Long Teutonic Poems
Long Teutonic Poems. Below are the most popular long Teutonic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Teutonic poems by poem length and keyword.
My Auntie
When he entered his aunt’s basement flat
I had been in the yard when she called me in
she squatted over a bucket of water, cleaning her fanny
I handed her a towel and a bottle of spray cologne
My aunt was not like other aunts took no interest
In knitting woolly socks for African children
She was a free spirit and loved men, but she preferred
Teutonic men and disliked the Latin types, except once
When we children brought home a black cook from
A banana ship; he spent two nights in her bed but looked
pale when the captain came to fetch him.
Once, after the war, she sat on a leafy tree for three days
when a band of righteous men went looking for and rape
women who had been friendly to the Germans.
Once, on a bus tour to Germany, she visited her former lovers
who, by now, had grandchildren; I don’t think their wives liked her visit.
When she moved to a roomier home, I liked nothing better
then on Sundays, sit in her kitchen, eat pepper cakes
drink coffee and smoke cigarettes.
THRUST AND SLASH
A sword in a scabbard, hung from the belt
For the Teutonic Knights, it costs much geld
Heated and tempered but it does not melt
Most blades are l straight and double sided
Easy to draw as the long blade is guided
To the old Eastern mind, such is derided
The Moorish influence is in Toledo still
With a special steel that is designed to kill
For fancier guardsmen it would fit the bill
A cutlass is curved with cupped brass guard
Designed for slashing when stabbing is hard
But need sharpening if the edge is marred
Knives however, like most daggers, are hid
An arm for a lady to grip, and quietly slid
Ready for determined action, as many did
Some thin to a point, as a poignard will do
But there are other places to find them too
As for a Scot in a sock, that’s a Skean Dhu
'2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 19' entry, 03 Nov 2022. Sponsor=Mark Toney
Part 2.
Into the wasteland he flies
To bury the souls of lies,
Beneath the leaves of time,
Dirty deeds must dirty die.
This then the watchman must do:
Step on the fingers that try,
With downward pulls to pry,
Into doom flower faces,
These flowers must not die.
--
The conquistador arrived.
He gazed at the unscathed bounty standing
Respect-less before him and squinted.
Surveying the laughing land,
He made up his mind with astute rat-like grace
And thrust with self-satisfied lust his mighty sword into the sand.
God’s word thus bespoken he listened, breathlessly.
The jungle though could not understand
Tectetan, tectetan, tectetan
Nor chose to hear or fear
This little man,
Oh thou little man, thou little man
What is your plan,
Little man?
The jungle laughed, unbothered
Unmoved it ignored
Untouched it continued
Unfettered it roared
With sparkling green verdant song to sing,
It sang.
The conquistador fumed
Scarlet red
Vino roja bottled fumes
Of smoky rage
Stomping he retorted
Thou art doomed
Veni Vidi Vici he screamed
Satisfied, mesmerized
With scroll in hand he did announce
All that is yours is mine
It says so in this paper
The King has made it divine
Mine Mine and only Mine
Did he but announce
Without a golden ounce
Of irony’s feathered face
Whose trace,
With obsidian plans to erase
Surely soon he would get to know.
Breathlessly he stood once again, the conquistador did
Assuming
The noise, ploys and feathery joys
Of the jungle toys he heard
Marked abdications hour
At work already
At hand
To make this land
His.
Impatient
Making up his mind
Marching straightforwardly
Towards the eye of the jungle
Sacking with gaze the mighty maze
Of spider green vines hiding before him
The craze of ores whose mint would course the earth
Soon to raise his rank to that of Jerusalem’s teutonic bearded men
He was surprised when he saw
Three sets of steely indian eyes
Peering through the jungle wall
And the flying hatchet hit him hard and true
And for all we knew he never came back again
“Ecab cotoch”
Yesterdays flowers
On the road to Bolequeime on the way to the German supermarket that sells proper Teutonic sausages
the flowers of yesterday sitting on white plastic chairs, in high heels and shorts
Sometimes, a car stops, not a man in a white van
mostly a big car with tinted windows, an important
the person on his way to his office
A quick blow-job, nothing much else to do in a car
and no one needs to undress
The car speeds off, and the flowers of yesterday go
back to her plastic chair and rinse her mouth
water that cannot be called holy
They used to, the women sitting here, look exotic
expensive hotel lobbies and fine food
They are too old to still be on the job, but there
are no pension schemes for them
They had their chance, but life was too exciting
and no?
To cross the street Herr Biedermeyer
made a firm election:
the spot was safe – Gefahrengasse -
strictly one-direction.
But, looking south and stepping out,
he got a sharp surprise:
a car, approaching from the north,
was hidden from his eyes.
It knocked him in the air, and soon
had sped away and gone.
Herr Biedermeyer had a lot
to muse and ponder on.
No bones were broken, no blood shed:
no blasphemy, no oaths:
he knit his brow in thought, and frowned,
and dusted-off his clothes.
The German mind’s a splendid thing
(think Schopenhauer, Kant):
but nimbleness is not its bag –
it’s no-one’s corybant.
“The street’s one way, and thus,” surmised
this latter-day Von Papen,
“nothing hit me. I’m immune.
No accident could happen.”
There are things in this world that,
no one can explain or completely understand.
The human ego believes that it knows everything or will…
eventually.
Over a century ago, humankind knew that,
there would never be people living in space…
perhaps they’ve deluded themselves
into thinking that there are?
They knew that nuclear energy would be easily controlled;
perhaps they only dreamed of nuclear meltdowns?
There’s no question about fracking; drilling into the Earth’s crusty rock,
can’t possibly affect the shift of the…Teutonic plates…its absurd!
Why would any intelligent person think that it would cause earthquakes?
Volcanoes don’t erupt; they just boil forever.
Satellites don’t fall from the sky onto houses and neither do airplanes.
Man can build the perfect, automatically-controlled airplane or ship;
even a self-driven car.
They’ll all function perfectly because, a human being created them.
The Titanic was a bad dream.
The Costa Concordia, a myth;
nothing built by human ego can,
possibly be…imperfect…can it?
Humankind is a fallible mechanism; making mistakes,
getting sick, enduring malfunctioning organs.
It stands to reason that, anything built by humankind;
could and would potentially, fail. Forever incapable of creating the perfect machine;
humans must eventually, accept that fact.
On coining an acronym for the neologism 'occult microaggresion'
'OM' is right,
But might get the Buddhists backs up....
OMA, WTAF? What about OMA?
Its German for granny, but I've no objection to teutonic geriatrics,
Unless they take hat tricks;
They can be surprisingly elastic -
Vorsprung durch plastic!
What's that you say, too bombastic?
I'll curtail the doggerel,
With a couple of matchsticks,
That used to work on the beatniks,
Although, Ginsberg could be slippery
When incensed by casual vivipiary,
'I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by....
Sticklebricks' (sic).
It's such a minefield, this identity real politik;
As Trotsky said to Stalin:
'Josef Besarionis Jughashvili,
the proletariat can be real pricks',
And, as the Stranglers pointed out,
One of them finished him off with an ice pick!
But, as Galileo observed,
Maybe that's just the fate in store for bigoted denizens
Of this rotund and heliocentric
Planet; 'eppur si muove' he muttered,
And, although a trifle bucolic,
It seems a fitting epitaph for the Pisan melanancholic.
I apologise for this diatribe didactic,
The current pandemic has rendered me
in urgent need of a linguistic immunoelectrophoretic
Falls flowers
On the road to Bolequeime on the way to a German supermarket
that sells proper Teutonic sausages as autumnal flowers blossom,
some of the blooms sit on white plastic chairs wearing shorts.
Sometimes a car stops, no, not a man in a white van, a big car a businessman
on the way from his office stops getting quick blow-jobs.
Best this way no need to undress an act that causes people to stare.
The human blooms have water bottles the gargle; no one here smells like rosebuds.
They used to, in the summer gone throng nightclubs and the beach
but only slow walking men fill the bars and beach.
Like a beautiful weed, they trek inland, sit by the roadside and wait.
The flowers look nice in fading light, but not if you know what love is.
the weed of autumn sits by the verge, sells despondency