Long Spain Poems
Long Spain Poems. Below are the most popular long Spain by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spain poems by poem length and keyword.
Written: September 08, 2024 For Edward Ibeh Contest
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He has blue eyes and lovely blond hair,
Curls rose above his pink and pretty ware.
Do not mention his background or affairs,
With Africa by people who settled there.
His father's family tree has extensive roots,
Has Swedish, Cajun French, and British limbs.
Grafts from Choctaw and Cherokee wood routes,
That got some black stems from long-time whims.
His mother comes from a Creole background,
Descendants of a native African tribe.
Parentage from France and Spain was found,
And mingled with Bayou Indians and more vibe.
Because intolerance and hatred confine,
They also obstruct the expansive plain.
Therefore, bigots are vindictive and supine,
It is only clear to observe the gutter drain.
There are no pleasant views of the spleen,
There are no cloverfields or rolling greens.
Restricted minds lack the ability to see,
a breathtaking panorama of the scene.
And biased men with pretentious pride,
While in white, they become narrow-eyed.
who despise Blacks, Jews, and Native side,
They are completely sealed and closed inside.
660.
The 5th Period of the Spanish Era of Philippine History:
Revolution Against Spanish Rule
Upon the arrest of Dr. Jose Rizal
The Filipinos resorted to another reprisal
When the Propaganda Movement became dead
Another movement, the Katipunan, was founded
If the Propaganda Movement aimed into Spain assimilation
The Katipunan wanted from Spain separation
If the former engaged Spain with ink & word
The latter encountered Spain with blood & sword
The Katipunan became the war machine of the Revolution
Which eventually spread althroughout the nation
At its start, it was headed by Andres Bonifacio
At its finale, this struggle was led by Emilio Aguinaldo
Aguinaldo led many successful battles
The power of Spain in the Philippines turned into shambles
When both sides, Spaniards & Filipinos, already incurred heavy losses
They both agreed for reparation of damages
This is the 5th Period of Spanish Era – Revolution Against Spanish Rule
The twilight of Spanish colonialism, the time when Filipinos were full
Now, this upheaval on a standstill made a deal in Biak-na-Bato
God was preparing a new dawn for the Philippine archipelago.
-05/17/2019
*Periods on the Eras of the Philippine History
Skirting church on Puig de Missa,
then down the slope towards the river,
St Eularia's Rui, with path that winds on to the sea.
Past the smelly goats, where poking little
fingers get nibbled, and goat-dribbled
through the fence.
Billy stands high on outcast fridge and
watches babies butt their silly billy heads.
Then past the scraggy peacock, beneath the
orange tree, with oranges bunched and
bright-framed in darkest green among their leaves.
Then walk beside the cleft and craggy wall,
where lizards still unseen await more warming sun.
Past the preening cockerel and his shining
feather suit, strutting proud between each
grounded peck, while hammock lies still,
stretched between winter's barren trees,
waiting for that day with warmer breeze,
for May or June to come.
Then water's edge where winter's rain still
trickles over fall, and replenished pool below
is home to ducks, where ducks and cats are
fed, regardless of what town notice said.
Then past overhanging pomegranates,
three branched all in a row, the top one
pecked by tiny bird, and beneath those rosy
balls, a ball of baby mullet, soft sucking and
disturbing water's idle glassy flow.
Then lazy walk beyond the bridge where
river's wider mouth has more silty sandy
edge, where out towards horizon a mackerel
sky meets night-stilled sea, and sun's soft
and bright reflected rise holds promise of a
perfect day.
But in between, a secret quest, where
grandad wanders from the path all through
the damp and dewy grass, bright spotted
with Spring's yellow flowers.
And so the lemon tree is reached, and five fat
lemons quickly picked, avoiding branches
nasty pricks.
And grandad tucks them safe away.
For this is grandad's secret lemon tree,
with plenty left, and so for sure we'll come
again. We'll come again at least once more.
We'll come again another day.
In the green and misty hills of Buea, where Mount Fako stands tall,
Lives a mentor and a leader who answers the data call.
The name Vianney Forewah made it to the lamp light,
Guarding routers, lines, and servers to keep our network right.
As a Telecom Controller for the country’s elite,
He watches over traffic, making sure connections meet.
A Master in Forensics and a sharp, defensive mind,
He traces hidden hazards and the threats that lurk behind.
At NEXGEN and COMPSUDEV, he leads with steady hand,
To bring the gift of digital across his native land.
He speaks for open access and protects the internet,
So the youth can learn in safety without a single threat.
In classrooms accross schools, the students gather round,
To listen to his lectures where true cyber rules are found.
He maps out the curriculum, he tests them on the floor,
A proud and patient teacher opening up a brand-new door.
From Nmap down to Cowrie, he sets his honeypots,
Catching bugs and clever hackers in their secret little plots.
Suricata shields the system, while the malware gets scanned through,
Teaching students how to handle what the cyber crooks might do.
He cares about inclusion, making sure no hand is bound,
Like the recent time in Manila where the BrailleRAP device was found.
He brings the open hardware back to build it at the space,
So those who cannot see the screen can find their proper place.
A traveler of the global stage, from Abidjan to Spain,
He joins the world’s internet fights to minimize the pain.
A YALI West West Fellow and Ambassador with pride,
He shares his tech-for-peace ideas with leaders far and wide.
At home, he is a family man, a father and a son,
Who celebrates each milestone when the busy day is done.
With simple words and daily care, he helps young people grow,
A helpful peer and guiding light that Cameroon and the world gets to know.
My friends are happy gleaning fields of grain
but I'd rather read about France or Spain.
I travel through the pages of a book,
remembering each journey that I took.
I long to see more of the whole wide world.
An ocean traveler with sails unfurled,
a fortune teller in a caravan.
I would roam like a gypsy with that plan.
I yearn to wander and want to explore
mountains, busy cities, and so much more.
I want to visit places that exist
in pages of books. I've made a checklist.
My parents say there's a look in my eyes
that I don't bother trying to disguise.
My heart wants to lead a vagabond life
and not marry early and be a wife.
I am only ten but I'm sure they're right,
for I dream of foreign lands every night.
Over lush green meadows I wish to traipse
on lavender hills and heathered landscapes.
I could've gone to Holland. I could've gone to Spain.
I could've gone to Denmark. I could've gone insane,
But instead I came here, where the river mirrors life
In a fractured, dream-like way on this brilliant summer day
By the Bridge at Argenteuil.
A couple in a rowboat, a woman and a man,
In silent conversation discussing future plans,
But they’re frozen in time. No one’s getting anywhere.
And I feel the same dismay, as though rooted in the clay
By the Bridge at Argenteuil.
It isn’t for the distance. The water's not that wide.
The house in which I lived is standing on the other side.
I just can't get across. There's a darkness shrouds my soul,
Wounds me more than words can say, lost in shades of charcoal gray
By the Bridge at Argenteuil.
With hands in empty pockets, holding on to all that’s mine.
My best possessions taken, the rest just left behind.
And the cold, dancing light that’s reflected on the Seine
Mocks the feelings I betray, with its shimmering ballet
By the Bridge at Argenteuil.
It strides across the river on pilings made of stone.
Without the means to burn it, I loiter here alone
At this shrine to the past and to all I gave away,
But I didn’t come to pray. I’m a pilgrim gone astray
By the Bridge at Argenteuil.
There is a power the mightiest king can neither calm nor tether.
What power? you ask. The task I mean goes by the name of weather.
It was on Saint Mary Magdalene's Day in 1342,
on the twenty-second of July, a fact known but to few,
a raging fearful deluge descended from on high
like none since Noah's flood. In truth I do not lie.
It took away the rich man's house, it swept over hill and lea,
it blackened many a verdant plain as far as eye could see.
Every land in Christendom, from Wales to the tip of Spain
witnessed great loss of wealth and life, saw sorrow and great pain.
'Repent, ye sinners! the prelate preached. Pray God relieve this curse.'
In ignorance the people thought nothing could be worse.
but worse did come, not tarrying long, i whisper in low breath,
from Tartar land on the Black Sea shore. Alas, it was Black Death.
The tributes keep pouring in and my heart is singing a wonderful hymn
The lines are getting longer and the passions are getting stronger
They stormed the streets in a hundred thousand throng; people of all color and creed, husbands and wives holding hands and little children marching along with flowers tied up in bundle to express their love for the diseased queen. The flower memorial is swelling on every corner and the barricades are everywhere giving a touch to the social order.
They come from Europe, the Middle East, Australia and North America. They come from Latin America and the Caribbean; they come from Asia and Africa with gold and silver to show their respect to the queen. The airports are crowed and the hotels are full, all roads lead to London, by air, by sea on land and on foot. They come from France, Germany Italy and Spain, they are all there. The crowd is getting bigger and the passion is growing deeper and my heart is singing a silent tune
The procession began at balmoral estate when the Landrover suddenly broke through the gate carrying the body of the diseased queen and her only daughter accompanying her on the long journey from Scotland to Edinburgh and Buckingham palace in London, cruising through villages and town, farming communities and breakaway cities and the anxious crowd gather in the street showing their love for the queen. The Face of love, faces of pain, somber face, faces that have nothing to gain watch the procession as it journeyed through the winding street to its final destination. I could hear the whispers and the cries and now and again she pulled out a handkerchief to dry up the falling tears.
A sea of flowers converged in the square with a powerful message from the heart. I remember the queen from the start I can see her dainty smile and I imagine sitting with her for a while having a cup of tea. Just yesterday she was with me talking about her family and I am sitting here bearing the weight of her coffin. The dignitaries are coming to town, and they will meet at West Minister to pay homage to the queen. Everyone will meet at west minister Abby to pay the final respect to the queen and so the legacy of the daffodil lives on and the story of cactus hang on the window is showing its sorrow, And the lotus is dancing in the stream.
It was in the eighties, a winter day in Funchal,
the capital of Madeira, when a woman gave birth.
She was an anonymous, struggling woman
sailing the seas of poverty, with three other
children to feed.
At first, she hesitated to have this little baby,
the fourth to come, because the family salary
did not cover more. Her husband, a good man,
who fought in a war in Africa for years,
and, in a different way, still fighting with himself,
he was of no help to the family at that time.
Finally, she took a decision as a mum,
to give light to her new baby.
After that moment, nothing changed for years,
until this baby was a little boy.
Then, he started to show signs of being special.
His intelligence, the way he faced life,
his unique behaviour.
He started thinking about turning a football
into his livelihood to have a better future
for himself and his family, and he certainly did.
As a teenager, his father couldn´t help him much,
but he also liked football, so, that fed the boy´s dreams.
He had a hard time in Lisbon at the beginning
of his career at the football school. He also suffered
from bullying, something that helped him to increase
his aims even more.
However, he also had friends
whom he remembers with great affection.
When he was eighteen,
he spread his wings to fly higher. He went to England,
where his dream started to come true.
After that, the Funchal´s star
showed that light that became brighter and brighter.
He was the best football player in the world;
Portugal, England, Spain, Italy, and keep on going.
A little particle coming from a poor Portuguese area
that reached many hearts.
I, personally don´t like football too much,
but I´m really enchanted about stories
that have so much to teach us.
And not only that, but this well-known sportsperson
is also a well-known friend of those who need him.
He really jumped and sorted out hard obstacles
through his life, to achieve the goal he set
for himself as a child.
What a great lesson taught!,
splendid, admirable lady-mum,
outstanding, unbeatable son.
He was born as a shining star,
whose light illuminates many paths to follow,
as a professional sportsman and as a born fighter from humility.
There is a kind, Someone like me
Waking up to 100 or no messages
And warm good morning from sun
Chirping birds welcomes the smile, coffee soothes the eye.
The white sky greets us in the noon
pen and diary await the moon
Our fingers run down the messy hair
Patting us, saying "you made it to another stair"
Silently we sit, giving words to thoughts
Sunkissed portrayed with moonlight and stars
We don't look and smile, but smile and look
Like the light twinkling at a distance
Shining with a gleam that changes constantly from bright to faint.
There is a kind, Someone like me
As colourful as the butterfly, glowing like a firefly
There is a kind, someone like me
As amazing as the art of Rome ,
As mild and sweet like the blue wine of Spain and
As bright as flowers of Amsterdam.
Finding happiness in French toast and pancakes
To breaking down amidst paper bits
There is a kind, someone like me
Learning and laughing through conventional mainstream
There is a kind, someone like me
Loving and dreaming of a land-of-milk-and-honey.