Long Southwestern Poems
Long Southwestern Poems. Below are the most popular long Southwestern by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Southwestern poems by poem length and keyword.
he wrote non- sufficeint love
in Spain.
he hide their for months while
his wife searched for him.
she found him their
and retreived him to stay at their home
in southwestern america.
they grow tomatoes and sold them to stores all over the country.
the song was losted for months, but when found
someone in the feilds said it was a boo-who love song that
caused people to cheat and consort. it was then said to be the works of
el diablo, the music of the devil. we asked a preist in the city if these words were the works of Satan he told them they were the works of men, but the intentions of the song was to illustrate the doings of an unfaithful woamn, one who whenched her men, and then became pregant, so that see could inherint their wealth. In the song the song, got all the riches, the bitches, and the knowledge of
concored ***'s. these words ofended some but, musicains have sung this song for years so the church could understand men wanting to hear the song. well the group released the song on their album, and it topped the charts, a group of woman, anwsered the song.. with " lazzia ***, a song about a group of wonderers who tricked women for money. this started the verses issue we have here today. we conserve referance to the teaching of either, and site the beleif in peace and unity !
The earth is parched
and southwestern winds whip the sky dusty
The world feels dry
and the evening sky bleeds a little rusty
Dear Lord if you please
a little taste of rain we surely need
A fall foliage is wither and brown
no colors do the tree tops crown
The earth so cracked you can trip down
nothing as sad as thirsty ground
Rationing of precious water miles around
for a little taste of rain our sorrows drown
A crack of lightning
a darken sky roars with thunder
The smell of rain
leads raindrops to drip then rip asunder
Reviving the earth
gulping the liquid life as plunder
A little taste of rain
let it pour let it pour
Prayers answered
life reassured
The Lonely Fisherman
He sat on a rowing boat in the fjord
he wore a yellow
raincoat and a southwestern cap matching his coat
was like seeing a French movie, an intellectual one
I couldn’t stand by the window all-day
reading sat on the sofa reading a novel
a book too long, a mind-numbing love story.
I read several pages, then gave up and looked out of the window
the boat was there,
and his cap was floating like a life raft for
I held my breath had he drowned, then the man got
up he had fallen in his boat, perhaps slipped on a dead fish,
but other ways looked fine
He began rowing to shore and tied the boat to the small pier
walking up the track to my cabin, he carried fish in a plastic bag
I dived behind the sofa when he knocked on my door, in case he was selling fish.
polite if he was of the talkative kind
bore me with
endless fishing tales.
Back on the boat, he untied the rope turned gave me the finger.
As I ride across the high desert plains
an open, arid scenery whisks by.
The sun is heating up rippled windows
on the railroad train, as it jostles riders
to jiggle, jerk and sway
to the click, clack of wooden tracks
towards Tucumcari, New Mexico
Gateway To The West.
Sounds of the Old Wild West
stir up the imagination
like the great train robbery
of Black Jack Ketchum in 1897
near Tucumcari, where he and his bandits
secretly hid their stash of gold
long before the train whistle
blew near the station.
Clickity clack, or could that be horses’ hooves
galloping alongside the old train tracks?
As desert dust kicks up, I envision ghosts of riders
wild west cowboys catching up
with guns out of holsters
shouting, “Stop the train! Get the gold!”
“Next stop, Tucumcari!”calls the conductor
I am shaken out of my daydream and look around.
Humble buildings huddle within the arroyos
people proud of their Southwestern heritage
for here in the desert you’ll not find a heartier folk
than those who live within this great land
of grit and sizzling sun.
born under the sea, an irresistible force
two bodies reluctantly embrace, shunting, shifting, tectonic drifting
alongside the southern Iapetus Ocean
equatorial deep-time child of Laurentia and Avalonia
journey northward, surfacing, submerging
surfing the waves again, a colder Hibernian dalliance
precariously perched on Eurasian plate
old bedrock confused, youthful erosion above the ancient order
darkness entombed around channelled winter light
early New Grange civilisation, the Boyne valley before the blood
river mouth vikings, raiding, assimilating
birth of the coming capital, eastern stronghold, Baile Atha Cliath
chain-mail Norman conquerors castle-building
appointing pious supplicants with sword, cloth, crook and cross
wholly unholy alliances unravel
rival hierarchies sharing ill-gotten earthly reward from overseas
saintliness, brutality, men and women
expanding Christendom, pagan kingdoms adjusting to defeat
Patrick, Brigid, Columba, Columbanus
Irish civilising roman catholic conduits, Dalriata to Lindisfarne
outreaching, a strand of Irish character
yet to encounter future revisionary metaphysical thought
protestant rebellion, mainland overspill
praying elites competing, preying on the island's god-fearing people
avian watchers on Skellig pinnacles
warm ocean currents well-up, catching the southwestern gale
enduring the ill-will of nature and man
supplanting, subjugating, saving souls, the power of might and fear
treachery within or well beyond the pale
fair and dark hair, ginger genetics existing on the edge of life
tossed thin people hanging on, many leaving
scraping blighted ground, returning to the sea, promise of the unknown
Meeting someone who still believes in the goodness of humanity feels almost mythical in a world that has taught her to trust only what lies north of her own borders. She grew up with the nation above her as her reference point — its language, its culture, its shadow. And yet, when she looked at me, there was no hesitation, no fear of difference. There was only curiosity, the kind that bridges continents without needing permission.
I spoke to her in Italian, the language of my grandparents, the language that still carries the warmth of Sunday kitchens and old-country stories. She answered in Spanish, soft and melodic, like she was letting me into a world she didn’t offer to just anyone. Somehow, between her Spanish and my Italian, we found a rhythm — two languages dancing around each other, meeting in the middle like they had been waiting for this moment.
She was adorable in the way she tried to make the conversation work. At one point she typed in Spanish and let Google translate it into English, laughing at the robotic voice that didn’t match her sweetness. I should have kissed her then — not out of impulse, but out of recognition. Recognition that something rare was happening. Recognition that this was one of those moments that could have rewritten the rest of my life.
If I had taken that step, maybe we would have started a conversation that didn’t end. Maybe we would have walked a path that led us down an aisle instead of back to our separate lives. An Italian American man and a Mexican mamasita — two worlds meeting not by accident, but by alignment.
I imagine the life that could have followed: a home filled with the aromas of both cultures, a table where Italian hand gestures met Mexican warmth, children who carried the bloodlines of Italy, Hungary, Spain, and Mexico all in one heartbeat. A new generation shaped by Western grit and Southwestern soul, a living testament to the beauty of crossing borders — not with passports, but with hearts.
It’s strange how a single moment can hold the weight of an entire future. Stranger still how easily it can slip away.
But even now, when I think of her, I don’t feel regret as much as I feel possibility — the reminder that connection doesn’t need perfection, only courage. And maybe next time, I won’t let the moment pass.
Arizona Spring Training Sextet
running the rapids
life jacket on fully tight
knuckles, fully white
white water rafting
I thought I would surely die
mates made me smile bright
sports-bars, fun, laughter
cowboy steak-out much later
bright time, what moonlight
karaoke, too
"The Funky Divas" were we three
fun and much laughter
my Arizona
spring training, the Oakland A's
those southwestern days
11-8-2020
11-7-2020
~~~~~
Tribute to the Sports channel Team! Thanks for crediting me to be
one of your top Sports channel Scouts and rewarding me with fun trip
of a lifetime! Wonderful to travel with all the managers of the top cable
companies. Never had so much fun in my life. Fell totally in love with
Arizona...the desert, snakes and jeep adventures in her
desert!
I live in a rose-tinted town
bowing mainly to White Western skies
bleached of blue blooded color
but also of dire Eastern dawns
with smoky red skies,
warning farmers and gardeners
taking and giving nutritional cover
under bad-blooded weather
on our way to further apart.
I live in a NorthEastern place
replete with geriatric grace
yet less mindful of holistic medicines
less conscious through holy meditations
less green ecoschool wholesome
with cooperative administrations
of home
and families
and neighborhoods
as wholesome 7-Generation multihoods.
I live in a public space
directed by private embrace
toward trusting love of all four dimensions
all eight lifetime resurrections
From infant to WinWin child,
child to WinLose pre-teen,
pubescent to late adolescent,
where U.S. culture seems LeftBrain stuck
between delayed adolescents and too young adults,
young adults toward mature WinWin multiculturists,
voters listening to WiseElder leaders,
WiseElder leaders
longing to conjoin CoMessiahs
and Bodhisattva PeaceWarriors
and PolyCulturing Yogis
and MultiCulturing EarthScientists
and PolyPhonically inclined EarthArtists
and PolyPathic EarthEducators
and EarthFirst Mentors.
Researchers and Designers
of full-octaved trust,
if for no positively healthy reason,
to avoid hatreds of anti-trust
and ambivalent angers
seeking secular mistrust
and equivalent fears
finding infinite misery
pathologies.
I live in a rose-scented town
where three polluted rivers conjoin
worshipped by LastNative gamblers
reweaving our vapid ritual bows
within all four fractal revolving directions.
I live in a rose-fading town
aging while watching southwestern drought,
at risk of growing Eastern coastal
as Northern blizzards of chaos
compete with Southern hurricanes and tornadoes
of flooding tsunamic competing complexity.
I live in a rose memory town
filled with ghosts of LeftBrain dominant climatic pathology
rising up to restore RightBrain with Left
peace from within,
settling down to withstand
capital punishments
ego-justified retributions
without rose-tinted restorative glasses.
Strange oddities, hoodoos
they stand, stoic and timeless
stranded in red rock country
their solemn, stony faces
staring intently towards the
southwestern horizon.
I pause…
and witness their mighty stance
resolute and silent
an ancient tribal assembly
gathered and grounded
like mighty warriors of old.
Now, feeling claustrophobic
the hoodoos surround me
a stone henge courtroom
judge and jury
granite gravels at the ready
to strike judgment.
My path darkens with the fading light
I “will” my feet to carry me away
to escape the impending doom
it wants to chase me down
inside the lengthening shadows.
Hidden by nightfall
I distance myself from
the curse of the hoodoos
and their rock hard grip
and hope for a hoodoo redo
come the morning light.
An accident of history,
a coincidence,
I wonder,
EurAsia's Nightingale
sings toward newborn dawns of life
hope
faith,
while New Western Hemisphere's Eastern Whippoorwill
sends a darker through SouthWestern chill
warning of dualdark's bodily demise.
These two,
Nightingales with transatlantic Whippoorwills
continue singing through our outdoor dreams
of nights
FullMoon Nightingales of EurAsian love
and NewMoon Whippoorwills
warning of impending loss,
climates of emerging,
co-gravitating pathology,
descent
waving toward Nightingale repressions,
reweaving nocturnal memories
of happyYang Opportunity within sadYin PromisedThreat.
An accident of history,
a coincidence,
this confusion of colonialism's economic hubris
with anthro-elitism's Whippoorwills
warning shared political LoseLose demise.
Nightingales heard LeftBrain dominant
echoing NewMoon Whippoorwills sung RightBrain
sacred
ecological
matriarchal concave womb,
nurturing dualdark mythic warnings
flying through troubling climatic dreams,
like distant rolling thunder
coming toward a capitol investment
near Earth's groundnest,
GoodNews Nightingales
with BadFeeling Climates
revolving bright and dualdark
GrandMother Moon
sung in Whippoorwills.