Long Mexican Poems
Long Mexican Poems. Below are the most popular long Mexican by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mexican poems by poem length and keyword.
The Proletariat Prowl
Intro: Low, rhythmic bassline or a steady finger-snap. The voice is breathy, conversational, and slightly unimpressed.
I’m the Post-Left shadow on the garden wall,
Opposing the authority of the locked cat-door.
You call it social conformity;
I call it the prevailing order of the 6:00 AM bowl.
Your economic disorder produces a vacuum in my stomach,
Crushed by the hierarchy of the "Not-Right-Now."
I’m thinking about the Sex Pistols’ anarchy.
A vacation in the UK?
No, just a leap to the counter—though it costs too much
In dignity to fly these days when the paws miss the mark.
Mom’s a hag who steals the snacks back into the bag
Siamese eyes, high eyebrows, cautious lies,
I wear the fur to the kitchen floor as a sort of public disguise.
You buy the gas, they tax you, they take your cash...
I just watch the birds through the glass,
Evaluating the government authority of the squirrel on the grass.
You degrade yourself once, then more,
You go back to the human to degrade yourself not to even the score.
You degrade yourself more; you know exactly what’s in store.
Another negative losing score at the bottom of a dry kibble floor.
If you can’t win, pack it up, give in now
Find a sunbeam to live for.
It’s better than dying and boiling on the floor
Of your killing blues of misuse.
I was struck by red lightning asthe laser on the rug.
The look on my face was frightening and I was a revolutionary thug.
Standing on the sofa, like Trotsky’s grave,
Two hours out of the nap-cycle, feeling brave.
With a guard dog nearby, I’m not so brave.
Should I celebrate or take pity?
Was the red dot good or bad? No, really.
What is a permanent revolution if you never catch the light?
Dying for the cause now, under the fridge, out of sight.
The human’s a left-wing social institution...
Oh well, now it was sad.
But it doesn’t make me mad.
Time to make that hard decision,
Taking into account social derision and the neighbor's glare.
Mexican beer? No.
Just a margharita-scented nap
In the mid-day air.
One final, sharp snap of the fingers
Son, I'm so proud that you elected to serve in the United States Marines.
Military service is a family tradition - it just happens to be in our genes!
Your forefathers have worn the uniform since the genesis of this nation.
All were privileged to serve, feeling that it was their solemn obligation!
One of your distant relatives served as a lieutenant in The Revolution.
He lost an arm at Brandywine to boost this nation's glorious evolution!
A soldier on your mother's side was a sergeant in the Battle of New Orleans.
In letters he told of subsisting on meager rations of rancid pork and beans!
A grandfather shouldered a musket in the Mexican War affair.
Another, a corporal of cavalry in the Union Army served with elegant flair!
In the Spanish-American fray, one of your kin charged up San Juan Hill.
Your great grandpa led a platoon in World War One with consummate skill!
Your granddad was a fighter pilot in the South Pacific and became an ace,
And he later soared as an astronaut through the vast reaches of space!
I was privileged to serve as an army chaplain during the Korean War.
Your Aunt Sarah served with distinction in Viet Nam with the Nurses Corps!
So, you see son, you have a distinguished heritage upon which to build,
Serving all humankind to ensure that our quest for liberty is fulfilled!
Godspeed, Marine! Here's my old wartime copy of the Twenty-Third Psalm.
When assailed from all sides, it will provide you with great solace and calm!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 4 in Gail Doyle's "Writing A Heartfelt Poem To A Soldier" Contest
July 2012
It was a strange sort of day
A Heavy treacley sky
That seemed too thick
For any bird to even try to fly.
The city lay in waiting for
Celebrations to begin
The Fiesta of Fiestas
Days of mildly hedonistic sin.
He Danced a Mexican Hat Dance
His sombrero slung on the floor
And then to rapturous applause
He went and Danced it once more.
The Toreador in the corner
Sipped at his third Pink Gin
And waited for the Marshal
To signal the Fiesta to begin.
There were Castanets and Maracas
And a heady Flamenco Guitar
To disturb the sleeping drunkard
As he snored away in the bar.
It was all a much of a nothing
Thought the resident Fiesta clown
As he fingered the tasselled rope
That let the scenery slide down.
Over in the Central Prison
Warden served tea in every cell
Then notified the residents
By three rings of the prison bell.
Just a matter of routine he thought
As he picked up his sombrero hat
And walked quietly back home
To feed his waiting tabby cat.
Tomorrow just after dawn would
Start much more of the same
As they entertained the tourists
In their daily entertainment game.
It’s the same the whole world over
They’ll make do with the tried and trite
Do long as it’s sunny and warm
And they get the timings just right.
On the streets of lively Mumbai,
Close to the sandy Juhu,
They serve Chaat and Masala Chai,
To make your heart go Yoohooo!!
The English, Locals and Arabs!
Jews, Africans and Chinese!
Gather to the aroma of the herbs,
And to relish the Indian Cuisine!
Vending stalls have lined the route,
As the natives and tourists wander in,
Flanked by cycles, bikes and touts,
Amidst the music and the din.
This mela of colours and clothing,
Will make a rainbow look white,
travellers in town need updating,
And wear colours that are bright!
It is dusk, and it is getting dark,
the street lights are coming on,
Be warned of strangers in the park!
Hide your wallet, or they will be gone!
Watch the trash, the puddles at feet,
And the stray dogs at your shin,
At every shop a smiling greet,
“Try our food! Please step in!”
Unique, unique is this ensemble,
On the streets of sweet Mumbai,
Where petty human irks crumble,
In the stream of gastronomic joy!
See the Mexican laugh with the Texan,
Over the Goan seafood platter,
Even the Arab and Jew have taken,
A place at the table together!
The leaders at the United Nations,
Who have failed to make a deal,
Must learn from this congregation,
How problems are solved at a meal!
UN policies, treaties at the table,
Have had no effect on peace,
But sandy Juhu is ever so stable,
For people eat and mix with ease!
Let these vendors in Mumbai, Juhu,
Take the lead in creating the peace,
Let their Chai make you go Yoohoo,
And hatred in the world will cease!!
On the streets of lively Mumbai,
Close to the sandy Juhu,
They serve Chaat and Masala Chai,
To make your heart go Yoohooo!!
When xerography yesterday's youthful gynecoiD
I'll wear my *multipurpose Mexican sunny sombrerO*
*Somehow, someway* I'll do suitable improV
And not be one who is cooperativE
*Sweet spirit super *(dove) fits my heart as a (glove) areaL
Spiritual enough not to speak (aloud)all that (proud) ballyhoO
Definitely earnestly forever guardsman against perV
Let my spirit forever be uncompromisablE
Written: September 28, 2022
Sponsor: Joseph May
Contest: The "A's" Have It
Nonsensical, I know. LOL..I think I got all the requirements in there.
I am speaking about what I would call gynecoid of generations of unborn babies.
Dance Nocturne
August night, is an abyss hotter than the day
and the wind the blows was born in hell.
From open windows in their dark interior
the primal scream of lovemaking,
wriggling bodies trying to produce a child
that like them soon will die, but first, it must
go to through the ritual called love, which is but a primitive
urge to copulate the planting of seed before sinking
underground spent and forgotten in the mass graves
of boredom, decorated with flowers
that radiates death to come.
The Tasmanian tiger howls to the moon and
forever vanishes into an ancient forest, while werewolves
sway to a Mexican dirge.
The Silvery Scenes
By Stark Hunter
The silvery scenes,
Above the sensuous Mexican bloom,
Of transcendent yellow, red and orange,
Back there – in the digesting side garden,
Next door, adjacent the obscene lemon flowers,
An old sot sits and peruses
A darkened shuttered window upstairs.
Blue sky and creeping streaks of contumacious white,
Soar as sky ghosts,
A pitch above the silent stares,
And the forgotten entreaties;
The old sot remembers a long-ago morning in May,
Thirty years hence, years indeed
Filled with wandering gazes and
Imagined gaspings at day’s end.
You, the young girl of Mexican skin,
With eyes of the earth,
18 years old, and at last ready,
Ready for the great cosmic conquest,
You, spying and staring at the man,
Up there on the hill.
Using strong legs and decisive fingers,
I tended my garden, seemingly oblivious,
To your silent inert gazing,
Your self-embraces of squealing frustration,
There in your secret steamy spot,
Behind the darkened unshuttered window upstairs,
Translucent as a dragonfly,
You, thinking forbidden thoughts,
Of wild silvery scenes in the secret shadows,
With the man tending his garden,
And though alone and detached,
You, the young mexican girl next door,
Hiding behind that unshuttered window upstairs,
Knew nothing of his wild designs,
Nothing of his intended episodes,
The silvery scenes in the secret shadows,
Back there- above the sensuous Mexican bloom.
For all of my life, one thing’s remained clear,
“Corona” meant lime juice, and Mexican beer!
Or jewel studded crowns, worn for mere show,
By Royals of pedigree--a priceless Chapeau.
But one thing’s escaped me, at least until now,
“Corona” the VIRUS, threatens survival somehow;
Spread by the touch, a cough, or a sneeze,
Causing sickness and death, in varying degrees.
So how did it start, and who is to blame,
Matter far less as innocent lives are now claimed;
The shredded economies, and fears of unknown,
Falling markets in panic, as life is postponed.
And yet through it all, the faithful remain,
Prayerfully seeking His protection by name;
For the world has known worse, than Corona--it’s true,
Overcomers prevail, held together like glue.
No blame games or politics, or death by the sword,
So long as my baseball and hoops are restored;
And my 401K plan recovers real fast,
So I can retire, off the grid--SAFE, at last!
Stage set: Nineteen Seventy-Two
Enter threshold Jolly Jumper bouncing baby girl
toes grazing the shag
Next scene a little quicker
Clad in plaid she's a Big Wheels and corduroy blur
moving the plot along
Intermission (Orange Crush, Pop Rocks and Pixie Sticks)
Action: The games begin
Go Fish your Fisher Price Little People
out of the sandbox
you're too young to play with Matchbox
so cool until that Etch A Sketchy kid
sends your Slinky down the stairs
Plot twist: the corner store Mexican Jumping Beans
were infinitely more entertaining than Pet Rocks
The End
Well not "The End"
Training wheels are off and so is the star of the show
Careening towards the eighties
With her Choose Your Own Adventure collection in tow
18.02.25
Composed for Line Gauthier's
Where were you in the 70's?
we awoke to five machine guns
staring at us
all were American made
therein a comfort
another American in a foreign land
the caveat, Federales were holding them
we were naked
Sally from the Alley and i
wanted to ask us a few questions
i made my way to my pants
promising God, if you would
get me out of this one
i will never touch another drop
the caveat, never promise in haste
as she arose
five machine guns followed her
half-naked across the room
the caveat, opportunity invites celerity
quickly i slipped my grip on the rum
two swallows down
Paul's epistle to Timothy
a little wine for thy stomach's sake
and your frequent ailments
such as my hangovers
on the other bed lay
Tennyson, Kerouac, Yeats, Dickinson
playing deaf and dumb
along with a quarter pound of smoke
i will give you five to one
they take the smoke
and leave the poets alone
the caveat, they did
well gentlemen say i
none spoke English
i will give you five to one
i will get out of this
God pities drunks and idiots
already two get-out-of-jail-free cards
i did after hours of questioning
a refresher course on Mexican law
and the realization come morning
the reason for all of this
i would be burying another friend
because of alcohol
just when you have life figured
it slaps the smile away
Fergus Falls 96 The Patient Stones
“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom...You never know what is enough until you know what is more than enough.” William Blake, Proverbs of Hell