Long Polynesian Poems
Long Polynesian Poems. Below are the most popular long Polynesian by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Polynesian poems by poem length and keyword.
My beliefs are not yours to judge
Christianity and Catholic?
What do they mean?
One god, one book, one set of rules
They both say to ask for thy forgiveness
Paganism? Norse?
Celebrate thy selves and treat thyself right
Looking at a distance, all religions are the same
Norse, Greek and Egyptian
They all have the same deity's
God's and goddesses, they're all the same
Men and women who have the same thought
But are different all the same
You have God, Buddha, Zeus and Odin
All are fathers of their own religion
But are called different all the same
Hades, Satan and Mara
All gods of the underworld but called evil
All have their owns past but called Demons
Loki, Hermes, Apate and Dolus, and Maui
Norse, Greek and Polynesian tricksters
All looked down on for their way of life
Tricksters, deceivers or liars
Motivated not by strict moral codes but rather their own amusement or interests
Why do we judge when we can't say who is right or wrong?
The plague knew my infinite hulk
in 1769, crept through the Polynesian crystal
onto my outstretched archipelago
black sands and white sands and volcanoes
speaking the purple language,
the queen’s English to the farmer’s French,
and drank from the palm tree
to drain the lagoon its persistent innocence.
I called that man under white skin elbows
unhinged to finger length arms
planked ‘cross the wishful shore to the sun,
drunk with ambition for Elizabeth’s glory,
tracing the black dot of Venus
across the infinite grapefruit horizon
from juvenile tree-house forts
to play science on God’s paradise, James Cook.
By definition Cook is defined by mine.
A century more defined another
defined by my natural beauty
and native Polynesian simplicity alive in artistic
assembly, though darker skinned
than acceptable at that period before the end
of a dry English sentence,
a man with a watering eye called Paul Gauguin.
Had Gauguin’s father surpassed his flesh,
he might have said his son taught van Gogh
the artful act of goat-fed attrition
through blurred lines of lacked definition
which persist to define impressionism.
And had his father been a poet, not a journalist,
he might have taught his son that an island,
at its core, is a man, defined by his own accord.
Date: 12/21/2018
Ricky, you may have been around the world.
You have seen many different flags unfurled.
Is it true you found a girl wherever you went?
I would say your time was very well spent.
You knew a pretty senorita down in Mexico.
Up in Alaska, you saw a cute little Eskimo.
Your sweet fraulein in Berlin made your heart yearn.
A China doll in Hong Kong waited for your return.
A few nights were shared with a Polynesian baby.
You had a good time there, and I don’t mean maybe.
Nobody will disagree you were a traveling man.
You attracted women as well as any man can.
You are gone now, so there is no longer a choice.
However, we are thankful we can still hear your voice.
I spied a ship and descried the flag it flew.
It was nothing like the flags I had seen before.
It was red and blue, with white circles and yellow stars
The highlights of white and yellow stood out
like stars at night, and town lights bright.
The red like the color of the dawn and dusk.
The blue the color of the deep blue ocean.
It was clearly the flag of a sea faring nation.
As the ship got closer, you could clearly see its details.
It was a large primitive Polynesian outrigger voyager vessel,
a ghost ship as no one appeared to be aboard.
Where it had come from, the fate of its crew a mystery?
But the vessel sure knew how to sail
and knew where it was headed
as it sailed fast and free,
passed our sailing boat 'Snail'
on a true heading for a spot on the horizon.
For many years the Polynesian voyagers were decried as flotsam and jetsom.
How could these primitive people navigate through the vast open ocean
between tiny islands, pin-prick dotted in oceans of space?
It was assumed they migrated and populated the far flung oceans randomly and haphazardly
via their fishing trips and day trips being blown off course.
But research has descried their skill and fabulous knowledge of navigation.
Each island has a gild of navigators.
They use songs and stories to memorize navigation methods:
including the movement of the stars, wave patterns around island,
local currents, clouds, weather and bird behavior.
Polynesian navigators used the rise and setting of particular set stars on the horizon to set a heading.
They had wooden instruments, string and fiber maps of wave patterns and star movements to guide their way.
They skillfully know when they were near tiny islands
from the change in the wave patterns, currents
and their vast knowledge of birds and wildlife.
So don't be quick to decry Polynesian navigation.
Instead, descry its beauty, simplicity, nouse, proficiency and elegance.
Behold Beatrice, Pitcairn
the paradise sunsets lie in Tahiti
sunrise, the folly of Easter
islands, sanitoriums, deluded, denuded
limbos and purgatories, the never evermore
Polynesian metaphors transmigrate my mind
O to graze with the deer, dear
the tree never falls silently
lizards scatter, birds scurry to flight
i could never buy into falling silence
let alone fate of Galileo's descending weights
church theologians preferring an atheist Aristhrottle
forgive me for being sententious dear
no pity for Cyrano
the hidden Darcy
in another failed Benedick in port
without Dante's delusions
love with no embrace
Service, woman, a slightly tainted saint
Tennyson's wound that never heals
Petrarch, Augustine, it grows insane
ah the vicissitudes, where was i
yes, leaving metaphors and literate men
your laughter starts in those ignescent eyes
ignition, brush fires of rippling ballerinas
facial muscles lost in abandonment
to some elfish music i see, never hear
lips widening, bursting rubaiyat pandemonium
i adore your infectious risibility
it is your amatory smile i love most
demure, candles gamboling in the moonlight
i am a moth lost in the flames
of your demanding timidity
it is then i see in your eyes
the dove gracing your hands
the beast who serves your lust
this is why the Norsemen
fear nothing but women
swords once ready, berserkers, Odin
now lie silent volcanoes in my heart, Freya
the seas are without headstones
and i am wondering again terricolous
all of this are the clouds overhead
it is the heavens i see in your eyes
not the red dawn i fear
we see the jungle, its' song, inevitable war
the struggle to stand in the light
possibly besotted, erratum
the seas have long not cared
with you, i learn, heal
we are undeniably humanity
we are paradise lost
the hells of yesterday
need not rule the heavens of today
your arms gravid with red sunsets
fill my deepest hopes of all morrows
its' ultimate price is gladly paid
Miramar 94 The Patient Stones
Revised 5/22 OKC
see on Youtube
Shakespeare's Sonnet 116 Is Not What It Seems
there are certain words in here common in 19th Century literature that always remind me....besotted with Jane Austen
Do you remember Helen Keller?
She was a really awesome speller
Who couldn't hear nor see nor speak,
So to communicate
She would ges-tic-u-late.
Marcel Marceau spoke perfect French,
But he was helpless in a pinch
Because a mime does not converse,
Or even curse, such is his fate,
He must ges-tic-u-late.
Polynesian girls who hula
Often dance for poi or moola.
They rake in tips with swaying hips
As their grass skirts gyrate,
And they ges-tic-u-late.
Magicians cause a great sensation
With their prestidigitation,
They make assistants disappear,
And even levitate,
When they ges-tic-u-late.
Upon the mound, a pitcher scans
The fingers of the catcher's hand.
To show how curved, or fast, or slow
The ball should go across the plate,
He will ges-tic-u-late.
When good ideas you hit upon them,
Use your hands, don't sit upon them,
Get your point 'cross to your boss,
Let me reiterate.
Conversation's more impressive
If animatedly expressive
And your vocabulary's rich and up-to-date.
So when you talk stop dilly dallyin'
And be more like an Italian,
Give your reticence a rest
And just ges-tic-u-late.
Author's note: Dear reader, if I may paraphrase Nancy Sinatra...These hands were made for talkin'.
Morning brief
Not much to say;
Touching aftermath
~~~~~~~~~
Passing clouds
Candy floss chit-chat;
Without a word
~~~~~~~~~
Lovers in the park
Saturday evening trysts;
Cheery revival
~~~~~~~~~
Free-and-Easy
Way to go;
Redundant tour guide
~~~~~~~~~
Aloha Hawaii
Polynesian fare;
Smiles surfing free
~~~~~~~~~
Fly away now
Missionary quest;
Overseas homework
~~~~~~~~~
Complains surge
No much change;
Wishful thinking
~~~~~~~~~
Here and there
Notice the debris;
Broken spirits loiter
~~~~~~~~~
Lost souls loiter
Shackled by fate;
Seemingly hopeless
~~~~~~~~~
And when he died
So much sorrow;
Now an urban legend
~~~~~~~~~
Sweet sexy swirl
Curves curl cute;
Vital statistics flaunt
~~~~~~~~~
Children at play
Power struggles start;
Parent referees
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
18 May 2015
Singapore