Long Latina Poems
Long Latina Poems. Below are the most popular long Latina by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Latina poems by poem length and keyword.
Work all year for months at a time
Just to get some money for overtime
Aches hurt until the next flight
Months before I sleep right at night
Thought I'd take a walk down to TJ
It was just a strange quirk of fate
In Zona Norte, she says come on in mate
I never that massage parlor existed
Around all the time
Things I’ve tried done this and that
See a Senorita
And have a real nice chat
Oh my darling...
Roll me over
Lay me down and do it again
I’m in clover
Keep doing what your doing
Driving me round the bend
Senorita you bowl me over
Touch me like that
You’ll be more than just a friend
Just roll me over
Roll me over lay me down and do it again
A week later I went back down there
To see the Senorita with the wavy hair
She sends a shiver up my spine
She's got a good technique
See her once a week and have a good time
Under the sheets
The massage parlor changed my life
Wish the curly headed one was my wife
Got no worries and I’m doing alright
No more aching bones or groans
Keeping me up all night
Met a Latina up in the States
Played games, she gave me the shakes
Told her she was fine and she turned me down
She turned to a booze bucket drunken clown
Why did I put myself through that?
She had the sense of a mangy stray cat.
Take a walk to TJ
Give yourself a chance at fate
In Zona Norte, she’ll say come on in mate
A massage parlor you never knew existed
Darling roll me over
Lay me down and do it again
I’m in clover
Keep doing what your doing
Driving me round the bend
Senorita you bowl me over
Do that again
Just roll ole me over and do it again
And you’ll be much more than a friend
Fascination for the low life part of town
Down the street your head spins round
Don't be caught alone around here night
Bring a gun or you’ll get knifed
By a Gracemont Methhead low life
Don't be born into Okie society
Pay for love, the hate comes free
You’ll have enough money for the rest of your life
If you don’t marry some Latina tramp low life
Don't know exactly where I am
Woke up in my clothes again this morning
I must have sampled the Mexican clam
Didn’t wear a condom ignoring the doctor's warning
I’ve been here too long to be afraid anymore
Can't reach the bed so I sleep on the floor
You can get so stoned you think you can fly
But there is no way you’ll get high
In the Oklahoma low life
Make for the corner, Fresno-Whittier
(there’s neighborhoods a whole lot prettier):
it’s probably ten-ninety-six,
but don’t draw weapons – that’s a Nix.
The man before you’s not a “perp”,
so don’t come on like Wyatt Earp.
Latina (claims she’s J-Lo’s cousin)
talking nineteen to the dozen
says she almost bought the farm,
but totally (we think) unharmed.
Find the pale-blue shotgun shack:
he’s out front, and she’s out back.
Ten-zero, boys. Proceed with caution.
Blame’s not something we apportion.
They love each other – had a fight,
same as any couple might.
Bear in mind one simple thing:
no-one wants a Rodney King.
So, L.A.’s Finest, when you swoop,
he’s sitting on the streetside stoop,
and spouting incoherent crap,
samurai sword across his lap.
Don’t pay no mind to what he’s blurting –
the guy’s okay. He’s simply hurting.
Don’t see a spic from Zapopan,
look at him closely. See the man.
Don’t think, “one of the wetback horde”:
think what it took to make that sword.
Someone tempered, shaped, embossed it.
And Juan’s a man. He simply lost it.
He came up here in eighty-eight,
and settled in the Orange State.
Wielded wrenches, welded axes,
raised his kids and paid his taxes,
and now he’s slowly catching on:
there’s nothing else. His youth is gone.
He mops the floors at Taco Bell,
and Carmencita gives him hell.
He’d wail a horn, like Bobby Prewitt,
but doesn’t have the art to do it.
So let’s forget the “better than”.
Go easy, fellas. See the man.
(alternately titled: ah me go march'n home on derange)
I'll play the devil's advocate, yet
prepare a stance with pitchfork
against misinterpreted faux attempt
to describe, how whet
d'ya column re: immigration officials coe vet
patrol, police, and poison tranquil casa blanca
where killer attack dogs fiendishly pin set
ting sharp fangs at jugular vein of respectful,
dutiful, and blissful (or at least
prior to being sniffed out) innocent
long time laborer on American soil now get
ting Das Boot to their unfamiliar Motherland
(despite living social
as law abiding righteous folks) fret
full, cuz unfairly punished, and
cruelly deported, dispirited, doomed
pained visage non verbally articulates
at un war rented deportation you bet!
with just a flick of the wrist
and alien hated, pigheaded,
and xenophobic ventriloquist
bring back the Alien and Sedition Acts
with a Trumpeting Latina, Hispanic,
and for good measure Mulatto twist,
where original writ (signed into law
by President John Adams in 1798),
historical footnote, aye cannot resist
spooking (like a ghost), those pee pill
born south of the border pooped and pissed
in potties of this proud country, sans free and brave
now frightfully get flushed out
glad to feign dis guise
as one among select Geronimo cadre
we henchman lubricate
wheels of injustice myst
tuff hie hiding dark shadows
(along the edge of night)
thence paddy wagon comes
to screeching halt nabbing
an "illegal alien" name on hit list
code word "bag dad" (biggest quarry)
and score a win
for Barren Trump Tah Mahal Incorporated
impossible mission special ops sentry slithers as trained
fearless to shackle wetback ranked big hest
catch also including booby prize,
as you correctly guessed.
So, what is a poem, anyway?
Should it have a fixed number of lines?
Should it rhyme all the time?
Should it be passionately romantic?
...As my lissome Latina lover
let the wild wind dance
through her fragrant hair
igniting my eager lips...
Should it be EdGyyyyyyy chIC O-SO A T Garde?
V N
A
maybethereshouldbenoformofpunctuationofanykindatanytimeperiod
And what abouty all those new forms? The haiku, the senryu, the question-ku
the Pantoum, the Rondeau, the Cinqku, the Cinquain, the Clerihu, not to mention that old Suessian special, the Horton-Hears-a-Who
And then there's always the matter of meter ... or is it metre?
Should a poem always have to feel like riding a horse?
Once upon a midnight dreary
While I pondered, weak and weary...
I thought that I would never see
A thing as lovely as a tree...
Well, my friends, were I an actual poet, I might answer your queries
But as one who merely dabbles, permit me to leave you with this:
In all poetry there is one common part
~ The beating of a very, very human heart
Oh, Luna, in thy glory smile,
as love's most beautiful wonder, I now hold,
where we two do embrace, do linger awhile,
in your silver beams, our love is told.
My most beautiful dream, I now hold in my arms,
what glory divine, shall now come to me,
under your love-light, we shall share love's charms,
my Latina wonder, our love, Luna does see.
Lovely Luna, divine Goddess, shining bright,
drape us with your grace and awesome splendour.
Beam your Heavenly love-light on us tonight,
binding our hearts within love's tender surrender.
Merging in this moment, we're immortal and strong,
with the ancient stars, we're one...one body, one heart.
We embrace and dance to your mystical song,
under your smile, Luna, never we two shall part.
It has been both an honour and a pleasure to collaborate with you again Pandita. Your gentle words give the piece its soul. |You pen is ever running gold. Love and Hugs....Mike. XX
He moved about the shopping mall,
was having a hell of a time,
he knew just what he wanted here,
but it was proving hard to find.
He had quite a specific type,
you could usually find it here,
he’d always had an easy time
finding girls here in the past years.
Yes, he needed a young woman,
ten to fourteen was the best age,
you had to get their mothers too,
they were usually willing to play.
So he scanned round the big food court,
looking for the pairs out shopping,
he saw one by the pizza place,
and towards them was now moving.
A mother about thirty-eight,
he always had been a good judge,
a daughter maybe eleven,
and bringing her in would be fun.
So he sidled up to the pair,
and painted on his best smile,
said, “You want to make real money?
Can I talk to you for a while?”
The mother’s eyes went wide at this,
she said, “Laura, we have to go!”
Scampered away, looking frightened,
he hated it when they said no.
That girl had been a fine looker,
you had to move when they were young,
wait too long and the bloom faded,
and soon enough they were all done.
So he got up and scanned again,
most people in here had no looks,
but then back by the Chinese joint,
was a Latina who looked good.
He figured she must be fifteen,
a little old, but not too late,
her mother was not that pretty,
but he realized that could be great.
Give such people some attention
they became putty in your lands,
he knew he’d close the deal with them,
the daughter would be in his hands.
So he went up with a broad grin,
said,”Hey, do you want some good work?
I have connections you might like,
can help out both you and your girl.”
The mother’s eyebrows narrowed tight,
“Marlena, right now, come with me!”
She looked backed at him, dagger-eyes,
getting away in a hurry.
He sighed again, shaking his head,
why had everything seemed to change?
This used to be so damn easy,
had the whole darn world gone deranged?
He looked again, after a bit,
saw a brunette, pretty, youthful,
her mother was quite hot herself,
maybe he could get a double...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
From a town where the sun don’t shine,
To overseas, but they called it mine.
My heart in shadows of the street,
Returning home I lost my feet,
Faces changed, but not memories
I wrote a song about that.
Life has a way of teaching you pain,
From child dreams to love's rain.
Every tear left its mark on my path,
And through it all, I found my voice
I wrote a song about that.
Then came the call of the sea,
Navy blues and Merchant dreams.
Fighting battles and demons within,
Came back with scars beneath my skin.
A hero on paper but alone in this fight,
I wrote a few songs about that.
Life has a way of teaching us pain,
From child dreams to love's rain.
Every tear left its mark on my path,
And through it all, I found my voice
I wrote a song about that.
Love lifted me high above the ground,
A Latina cruel, my heart almost drowned.
She married a drunk; his heart never true—
Haunted by her name; what could I do?
Nights chasing after ghosts gone bad—
I wrote a lot of songs about that.
Tijuana where the neon glows bright,
Met a call girl who danced away the night.
Her smile held secrets in her embrace;
Our stories are lost in time and space.
A moment lost forever just like that—
And I wrote her a song about that.
Life’s has a way of teaching us pain,
From child dreams to love's rain.
Every tear left its mark on my path,
And through it all, I found my voice
I wrote a song about that.
I wander alone, to places unknown,
Each and every heartache carved into stone.
Traveled the World and it never felt flat—
Seems that I wrote a song about that.
Walked through this dying town
A Latina that burned buildings down
A vision of grace in a world of gray
A kind of beauty words can't say
Nightmares real and dreams old
A story of sin and virtues sold
Offered a future and a steady hand
A future built on solid land
Looked through me like glass
Waited for her storms to pass
She went with him
Because she wanted to
Tore my heart on cue
Became a woman of a drunk
All her treasures packed
In an old car’s trunk
Trading glory
For a bottle of rye
Under the bleeding
Chickasha sky
She was the biggest whore
The finest in Grady they say
In the ruins of Chickasha
Men lived for her
By the hour - sometimes a month
To hold the beauty I wanted once
A paradox she had it all
But all she could do is crawl
The highest rise and the hardest fall
Whiskey breath on the breeze
Bringing a proud man to his knees
Chose shadows over a name
Chose a bottle over the flame
She said, "I like the warmth of your light
But I need a man who runs in the night
I need the chaos, I need to crawl
I want the one who offers nothing at all"
I had to go, she wished to stay
In the ruins of old Chickasha
The bottle’s empty, the glass cracked
There is no way of turning back
Leaving gold for the shifting sand
With a man who can’t even stand
She went with him
Because she wanted to
Destroyed my heart on cue
The whore of a drunk
Her treasures packed
In an old car’s trunk
Traded her story
For a bottle of rye
Under a bleeding Chickasha sky
The finest whore with nothing to give
Giving it away where the drunks live
Dancing a slow death
In old Chickasha
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A 5ª Edição do livro mostra 700 palavras de poder, palavras de agradecimento e palavras que aguçam a curiosidade produtiva. AH E mostra até frases feitas - Tudo para brasileiros e brasileiras e outras nacionalidades derivadas de lingua latina.
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