Long Salvador Poems
Long Salvador Poems. Below are the most popular long Salvador by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Salvador poems by poem length and keyword.
Collaboration With Di11y Da11y
I see you there beneath the sheen
From high atop my neck I lean
Reflect upon the waters glare
Beneath the sheen, I see you there
Keep me stable, inverted trees
In stillness to just be at ease
I exist without judgement or label
Inverted trees keep me stable
In pensive thought, shadows cast
I turn my back to futures past
Uncertainty behind me fraught
Shadows cast in pensive thought
In ivory dreams, in feathered whims
We're not born to contemplate our sins
Don't stagnate, follow rivers, streams
In feathered whims, in ivory dreams
DD/HB/HB/DD
HB/DD/DD/HB
DD/HB/HB/DD
HB/DD/DD/HB
"Revolutions"
7
We are all for the Fall
in the seasons of His hands
where He pulls in the strings
of all His puppets
calling in cold legions
in a bitter Winter bleeding
before Spring arrives again
bathed in Light
and a new Summer stands
7
(LadyLabyrinth/2020)
Rev 21:5
Gen 1:1-31
Gen 2:2
Rev 4:5
"Keyboard Milk" / Royksopp
https://youtu.be/dF8ojPeSo3s
(1)
Revolution:
noun
an overthrow or repudiation and the thorough replacement of an established government or political system by the people governed.
Sociology. a radical and pervasive change in society and the social structure, especially one made suddenly and often accompanied by violence.Compare social evolution.
a sudden, complete or marked change in something:the present revolution in church architecture.
a procedure or course, as if in a circuit, back to a starting point.
a single turn of this kind.
Mechanics.
1. a turning round or rotating, as on an axis.
2. a moving in a circular or curving course, as about a central point.
3. a single cycle in such a course.
(2)
Revelation Logic/ The Number 7
https://revelationlogic.com/articles/the-number-seven/
(3)
The Nuremberg Chronicles
(3a) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nuremberg_Chronicle
(3b) http://scihi.org/nuremberg-chronicle/
(3c) https://www.faena.com/aleph/articles/7-days-of-creation-and-their-most-beautiful-illustrations/
(4) Nuremberg
1561 Celestial Phenomenon over Nuremberg
The Battle of Nuremberg
(4a)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1561_celestial_phenomenon_over_Nuremberg
(4b)
https://science.howstuffworks.com/space/aliens-ufos/ufo-history2.htm
(5) Art & Celestial Phenomenon
(5a)
https://listverse.com/2016/04/24/10-historic-divine-paintings-that-clearly-show-ufos/
(5b)
https://hermoments.com/paintings-with-ufos/
(5c)
https://www.florenceinferno.com/madonna-of-ufo-painting-palazzo-vecchio/
(6) Art & Faith
(6a) Salvador Mundi
http://www.picknettprince.com/salvator.htm
(7) Bible/Clouds
Acts 1:9-11
Matthew 24:30
Rev 1:7
"The Poverty in His Mind"
The poverty in his mind
watches the words
ticking in time
like arms and legs
locked in hot rhyme
some Salvador Dali melting
killer metronome
the daily mail
letters of love
pushed through music to
guardian benign
there in the cloudy sky
like tiny dancers in a nightclub
lonely shining
unearthly lights
single and uneasy
he sees what she sees
he watches her, then
closes his blinds
his neighbour lies
hypnotised
under the milky way
watches him supine
he sees her
through the white noise
She thinks he’s paranoid.
He thinks she’s divine.
She watches him
ticking in time
moving lips silently
whispering, decoding
secret messages
between the lines
She moves in his hands
he’s writing her story
Killer Metronome
magic mysterious automaton
50 move rule divine
The chemistry of her tears
The poverty in his mind
turns Fools' Gold
into dark Rhyme
to wind back the
Hands of Time
(LadyLabyrinth/2018)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nP5b5Xea9E4
Close
A Cry to the Vicar of Christ
On the eighth of May—
in the year the world was wounded—
white smoke rose,
and the Spirit whispered:
Leo XIV.
Not a crown,
but a cross.
Not glory—
but Gethsemane.
Go now,
Holy Father,
to Gaza,
where God bleeds quietly
under shattered mosques.
A child cries without sound.
A mother digs without grave.
Hope is ash.
Peace is myth.
And still—
your hands are clean.
Go to the sons of empire—
tell them:
No more prayers dipped in petrol.
No more justice from jets.
No more peace purchased with pain.
And to Israel,
tell Benjamin:
God is not your sword.
He is your witness.
Every Palestinian child
is a gospel we’ve burned.
Every mother,
a Madonna without her Christ.
Go also to Congo. Sudan. Libya. Ukraine.
Do not wave.
Do not preach.
Walk.
Bleed.
Kneel.
Did you not hear Romero,
when the soil sang blood in El Salvador?
The Church was never meant
to hide behind stained glass.
Let the Vatican strip gold from its bones.
Let the cassock gather dust.
Let the Pope
become a man.
For when Pope Francis passed,
he whispered:
“Reality is more than ideas.”
And Gaza is real.
God weeps there still.
Let history write,
not of sermons,
but of a man in white
who saved God
in Gaza.
Oh, to move to Ethiopia
Or maybe Eritrea
And if they hadn't changed the name
I'd move to North Rhodesia
There's a bit of heaven in Pakistan
Or the balmy life in Turkmenistan
But why move there when calls to me
Paradise on Earth in Afghanistan
Yet I don't really want to move so far
I can dodge the bullets in Salvador
The gangs in Mexico or Venezuela
And I've simply got to check out Cuba
Of course, there's the Arab world, so friendly
Syria, Iraq, Lebanon and UAE
Then again, I'm both Jewish and Israeli
So none of them can tolerate me
Which leaves our good friends Russia
China and North Korea
Come to think of it though
I've a better idea
I think that I will choose to stay
Life's not all that bad in the USA
What are they?” He asked.
His voice came out as a weird whisper croak.
He was not used to being in a gallery.
It was cold, stark, and echo infested.
She laughed.
It came out as an annoying sound.
He barely knew her but he did not like it.
“It’s Dali models,” she whispered. “I’ll be one of them.”
“If you shoot up sixteen inches and lose sixty-five pounds maybe.”
He did not know he’d said this aloud.
She left swiftly. First and last date.
Rudely interrupted by his own brazen honesty.
He stared at Dali’s painting. It was nothing like he had ever seen.
Was that a lion or a dog’s head? Was that tiny itsy bitsy man Dali?
Bad date.
Fabulous introduction though to his new favorite artist. Salvador Dali.
You kindle the lamps
Little earthen bowls
Holding circles of mustard oil
Wicks like snouts of desire
The sober flame radiating rosy heat
Smell of ripened wheat
I get my book
Under the leaves of the light
Words snuggling in delight
The dissolving nights recede
Your pent-up poems, all freed
You become the words
Swords disappear
Mightier pen gets prepared
The lamps in the corners
In triangles and tweets
Light on the lips of darkness
Salvador Dali
It is poetry of Diwali
Smileys hovering in the air
Scented light from your hair
You kindle the lamps
Taking light
From my candle-hand
Blushing eyes command
Compelling lamps
The world of Expectations
Expectations, do – in all likelihood – become frustrations.
They, in their painful anger, do become manipulations,
of both – both the aching heart and the fragile soul
and of the one’s you seem to want to know
and would prefer to show.
So, what one must do , is set them free, let them go
so that the seeds, one needs, in order to sow,
might have a chance – into something – grow.
Expectations, therefore laden the load, hamper creation,
making for uncertainties and difficulties in any situation.
WORDS
Words fly upon gossamer wings of invisible angles,
from sources of universal / internal, unseen energy,
to and through the fragile tips of my crystalline,
clear fingers, like specks of light, fireflies
out of the darkness of my mind, to light up,
- in shades of gray or rainbow colours, bright -
the empty spaces that wait to be filled.
Those pieces, - eight and a half by eleven – of paper,
pages I write, - for the sight of others – of shadows
that are cast upon the retinas of the minds that look,
upon, read, see, understand the essence of this old man.
Dawning of this day has come to us in untarnished,
Salvador Dalí, blues, chaperoned by a blinding glow
– that bright, life sustaining, golden orb radiating down –
giving light to this early mornings life, life in this tiny,
portion of this great blue planet – my multi coloured tomb,
my four cornered room, where loony size orbs , of violet,
indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange and red orbit, slither,
– in their cloak of rainbow colours – these coloured comets,
their tails streaking across, upon, all-around an ocean
of material objects, objects of historical value,
objects – a visual representations of , pages of my history
basking in the light of beautifully coloured flakes of rainbows,
drifting, rainbow specks, coloured splotches splashed across
the eggshell white bars of this prison I sometimes inhabit,
this tiny little universe washed in history and colours.
This beautifully coloured day was brought to me by crystals,
chipped at – pieces cut away by the hands of artisans –
by the hand of man to allow light – white and clear –
to be refracted, reflecting, releasing to sight, that which
the human eye is unable to comprehend, to see.
Rainbows filled my day – too bad they could not stay.
Then again, that would be asking to much, isn’t that the way ?
B. J. “A ” 2
October 27th 2002
There is only one difference between a madman and me.
The madman thinks he is sane.
I know I am mad. - Salvador Dali.
He received a letter from her, with her beautiful poem inside
Words wrapped in a colorful rainbow, words full of dreams and love
He was dying to unfold the letter, yet he kept it aside, unopened , on the table
He had something to tell her, before things could bypass the day thoroughly.
It is late night now, blinds are to be closed, curtains are to be drawn
Only some words are waiting to arrive, He knows they will, a thing certain
Those words are supposed to drop on his open notebooks, on a softer drizzle
These are supposed to drop from the porous clouds, to embrace the soil.
He closed his eyes in utter agony, he was feeling blank before the white page
Muse are bound to come by, It should not be anything for an hour or so late
Still, he could not write a single line, he could not think of a word to start with
Surprisingly he saw. those words of his open notebook, forming into a butterfly
That magnificent, huge butterfly was merging with his clouds of thought
Then he felt he is in his incomplete dream of yesterday, in midst of pain!
He tore the poem apart, it was lying all over the floor in hundreds of pieces.
He does not need life's mercy now, he cannot afford to do anything but try.
Again.
Pan pan pan pan pan
pan pan pan pan pan,,,
Peacock bass
oh tasteful fish ...
Amazon,
from my country...
Catupiri
all must eat...
superb cheese
from my country...
Acarajé,
oh caruru
oh vatapá
from Bahia,
hey hey
San Salvador ...!
Vaquejadà
rodeo...
hello boiadá
bolanderá ...
Muié embroiderer ...
Percata espadrille, doublet
all the best
from my backlands ...!
Look at the drizzle,
what a lovely rain ...
life that flies ...
All success,
all the progress
of this nation.
Sao Paulo,jet plane ...!
In this school
born sambão ...
in the north zone
Hello at Gamboa ...
Wobbly thing
Rio, February
waddling samba,
samba brother ...!
Center here
so special...
Sprouts wealth,
phenomenal...
in the immense west
cattle farming
Rural Brazil ...!
Hey Canindé ...
Armadillo,
Hey Tuiuiu
Icaraí ...
It's all here ...
it's brazil land,
it's brazilian
it's my brasil ...
It's my brasi ....!