system of worship was begun in Ira q (Babylon)
III
Tel Aviv was a famous Jewish city in Iraq, before it was "revived" in present - day Israel.
IV
Strictly-speaking "Jews" refer to Jesus' tribe, as He is the Lion of Judah; the other 11 tribes of ancient Israel (Hebrew tribes) are the ten tribes of old Israel then called Samaria, or Ephraim with Samaria as the capital. The remaining tribe of Benjamin - from which the great missionary Paul (Saul) descended - was located in JUDEA, or the Southern Kingdom (with Jerusalem as capital).
V
As i pointed out previously, the Samaritans have survived for millennia near Mount Gerizim (adjoining Nablus, in the Occupied West Bank - which some Israelis call SAMARIA even today). They were persecuted by Arabs and Jews as neither fish nor fowl, especially during the 1940s, and during intifadas. West_bank Samaritans remained neutral, declaring their connection with Abraham through Jacob (Yakov) son of Isaac, grandson of Abraham. In the parables, Jesus spent much time showing the Samaritans as "good" and worth saving. Samaritans were not allowed to buy land in Israel after 1948; an exception was made in 1950s near Tel Aviv. Recently UKRAINIAN women are recruited as brides for the dwindling Samaritan population (GOOGLE this). Thanks to Israeli scholars who proved the Samaritan story in the 1950s.
shalom, shalom. Yes, we have differences, but we have much in common!
NOTES:
1. Khadijah, the Prophet's first wife, was a business man, and likely a Christian. Her father, Khuwaylid Ibn Asad was also leader in Quresh tribe.
2. Her relative, Warak -al-Naufal (sometimes El-NORFIL) was a Christian and a minister. Of course he used the Bible in Arabic (as ME Christians still do).
Ce sont de grosse perles tombées à l'envi du paradis,
Grain à grain, plus luisantes que tout superbe satin.
Leur fraîcheur et délicatesse proviennent du séraphin,
Qui dit: jamais ses qualités ne deviendront ni taries ni décaties.
Tant qu'il demeure chez vous tous leur parcours d'âme,
Vous allez vous assurer de l'absolution de tout blâme
Tout en jouissant de leur épanouissement pérenne
Dans vos fors intérieurs où ils s'amènent.
Ce sont de nombreux rangs de clochettes
Légèrement secouées pour accueillir les fêtes
À l'appel de la voix de l'Éden,
Plus euphonique que toute populaire rengaine,
Note à note, s'égrenant de très près, de très près,
Jusqu'à ce que toute oreille en soit repue.
L'enchâssement de la meilleure musique dans les muguets,
C'est ce que l'on a bien entendu!
Ce sont cent calices sens dessus dessous,
Livrant d'ensemble la libation à la terre,
Faisant la navette à travers l'atmosphère,
Tuyautant l'ambiance d'ici-bas sur le céleste remous.
Jet à jet, ses eaux se précipitent du firmament
En en apportant le fin tempérament,
Et s'avérant plus moelleuse que toute belle fontaine,
D'où un merveilleux jumelage entre le ciel et la Seine.
Ce sont de suaves sachets éparpillés
Des nymphes qui sortent de chez elles en déshabillés
Tout en s'ébattant l'une avec l'autre.
Souffle à souffle, plus entêtants que tout bon vin mûr,
Au gré du zéphyr à partir de l'azur,
Sur lequel toute imagination monte et puis se vautre.
Leur fragrance se faufile de foule en foule, de narine en narine,
Jusqu'à ce que toute personne s'en enivre, tout paysage devant eux s'incline.
Ce sont exactement les muguets de mai,
Grappe à grappe, plus raffinés que tout douillet velours.
Une fleur seule concentre tous les amours,
Le monde entier parsemé de fruits gais.
Serrez-les dans vos doigts avec douceur,
Et laissez-les donner les caresses attendries;
Gardez-les dans vos coeurs avec vigueur,
Et laissez-les fournir les félicités nanties.
En effet, c'est l'essentiel de l'Évangile téléporté de Dieu
Au terrain de l'être humain,
Grace à quoi se font tous les exaucements séreins,
garantissant que tout ira de mieux en mieux.
IRA; a strong idealogic and separatists,
At last surrender to the democratic values,
Over decades, after a long fight to achieve,
Thousand innocents blood on their name.
When a religion has a fight against a religion,
What a person can achieve in this invisibility,
He can kill himself on the name of a religion,
With a belief God will honour him in heaven.
But God never honoured to anyone,
When Lord Jesus was fighting for justice,
Tarrents hanged him innocently until death,
A miracle was disappeared to punish cruelity.
Lord Mohammad was fighting for justice,
To deliver a better service on the name of God,
But no power came to save innocents,
They were martyred as Hassan and Hussain.
Lord Krishna pretends that a man borns,
For his duty, he has to do that as he did,
Million people were killed in a battle,
As respect for a lady is a story of Mahabharta.
Lord Rama has a fight for his honour,
To defeat King Rawana who was seeking justice,
For his sister she was insulted to cut her nose,
Is Rama respects for ladies as Sita was banished?
Guru Govind Singh when declared a Khalsa,
Society killed his innocent family to stop him,
To establish a religion in a religion’s boundary,
And killed thousands innocently who followed him.
At last they admit that religion can’t survive,
Without a state power and a state power,
Can’t deliver peace without a belief in God,
They also surrender at last to democratic values.
Democracy where a person can enjoy his liberty,
Thousands lost their innocent lives to replace,
A better system to remove dictatorship,
As Iraqi nation is fighting for democracy.
Democracy is a best from for governments,
If they know how to respect and honour a law,
Law is superb in democracy, law fails there,
A system is corrupted, nation has no respect.
All likes peace because peace is only a tool,
That provides sources to develop personality,
To understand a cause of birth to identify him.
Who achieves a best achievement of nature?
Camino en sociedad de ignorancia,
Donde palacios son corruptos por efectos de arrogancia;
Pasan por nuestros lados,
Echando el ojo, tratando de disimular;
Donde la conciencia es absentista,
Donde todos dicen ser abstencionistas,
Pero, todos son ambiciosos, consumidos y absorbidos por hipocresía...
Camino en sociedad abolicionista,
Donde abolicionan toda aventura,
Donde la única aventura es abolir la sociedad,
Siendo una sociedad abstraída y egoísta,
Poniendo todo lindo, pero con abusividad escondida,
Siendo una sociedad de imbéciles accionistas,
Mostrando intransigencia acérrima y decisiva,
Pero, todos son perezosos basados en negligencia anarquista...
Camino en sociedad de advertencia,
Donde los reprimidos quedan agrisados,
Donde los rechazados y solitarios quieren valentía,
Donde la paz social va desvaneciendo,
Donde la minoría quiere acracia y amnistía de la sociedad,
Para derrocar la corona trastornada y distorcionada...
Camino en sociedad amorfa,
Donde nos han forzado ansias a través de propaganda alarmista,
Donde existen muchos agiotistas fraudulentos,
Donde propias convicciones son raramente afianzadas y aseguradas,
Donde la autoridad permanece en mordacidad y acrimonia,
Donde los realistas son fastidiados y ajusticiados,
Donde las miradas autoritarias son falsamente alegatorias,
Donde muchos permanecen injustamente en incertidumbre ambigua...
Solo a través de sabios ojos,
Es que existen verdaderas experiencias;
Con mirada fiera,
Con mirada de ira,
Con mirada desamparada,
Con mirada sigilosa,
Con mirada misteriosa;
Con toda mirada real existe vida lúcida y estragos mortíferos...
Camino en sociedad de odio,
Donde toda mirada se vuelve rencorosa,
Camino en sociedad de miradas,
Donde las paredes escuchan y hablan,
Donde las divisiones son provocadas,
Apuñalando nuestras espaldas;
Piensan que es un simple juego de carcajadas,
Pero, todos son hipócritas a través de siniestras miradas,
Que me tratan de dejar en agrafia,
Con el juego de las miradas...
The familiar sound of gunshots
rings out in the dead of night,
As a sniper takes position in the
bushes out of sight,
Past my front door I hear the
sound of many marching feet,
As 2 Para make their presence
felt upon a Belfast street,
Gerry Adams does a hard days
graft 'n' then it's homeward
bound,
As a British soldier just
nineteen lays bleeding on the
ground,
Well he fought for queen 'n'
country so it comes as no
surprise,
As he draws his last
breath,says a prayer and there
a hero dies,
So many slain civilians(they're
just casualties of war,
Do the f*ckers even realise
what it is they're fighting for?
Or has the whole point of it got
lost in the mists of time?
The Ira take credit for their
latest deadly crime,
In a safe house miles from
nowhere there's three loyalists
lying dead,
One in a grave (he was buried
alive) and two with one straight
through the head,
But the score it was evened
before the cock crowed,three
catholic civilians were slain,
And there's rumours of
vengeance and fights to the
death and calls to keep calm
from Sinn Fein,
As politicians armed with pens
sit counting up lost lives,
The Ulster Paramilitary sit
sharpening their knives,
And loading slugs into the clip
of someone else's gun,
"Come on now lads there's dirty
deeds awaiting to be done"
In Londonderry,County Down,in
Belfast,Newry too,
The Catholics and the
Protestants keep Ireland torn in
two,
As our children grow in the
shadow of fear,
There's a stench of death and
bloodshed here,
So you with the power please
give us the chance,
To find a solution and finish the
dance,
Give Ireland back to the Irish
pleeaasssse!
Or bring the whole damned
nation crashing down to its
knees.
There it was, a stranger of sorts.
I say "It" in place of "man" as my memory supports.
A beguiling arrangement of coffee mugs,
porcelain creamer boats,
filled with lumps of matured cream.
Sour and old as would be an elder, celibate parishioner.
There where books on cosmology,
showing me the endless closets of the universe.
Chip crumbs, and dead writing, my nights operations.
With a ball point pen preforming haplessly to deliver a life,
always ends in the same habitual flat lines.
And my torn piece of paper, with words as wounds, doesn't pull through.
"Call it time of death 3:38 am"
Fifth one tonight.
For tonight this shall cease.
The stranger it seems has his own words for me.
In the shadows he speaks so gentle but abrasive.
in perfect harmony, each his voices.
"No more pity for the odd one now."
"No love less given to the average mans brow."
It chuckled and turned and hummed as it took leave.
I wrote better that day.
A poem about a man who leaves his home in Oklahoma, and travels all the way to the city of angels.
He starts selling fruit on the highway,
in hopes it will bring him interesting stories.
He meets people and attends parties.
Eventually writes a best seller about an Irish couple in The I.R.A.,
who commit treason in the name of their undying love for each other.
And the heartbreak, action, the romance, and the comedy blew the world away. I won an award for that work and prestigious publications where pestering me.
I often think of how I got here.
Then I notice a strangeness it seems.
Always watching lurking in my days and dreams.
It's stranger and friend with eyes that gleam.
A stranger who is stranger than the strangeness it brings.
Northern Ireland, it was a peaceful Saturday of August 15,
1998. There were many people shopping in the center of
Omagh, in Tyrone. Then, at 3:10 p.m., the car bomb
exploded close to the junction of Market Street and the
Dublin Road. The bomb, the murderous bomb, the
life taker ripped into the flesh, the existence of 29 people,
men, women, children, including 2 unborn babies. It
injured 220.
Britain's PM Tony Blair, Marjorie Mowlam, the Secretary
of State Northern Ireland, Mary McAleese, President of
the Republic of Ireland, Bernie Aherne, the taoiseach
Irish PM, all condemned this slaughter of humanity.
The Irish National Liberation Army called itself the "real"
IRA, claimed responsibility. They had slain God's own.
I dreamt of the Troubles, as mournful Celtic music
slowly played in my sorrowed psyche. Blood on the
shamrocks as the bombing victims still tell their story.
In my daydreams, children's choirs sing-
"When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" in many other areas of
the world, in the merriment of children's goodness.
Death should not collect especially the young, the hopes
of all of Ireland's youth, including Northern Ireland.
These days gang violence has made more shamrocks
bleed, as the gangs murder each other's dreams.
All of the emerald beauty's Troubles cannot fade into
history without the names of the innocents, and their
blood will not disappear. The tears of generations of
her people, her mourners, in every one of her rainfalls.
And I, an American of both Irish and British heritage,
grieve for her too. ~
He Didn’t Leave Much
He didn’t leave much, never had much.
His “stuff” mostly fit in one drawer of the
old dresser. His world a daily grind of
rising at five AM, walking to his first job.
Then at five PM, walking from his first job
to his second job.
I don’t ever remember him being happy.
I know that he must have had some happiness
in his life, but it was never apparent to me.
He was intelligent, if not educated. He was
pretty much a non-participant in my life.
An Irish immigrant, he knew little of the
games his children loved, although I think
he feigned an interest at times. I imagine
these moments were his attempts to form
something of a bond with children who
knew little or nothing about their ancestors,
their history, their heredity.
The mystery of the man still shadows me
today. Who was he – really. There were
stories of Ireland and the IRA, of farms
and family, a family we never met.
As he grew older, he would become
melancholy at times and meander through
memories fueled by a bottle of Irish Whiskey.
He would play the accordion. His eyes would
sparkle as he played, as if he had gone back to
a different time, a kinder place.
Perhaps the mystery of the man is a better
legacy than knowing all the gritty details of
his loves and loses, his heartaches, his
youthful experiences. What were his secrets,
and why were they kept?
I wonder – when he left Ireland –
if he wept.
John G. Lawless
5/1/2014