Long Nelson Poems
Long Nelson Poems. Below are the most popular long Nelson by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Nelson poems by poem length and keyword.
Your words, which seem to be my words,
are but footprints on the fen floor of
the white page, echoes of wand'ring lyric loping.
And if, perhaps, the P's that B have blessed,
they click, they crunch, they sweetly rot underlip.
Tearing words from mind, squeezing through that jealous heartspace.
Tearing follows, wetting page after page, piling into a formless stream.
They clatter upon the mocking whiteness, an array in disarray.
A shattered and graphic mythography, mud clots on tile
after a hike. Why do not my hot words summon Leidenfrost?
I love words, no...I love meaning.
I love meaning, I don't love
the promise of words' bringing of
meaning.
It is National Poetry Month and Shakespeare.
died today.* The first time he died today was
four hundred years ago. I am set to write and read
'publicly' (which spellcheck insists and my heart
does not insist is better writ as 'public ally') some
'poetry' while dancers carve the air, in response to,
in love with, in relation to, hand/heart drawn trees
which have drawn, well-
wishers to wine 'n cheese' 'n chit 'n chat
an opening. A gallery.
But Prince died last night.
The artist formerly known as Prince Rogers Nelson,
and formerly known as a symbol,
and now formerly known as Prince. He died.
The symbol has gone and I don't know what it means.
The words are here behind my teeth, within my fingertips,
astride my heart, tickling that lump in my throat.
It is Earth Day, too. I'm supposed to say some words and make
them meaningful. And make them sing. And ring in the hearts as though
my ditherings are one tine of a tuning fork and the other is the spirits
of those dearly beloved, gathered here. Our coils unshuffled, for in our
sleep of life what dreams may come. But we stand upon, today, both
the funeral's grounds and the corpse to be. The Earth. We are meant
to celebrate her life as she withers. Strangled, starved, and trampled. And I?
I can't.
I just...
cant.
-ShhDragon
*He died today but every day we don't give birth to him with our tongue, on the stages of our heart, he remains a fetid, rotting, beautiful corpse. ’Lo four hundred years ago he died, but every day he isn't summoned, isn't animated, he remains dead. The fact of anniversary is our failing, our repeated failings, to bring forth what might be dead.
STANZA ONE
He had the heart of a lion
And the strength of a bear
Ripping his enemies apart
He would crush and tear
Man of steel
With charm and grace
No one can dare confront him
Or look at his face
He is all over the world
And all over the place
He stands on the silver clouds
And drift through the winds
The colour of his skin matters less
As long as he is bless
By God
Samson! David or my Mohammed Ali
Roosevelt or Lincoln
Whatever name you may be
Oh! Superman
He has come to rescue us from harm
I love the way he looks
His carriage and charm
You remind of Horatio Nelson
The way you fight with one arm
And he looks above the horizon like a demigod
His composure was calm and undisturbed
Oh! Superman
Messenger of God
He prays hard to the Almighty and serves the Lord
Oh Superman!
The strongest man I have ever seen
A man a thousand men can not win
He had the strength of Samson
And the wisdom of Solomon
He is the king of us all
But he will not acknowledge
that title
Firm like Stalin
When it is time to take a decision
Never look back
Takes no permission
The true hero of the revolution
Was Leon Trosky
Washington of our time
Deliver us from the Great Evil
No matter where it may be
Oh Superman! Oh Superman! Oh Superman!
He lives in me
I am determine to sacrifice my life
For the sake others
So that all men will be free
And stand for the rights of men
Where ever they may be
I will seek them in the lions den
And send evil doers to the past
With one blast
And that will be their last
STANZA TWO
He had the heart of a lion
And the strength of a bear
Ripping his enemies apart
He would crush and tear
Man of steel
With charm and grace
No one can dare confront him
Or look into at his face
Samson! David or my Mohammed Ali
Roosevelt or Lincoln
Whatever name you may be
Oh! Superman
When he was born an old witch
Saw a prophecy
That a king is coming soon
Because the Moon was still shining even at afternoon
And the sun was still sleeping in his lazy crib
To live a promising life of adventure
Little did his parents know
That he was a man as a child
Before he would grow
And his glory would glow
Like the Alpha Centauri
Oh Superman!
From dusk to dawn
He lays awake
And would take
Any challenge that comes his way
And would live his life like every other day
And he would live his life for the sake of others
Defender of justice and freedom
Thinks like an old sage
Because he has wisdom
To MOM; March 11,1979
This is the story of an animal trainer,
Whose mettle and courage, couldn't be plainer.
A search'd reveal if you'd care to explore,
None greater exists than El Eleanor.
She's faced the very meanest big game
And transformed them all , smiling and tame.
There's Big Daddy Harry, King of the Brood,
He fights in the jungle and brings home the food.
When the hunting is hard, his scorn can be raw.
El soothes the pain, takes a thorn from the Pa.
The next animal is Rusty the Red.
The patron saint of unmade beds.
A beast of habits, bad ones galore,
His head s in the clouds, his, clothes on the floor.
El's plans are to put an end to his bad mannered life,
By chasing him within,an inch, of. his wife.
Lindsey's the next, she's no longer wild.
El taught her well when she was. a child,
Out of the home and into the night,
She's now a trainer in her own right.,
By way of taming by putting a smile on,
She's done a dog, a .cat, and one big Italian.
The animal Robert likes his milk whole,
Drinks only unmixed, unopened and cold.
Devour, he can, a whole pound of meat,
Sharing with him sure ain't a treat.
El''s main defense against his devour'n,
Is a refrigerator as big as a cavern.
Next on the tour tour is Kristin Clothes-Horse.
Her closet is full, but never her purse.
El hopes to prevent a new"confederacy"
One which would a poor man, namely, "Poverty Lee".
Now we find Jenny the Baker.
With time, she's become quite the good pastry maker.
Jenny however''s a wrestling cook,
An odd combination that's not in the book,
She has her own reasons, for truth to tell, son,
The cooking is a wrestling move called a"full Nelson".
Hilary's a creature who likes to get around
In automobiles at the speed of sound.
She doesn't always though, 'specially not at night,
Then she likes to travel at the speed of light.
It's hard to see now but she's on the track,you see,
Of her own future business - called Hilary's Taxis.
Nori's the last, but not the least,
A full member of this zoo, and like the rest a beast.
A paradox of sorts, this Blue Prize winner,
Is proof that church schools are chock full of sinners,
Thus we are the animal house,
And though we may complain and grouse,
Everyone, no matter his status,
Thinks El Eleanor's got to be, the World's Greatest!
Happy Fifty-fifth Birthday,
From son Rusty,
“The Purple Reign”
by: Eric L. Boddie
“I Want to Be Your Lover” is so “Insatiable” to some
But I “Adore” you because the “Holy River” is where I’m from
And “I Could Never Take the Place of Your Man,” that’s “Scandalous” to think
But I answered “The Question of U” is “Strange but True,” so don’t blink
Maybe it’s this “Erotic City,” or, perhaps, it’s because she looks so good in that “Raspberry Beret”
But I want to be “Somebody’s Somebody,” but she must be the “Marrying Kind” I say
So “Lady Cab Driver” in the “Little Red Corvette”
“Let’s Pretend We’re Married” with some “Dance, Music, Sex, Romance,” and I expect
To be the “International Lover” for every “Irresistible *****”
Because I Love every woman from “The Most Beautiful Girl in the World” to “Billy Jack *****”
Let me leave you “Satisfied” in puddles of “Black Sweat”
But I “No” all that I want so “Damn U” before I forget
That “Nothing Compares 2 U” plus I Love when you “Call My Name”
“U Got That Look” that lures all the “Girls and Boys” just the same
This “Cinnamon Girl” named “Anna Stesia” is the only one I want to call baby
Even if it took “A Million Days,” I would tell her “Let’s Go Crazy”
Maybe I got one of those “Colonized Minds” that will never let me say “Eye Hate U”
But “One of Us” must understand that “The Love We Make” is true
So if I gave you “Diamonds and Pearls” or took you “Around the World in a Day”
Would you “Do Me Baby” or let “Bob George” get in the way
Even back in “1999,” I was somewhat addicted to the “Pop Life”
Because of a “Condition of the Heart” that made me want a “Friend, Lover, Sister, Mother, Wife”
But there is “Joy in Repetition” every time we try a “New Position”
And “Baby I’m a Star” so my “Darling Nikki,” you should know my intentions
But the “Rainbow Children” provide the best “Sign ‘O’ the Times”
I want you “Forever in My Life” because we like to “Play in the Sunshine”
Because “When 2 R in Love,” there must be a sincere sense of “Trust”
And when it’s not so “So Dark,” it looks like “Purple Rain” to us
And that’s “When Doves Cry,” in light of our “Private Joy”
Without “Controversy,” it’s the “Love Sign” I employ
So “Gett Off” of that hate train, and let “Positivity” spark
And if you’re “Willing and Able,” that’s what is done at “Paisley Park”
RIP Brother Prince Rogers Nelson…..God Wants you In His Choir…..
Staking Claims: For Yucatec Maya & Native Peoples
The stones of the desert cry with me
They are brothers and sisters, but no bloody kin
New hearts see just cold rocks … no warmth or charity …
Might you see how we worship gods in them?
The gods themselves are dead, buried in hopeless holes
They died when we could not stop the excesses of each Columbus
Who brought a brutal hunger for gold and souls
Then bone and marrow fell within Columbus’ compass
The trees and tree stumps of the Yucatan
Hold deep scars and memories in their bosoms
The limestone cries quietly for the sons of Chillam Balam
Their tears yielding tomorrow’s blossoms
For even grasses, herbs, insects … know
That they too will be sucked, one after another
Away from the withering, wrinkled body of our Mother
Through a gaping hole in the atmosphere
All earth cries with the sun and stone worshippers
The blackened peasant clasps his callused hands
With those last calories from a breakfast of peppers
Unaware that his gods died hopelessly condemned
The desert explodes into those oases
Where infatuated faith still yields cool, delicious flesh
And forgiving flowers among the spikes in the cactus:
The desert and stones are gentler than Columbus
©Dr. A. S. Deo, 500 Years after Columbus, circa 1996.
BACKGROUND NOTE OF HORRORS:
(Written in the 1990s. Blood and tears are part of the story, not only for Native Peoples like the Maya of the Yucatan, but for my wife and daughters, too. A Sri Lankan professor allied with my Promoter/Chairman of my doctoral committee, objected to my politics outside of the classroom. They used the clout of the legal department at my campus, The Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, to shut me up and deny my degree. They failed, thanks to my “cold stone gods” and Jesus. I defended my thesis, successfully, on 1 May 1995 and was back working in my native South Africa in June 1995! Soon I was hired by the Department of Foreign Affairs in Pretoria, when Nelson Mandela was President. He retired in 1998. Sadly, little changed in the then DFA at the Union Buildings, and poor of South Africa … and across the globe, continue to get false hope & promises from Liberals, Conservatives, Blacks & Whites. Jesus alone will speak truth to you, about EVERYTHING. Check a Bible near you, start with John's Book)
The Petty Posh-Wahzee - Liberation & Ostentation
The Not-So Distant Past:
The fallen fighters for freedom, are unable to turn in their graves,
their battered, fragmented bones, mixed with a handful of torn rags,
are all that remain, a mute reminder of their selfless valiant sacrifice.
They endured brutal Apartheid harassment, detentions without trial,
torture in the cells, and mental anguish when loved ones disappeared,
they left their homeland, to continue the struggle against racial bigotry,
while countless others fought the scourge of white-minority rule at home.
Nelson Mandela and many, many others, spent their lives imprisoned,
on islands of stone, and on islands of the cruellest torture, yet they stood,
never bowing, never scraping, they stood, firm for ideals for which they were prepared to die,
and many, many comrades did die, at the hands of the callous oppressor,
and many, many comrades perished in distant lands, torn from their homes,
while the struggle continued, for decades, soaked in blood, in tears, in pain.
The Present:
19 years have passed, since freedom was secured at the highest of prices,
delivering unto us, this present, a gift of emancipation from servitude,
a freedom to walk this land, head held high, no longer second-class citizens,
in the land of our ancestors, whose voices we hear and need to heed today.
I do not care much for fashion, Lewis-Fit-On and Sleeves unSt.-Moron,
yet the ostentation that I witness baffles even my unsophisticated palate,
our ancestors' plaintive whispers are being dismissed, left unheeded, as
we browse the aisles for more and more, always for more and yet more.
Asphyxiated by the excess of the Petty Posh-Wahzee, we find ourselves,
perched precariously on the edge, of a dissolution of all that is humane,
babies go hungry, wives are battered, our elders left in hospitals for hours,
I cringe as I scribble these words, perhaps too sanctimonious and preachy,
yet I know, deep in the marrow of my brittle bones, I know, I know, I know,
this tree of freedom planted by the nameless daughters and sons of Africa,
needs to be shielded, nurtured, protected from our very own baser impulses,
so that the precious tree of freedom, may bear the fruit that may feed us all,
for if not, then we are doomed, to tip over, and into the yawning abyss, we shall fall.
Form:
Let our hands interlock into a
beautiful zipper of prayer and
take pride in being african!
"What is the pride of being
african"
Asks a girl- unknowing of the
roots from which her family
tree grows ..
The lines on the palm of her
hands resemble the veins of
the african leaves she was
born into. Her
Bi-racial hair curled up in locks
of african beauty
Nd yet she asks " what is the
pride of being african?
An african woman whose only
pride is the curve of her hips
and the natural arch of her
back- ignoring the map with
which her mind can make- or
the different shades of brown
her skin radiates into the rich
airs of africa..
In the middle of an undeclared
war
We uncounciously submit to a
mental slavery ..seeking
comfort in the pains of the
past.. Slitting our rists with
resentment and self pity..
Handicappin our minds -
moving forward but still
arriving at the previous
destination!
Such wounded nations!
Why do we scrape the african
tatoo in the arteries of our
hearts by poking the the past
makin way for its venom to
make us bitter...
Perpetually impregnating our
minds
Only to give birth to a
vendetta!
Is that the pride of being
African!
Adding insult to injury
we duck and cover
Hidding from the touch of rain
Shieldin ourselves from the
sun's smile
But then.. Then we embraced
the weather and posed in the
sun as if God was takin a
piicture..
Then children with no toys
believed they could transform
oxygen into gold
Then a mother through trials
nd tribulations could still find a
corner within the circle of her
mud hut
Then the diamonds of Africa
lay in the sparkling eyes of a
new born -raised to the
heavens as an African
declaration
I listen to the invisible wind
chimes made by mother
nature
Singing songs of praise
Painting african countries on
this canvas we call Africa!
I see the poetry that lies
within future Nelson
Mandelas.. Seretse Khamas..
Futures You's and Me's
I inhale the soils and all the
memories imprinted on them
jus as Africa is imprinted on
me -
I rub off hurtful footprints of
hunger
slavery..
All for the pride of being
african
Let our hands interlock like a
beautiful zipper of prayer- nd
take pride in being african
We need to remember our heritage and the reason we celebrate the 4th of July.
Have you ever wondered what happened to the 56 men who signed the Declaration of Independence? Their story. . .
Five signers were captured by the British as traitors, and tortured before they died.
Twelve had their homes ransacked and burned.
Two lost their sons serving in the Revolutionary Army; another had two sons captured.
Nine of the 56 fought and died from wounds or hardships of the Revolutionary War.
They signed and they pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor.
What kind of men were they?
Twenty-four were lawyers and jurists.
Eleven were merchants.
Nine were farmers and large plantation owners; men of means, well educated.
But they signed the Declaration of Independence knowing full well that the penalty would be death if they were captured.
Carter Braxton of Virginia, a wealthy planter and trader, saw his ships swept from the seas by the British Navy. He sold his home and properties to pay his debts, and died in rags.
Thomas McKeam was so hounded by the British that he was forced to move his family almost constantly. He served in the Congress without pay, and his family was kept in hiding. His possessions were taken from him, and poverty was his reward.
Vandals or soldiers looted the properties of Dillery, Hall, Clymer, Walton , Gwinnett, Heyward, Ruttledge, and Middleton.
At the battle of Yorktown, Thomas Nelson, Jr., noted that the British General Cornwallis had taken over the Nelson home for his headquarters. He quietly urged General
George Washington to open fire. The home was destroyed, and Nelson died bankrupt.
Francis Lewis had his home and properties destroyed.
The enemy jailed his wife, and she died within a few months.
John Hart was driven from his wife's bedside as she was dying.
Their 13 children fled for their lives. His fields and his gristmill were laid to waste. For more than a year he lived in forests and caves, returning home to find his wife dead and his children vanished.
So, take a few minutes while enjoying your 4th of July holiday and silently thank these patriots. It's not much to ask for the price they paid.
Remember: freedom is never free!
We celebrate Guy Fawkes although he did not quite make the grade
I know and understand rebellion threatens thus he met his fate
Could have been worse he could have blown of his incendiary hand
Less body parts to torture in the name of country and King of the land
Guido as they called him fighting for the Spanish before his foiled plot
Was fully aware that he could be exterminated for an unsavoury complot
Can violence in the name of debatable justice be ever condoned
The masters of power today might agree when Syria is droned
Crusades in the name of some cause or other belie religion and creed
When money meets oil geopolitical persuasion derived from greed
Black powder in Guy’s case blew up in his fierce revolutionary face
Unlike Nelson an eye for a blind spot got him nothing but disgrace
Dark power gloved fists velvet resolutions and orange insurrections
Should of course release white peace doves from resolute minds’ disaffection
Nena’s 99 red balloons and Banksy’s street art reveal a powerful message
No doubt they beat anthrax in envelops and letter bombs sent by expressage
Yet Mandela in his armed struggle days was deemed a vile terrorist
Fought for the cause in despair but was labelled a mean criminal errorist
Suppose that leaves us with religion and Jesus crossed bleeding nailed
Whereas Guy stored explosives in Westminster’s undercroft with little avail
A white robed Ghandi marched for salt freedom justice peaceful opposition
Before him the Buddha sat quietly under a Bodhi tree for untroubled transition
Fawkes received victor’s punishment but is said to have fallen from the scaffold
Before being hanged broke his neck probably mocked the crowd that was baffled
Avoided the agony of the punitive rope before drawn and divided into four parts
Outsmarted the executioner retribution erratically broken in fits and starts
Few of us know the real story only shoot fireworks remember November the 5th
Blow money miss the pith dispense judgement in blessed ignorance forthwith
A lesson to be learnt from the historical legend some possible moral from treason
Is that words are superior to gun powder and it’s better to die for a right reason
A Comrade like Ben
A statesman like Mandela diplomatically
suspended the necessary struggle of opposites,
gummed his fragmented land together with reconciliation….
exploiters to exploited , murderers to martyrs
imperialist to invisibled indigenes
lives in Sandton and councils Bill Clinton
and Naomi Campbell on plush carpets
a sinewy activist, hard as nails, like yourself…
Ben Palmer Louw, always
cajoling
conspiring
criticizing
organising
uprising
forever
beautiful in your pregnant concern
that freedom , dignity and justice
is tangible and beautiful as black skin, kinky hair
is real when a continent’s wealth is fairly shared
is manifested when the state collapses in selfless deeds
old man Nelson turned ninety and is now a teddy
to those who feared the terrorist at forty.
He no longer speak for himself but for his party
and the party is a self-serving affair.
Pity your death at thirty-something
when Nelson started talking to his racist oppressors.
For ten years you and your young militant army
punctured holes in the racist ideology,
marched flames and thunder through townships,
died in your thousands,
stopping with blood and bones
bullets casted for centuries by the fascist
in black holes of greed and fear.
“A shame … but subversion is to blame ”
`` the defenders of law and order loudly exclaimed
“Not good for business”…the moneybags conceded
“ if Soweto bleeds , profit –rates receeds . ”
“Give black chiefs and compradors the garrotte
and stick the small change of capital under their nose .
They will throttle the radical noises at the root ”.
Wounded deeply, your rapid-firing baritone voice
still thundered on battle-fields and in halls,
urging us to destroy mental and wage slavery.
I saw you fight for freedom
the whole scorching way,
every hour of that long bloody apartheid day…
but one night
you leaped ,
proud black brother of mine,
right into the sky…
fist raised high as heaven with a two-hour smile
whispering re-assuringly “Don’t ever give up, gents…
the harder they come , the harder they fall.
See… brothers and sisters…revolution is!
In memory and respect to Ben Palmer Louw (1950-1987)a student leader of 1976 soweto insurrection