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"costa" poems
Afghanistan needs hellopoetry Albania needs hellopoetry Algeria needs hellopoetry Andorra needs hellopoetry Angola needs hellopoetry Antigua and Barbuda needs hellopoetry Argentina needs hellopoetry Armenia needs hellopoetry Australia needs hellopoetry Austria needs hellopoetry Azerbaijan needs hellopoetry The Bahamas needs hellopoetry Bahrain needs hellopoetry Bangladesh needs hellopoetry Barbados needs hellopoetry Belarus needs hellopoetry Belgium needs hellopoetry Belize needs hellopoetry Benin needs hellopoetry Bhutan needs hellopoetry Bolivia needs hellopoetry Bosnia and Herzegovina needs hellopoetry Botswana needs hellopoetry Brazil needs hellopoetry Brunei needs hellopoetry Bulgaria needs hellopoetry Burkina Faso needs hellopoetry Burundi needs hellopoetry Cabo Verde needs hellopoetry Cambodia needs hellopoetry Cameroon needs hellopoetry Canada needs hellopoetry Central African Republic needs hellopoetry Chad needs hellopoetry Chile needs hellopoetry China needs hellopoetry Colombia needs hellopoetry Comoros needs hellopoetry Congo, Democratic Republic is in need of hellopoetry Congo, Republic is in need of hellopoetry   Costa Rica needs hellopoetry Côte d’Ivoire needs hellopoetry Croatia needs hellopoetry Cuba needs hellopoetry Cyprus needs hellopoetry Czech Republic needs hellopoetry Denmark needs hellopoetry   Djibouti needs hellopoetry Dominica needs hellopoetry Dominican Republic needs hellopoetry East Timor (Timor-Leste) needs hellopoetry Ecuador needs hellopoetry Egypt needs hellopoetry   El Salvador needs hellopoetry Equatorial Guinea needs hellopoetry Eritrea needs hellopoetry Estonia needs hellopoetry Eswatini needs hellopoetry Ethiopia needs hellopoetry Fiji needs hellopoetry Finland needs hellopoetry France needs hellopoetry Gabon needs hellopoetry The Gambia needs hellopoetry Georgia needs hellopoetry Germany needs hellopoetry Ghana needs hellopoetry Greece needs hellopoetry Grenada needs hellopoetry Guatemala needs hellopoetry Guinea needs hellopoetry Guinea-Bissau needs hellopoetry Guyana needs hellopoetry Haiti needs hellopoetry Honduras needs hellopoetry Hungary needs hellopoetry Iceland needs hellopoetry India needs hellopoetry Indonesia needs hellopoetry Iran needs hellopoetry Iraq needs hellopoetry Ireland needs hellopoetry Israel needs hellopoetry Italy needs hellopoetry Jamaica needs hellopoetry Japan needs hellopoetry Jordan needs hellopoetry Kazakhstan needs hellopoetry Kenya needs hellopoetry Kiribati needs hellopoetry Korea, North needs hellopoetry Korea, South needs hellopoetry Kosovo needs hellopoetry Kuwait needs hellopoetry Kyrgyzstan needs hellopoetry Laos needs hellopoetry Latvia needs hellopoetry Lebanon needs hellopoetry Lesotho needs hellopoetry Liberia needs hellopoetry Libya needs hellopoetry Liechtenstein needs hellopoetry Lithuania needs hellopoetry Luxembourg needs hellopoetry Madagascar needs hellopoetry Malawi needs hellopoetry Malaysia needs hellopoetry Maldives needs hellopoetry Mali needs hellopoetry Malta needs hellopoetry Marshall Islands needs hellopoetry Mauritania needs hellopoetry Mauritius needs hellopoetry Mexico needs hellopoetry Micronesia, Federated States is in need of hellopoetry Moldova needs hellopoetry Monaco needs hellopoetry Mongolia needs hellopoetry Montenegro needs hellopoetry Morocco needs hellopoetry Mozambique needs hellopoetry Myanmar (Burma) needs hellopoetry Namibia needs hellopoetry Nauru needs hellopoetry Nepal needs hellopoetry Netherlands needs hellopoetry New Zealand needs hellopoetry Nicaragua needs hellopoetry Niger needs hellopoetry Nigeria needs hellopoetry North Macedonia needs hellopoetry Norway needs hellopoetry Oman needs hellopoetry Pakistan needs hellopoetry Palau needs hellopoetry Panama needs hellopoetry Papua New Guinea needs hellopoetry Paraguay needs hellopoetry Peru needs hellopoetry Philippines needs hellopoetry Poland needs hellopoetry Portugal needs hellopoetry Qatar needs hellopoetry Romania needs hellopoetry Russia needs hellopoetry Rwanda needs hellopoetry Saint Kitts and Nevis needs hellopoetry Saint Lucia needs hellopoetry Saint Vincent and the Grenadines needs hellopoetry Samoa needs hellopoetry San Marino needs hellopoetry Sao Tome and Principe needs hellopoetry Saudi Arabia needs hellopoetry Senegal needs hellopoetry Serbia needs hellopoetry Seychelles needs hellopoetry Sierra Leone needs hellopoetry Singapore needs hellopoetry Slovakia needs hellopoetry Slovenia needs hellopoetry Solomon Islands needs hellopoetry Somalia needs hellopoetry South Africa needs hellopoetry Spain needs hellopoetry Sri Lanka needs hellopoetry Sudan needs hellopoetry Sudan, South needs hellopoetry Suriname needs hellopoetry Sweden needs hellopoetry Switzerland needs hellopoetry Syria needs hellopoetry Taiwan needs hellopoetry Tajikistan needs hellopoetry Tanzania needs hellopoetry Thailand needs hellopoetry Togo needs hellopoetry Tonga needs hellopoetry Trinidad and Tobago needs hellopoetry Tunisia needs hellopoetry Turkey needs hellopoetry Turkmenistan needs hellopoetry Tuvalu needs hellopoetry Uganda needs hellopoetry Ukraine needs hellopoetry United Arab Emirates needs hellopoetry United Kingdom needs hellopoetry United States needs hellopoetry Uruguay needs hellopoetry Uzbekistan needs hellopoetry Vanuatu needs hellopoetry Vatican City needs hellopoetry Venezuela needs hellopoetry Vietnam needs hellopoetry Yemen needs hellopoetry Zambia needs hellopoetry Zimbabwe needs hellopoetry
0
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 11:08 AM UTC
maxneumann
The World NEEDS HelloPoetry (Please Make A Contribution.)
Afghanistan needs hellopoetry Albania needs hellopoetry Algeria needs hellopoetry Andorra needs hellopoetry Angola needs hellopoetry Antigua and Barbuda needs hellopoetry Argentina needs hellopoetry Armenia needs hellopoetry Australia needs hellopoetry Austria needs hellopoetry Azerbaijan needs hellopoetry The Bahamas needs hellopoetry Bahrain needs hellopoetry Bangladesh needs hellopoetry Barbados needs hellopoetry Belarus needs hellopoetry Belgium needs hellopoetry Belize needs hellopoetry Benin needs hellopoetry Bhutan needs hellopoetry Bolivia needs hellopoetry Bosnia and Herzegovina needs hellopoetry Botswana needs hellopoetry Brazil needs hellopoetry Brunei needs hellopoetry Bulgaria needs hellopoetry Burkina Faso needs hellopoetry Burundi needs hellopoetry Cabo Verde needs hellopoetry Cambodia needs hellopoetry Cameroon needs hellopoetry Canada needs hellopoetry Central African Republic needs hellopoetry Chad needs hellopoetry Chile needs hellopoetry China needs hellopoetry Colombia needs hellopoetry Comoros needs hellopoetry Congo, Democratic Republic is in need of hellopoetry Congo, Republic is in need of hellopoetry   Costa Rica needs hellopoetry Côte d’Ivoire needs hellopoetry Croatia needs hellopoetry Cuba needs hellopoetry Cyprus needs hellopoetry Czech Republic needs hellopoetry Denmark needs hellopoetry   Djibouti needs hellopoetry Dominica needs hellopoetry Dominican Republic needs hellopoetry East Timor (Timor-Leste) needs hellopoetry Ecuador needs hellopoetry Egypt needs hellopoetry   El Salvador needs hellopoetry Equatorial Guinea needs hellopoetry Eritrea needs hellopoetry Estonia needs hellopoetry Eswatini needs hellopoetry Ethiopia needs hellopoetry Fiji needs hellopoetry Finland needs hellopoetry France needs hellopoetry Gabon needs hellopoetry The Gambia needs hellopoetry Georgia needs hellopoetry Germany needs hellopoetry Ghana needs hellopoetry Greece needs hellopoetry Grenada needs hellopoetry Guatemala needs hellopoetry Guinea needs hellopoetry Guinea-Bissau needs hellopoetry Guyana needs hellopoetry Haiti needs hellopoetry Honduras needs hellopoetry Hungary needs hellopoetry Iceland needs hellopoetry India needs hellopoetry Indonesia needs hellopoetry Iran needs hellopoetry Iraq needs hellopoetry Ireland needs hellopoetry Israel needs hellopoetry Italy needs hellopoetry Jamaica needs hellopoetry Japan needs hellopoetry Jordan needs hellopoetry Kazakhstan needs hellopoetry Kenya needs hellopoetry Kiribati needs hellopoetry Korea, North needs hellopoetry Korea, South needs hellopoetry Kosovo needs hellopoetry Kuwait needs hellopoetry Kyrgyzstan needs hellopoetry Laos needs hellopoetry Latvia needs hellopoetry Lebanon needs hellopoetry Lesotho needs hellopoetry Liberia needs hellopoetry Libya needs hellopoetry Liechtenstein needs hellopoetry Lithuania needs hellopoetry Luxembourg needs hellopoetry Madagascar needs hellopoetry Malawi needs hellopoetry Malaysia needs hellopoetry Maldives needs hellopoetry Mali needs hellopoetry Malta needs hellopoetry Marshall Islands needs hellopoetry Mauritania needs hellopoetry Mauritius needs hellopoetry Mexico needs hellopoetry Micronesia, Federated States is in need of hellopoetry Moldova needs hellopoetry Monaco needs hellopoetry Mongolia needs hellopoetry Montenegro needs hellopoetry Morocco needs hellopoetry Mozambique needs hellopoetry Myanmar (Burma) needs hellopoetry Namibia needs hellopoetry Nauru needs hellopoetry Nepal needs hellopoetry Netherlands needs hellopoetry New Zealand needs hellopoetry Nicaragua needs hellopoetry Niger needs hellopoetry Nigeria needs hellopoetry North Macedonia needs hellopoetry Norway needs hellopoetry Oman needs hellopoetry Pakistan needs hellopoetry Palau needs hellopoetry Panama needs hellopoetry Papua New Guinea needs hellopoetry Paraguay needs hellopoetry Peru needs hellopoetry Philippines needs hellopoetry Poland needs hellopoetry Portugal needs hellopoetry Qatar needs hellopoetry Romania needs hellopoetry Russia needs hellopoetry Rwanda needs hellopoetry Saint Kitts and Nevis needs hellopoetry Saint Lucia needs hellopoetry Saint Vincent and the Grenadines needs hellopoetry Samoa needs hellopoetry San Marino needs hellopoetry Sao Tome and Principe needs hellopoetry Saudi Arabia needs hellopoetry Senegal needs hellopoetry Serbia needs hellopoetry Seychelles needs hellopoetry Sierra Leone needs hellopoetry Singapore needs hellopoetry Slovakia needs hellopoetry Slovenia needs hellopoetry Solomon Islands needs hellopoetry Somalia needs hellopoetry South Africa needs hellopoetry Spain needs hellopoetry Sri Lanka needs hellopoetry Sudan needs hellopoetry Sudan, South needs hellopoetry Suriname needs hellopoetry Sweden needs hellopoetry Switzerland needs hellopoetry Syria needs hellopoetry Taiwan needs hellopoetry Tajikistan needs hellopoetry Tanzania needs hellopoetry Thailand needs hellopoetry Togo needs hellopoetry Tonga needs hellopoetry Trinidad and Tobago needs hellopoetry Tunisia needs hellopoetry Turkey needs hellopoetry Turkmenistan needs hellopoetry Tuvalu needs hellopoetry Uganda needs hellopoetry Ukraine needs hellopoetry United Arab Emirates needs hellopoetry United Kingdom needs hellopoetry United States needs hellopoetry Uruguay needs hellopoetry Uzbekistan needs hellopoetry Vanuatu needs hellopoetry Vatican City needs hellopoetry Venezuela needs hellopoetry Vietnam needs hellopoetry Yemen needs hellopoetry Zambia needs hellopoetry Zimbabwe needs hellopoetry
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196
At the bus stop on Praed Street Just arrived on the train Awaiting the bus, in drizzly rain On the opposite side Outside Paddington station Is the evidence that we are a fast food nation Burger King, Le gourmet brasserie, Chelsea deli, KFC, Subway, La Taarza cafe, Bagel factory, Costa, Chicken cottage, Bonne Bouch, Victors cafe I can't see much more But there are further food stores We must be obsessed With coffee and food Can this be good? Our waist lines are growing Our pockets are empty Yet there's fast food a plenty There must be a market They are filling a need Is it our laziness or greed?
0
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
shelley-connor
Fast food nation
At the bus stop on Praed Street Just arrived on the train Awaiting the bus, in drizzly rain On the opposite side Outside Paddington station Is the evidence that we are a fast food nation Burger King, Le gourmet brasserie, Chelsea deli, KFC, Subway, La Taarza cafe, Bagel factory, Costa, Chicken cottage, Bonne Bouch, Victors cafe I can't see much more But there are further food stores We must be obsessed With coffee and food Can this be good? Our waist lines are growing Our pockets are empty Yet there's fast food a plenty There must be a market They are filling a need Is it our laziness or greed?
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18
Sittin’ on the beach, in Cancun Suns overhead it, must be noon Don’t really know ain't been to sleep My souls on ice, I guess it’ll keep My Costa’s are filtering out the sun I seem to be suffering from too much fun Only one cure, I need another drink Maybe then my clouded brain can think Summer time in old Mexico Have a good time when we go Drinking and smoking and having fun Swimming and snorkeling, soaking up the sun Bikini clad waitress, strolls the line Cuba Libre please, don’t forget the lime Swaying cheeks, a pleasure to see Maybe later on, just her and me I can’t wait, slowly follow to the bar Panama hat and a Cuban Cigar Strolling along, while I watch her sway Can only imagine, if I had my way Summer time in old Mexico Have a good time when we go Drinking and smoking and having fun Swimming and snorkeling, soaking up the sun Puffing smoke, we arrive at the bar The bartender winks, I stuff a tip in her jar Hands me my drink, I squeeze the lime Having so much fun it’s bound to be a crime Mexican girls and ******* tourists Equal opportunity, hey! I’m no purist Seeing the sights, and doing well Summer beach, and I'm feeling swell Yeah, summer beach, im'a feelin' swell feelin' swell.... Aaaaaaarrrriiiiibaaaaa
0
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC
jed-johnson
Panama Hat and a Cuban Cigar
Sittin’ on the beach, in Cancun Suns overhead it, must be noon Don’t really know ain't been to sleep My souls on ice, I guess it’ll keep My Costa’s are filtering out the sun I seem to be suffering from too much fun Only one cure, I need another drink Maybe then my clouded brain can think Summer time in old Mexico Have a good time when we go Drinking and smoking and having fun Swimming and snorkeling, soaking up the sun Bikini clad waitress, strolls the line Cuba Libre please, don’t forget the lime Swaying cheeks, a pleasure to see Maybe later on, just her and me I can’t wait, slowly follow to the bar Panama hat and a Cuban Cigar Strolling along, while I watch her sway Can only imagine, if I had my way Summer time in old Mexico Have a good time when we go Drinking and smoking and having fun Swimming and snorkeling, soaking up the sun Puffing smoke, we arrive at the bar The bartender winks, I stuff a tip in her jar Hands me my drink, I squeeze the lime Having so much fun it’s bound to be a crime Mexican girls and ******* tourists Equal opportunity, hey! I’m no purist Seeing the sights, and doing well Summer beach, and I'm feeling swell Yeah, summer beach, im'a feelin' swell feelin' swell.... Aaaaaaarrrriiiiibaaaaa
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35
Do I take you with me on this adventure I have been planning all my life? On my journey I have dreamt of in math classes, late nights in bed, and on lazy Sunday afternoons in the sun? My plans for my adventure have never been static and have constantly changed over my few young years... In my mind I have gone to Art school in Paris and backpacking through Morrocco and teaching in Costa Rica and done the Inca trail in Peru and spent time at a Kibbutz in Israel and volunteered in India and sailed all the Seven Seas... Now as I stand on the presipice of my Epic Journey, not afraid, but invigorated, I have a choice; I can go alone; strong, fearless, ready to embrace the wolrd with arms wide open, wings spread and nothing and no one to hold me back from my dreams... Or I can take you with me, share my adventure with you, and start a new journey that includes you? We could make a path, you and I, through the world, where ever we choose to go, make our own adventure, new dicoveries... and have a very long journey together, and instead of worrying about old plans, make new memories. Would you like to come with me on my adventure, my love? Will you start a journey with me?
0
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 5:53 AM UTC
jos-richter
My Adventure; Our Journey.
Do I take you with me on this adventure I have been planning all my life? On my journey I have dreamt of in math classes, late nights in bed, and on lazy Sunday afternoons in the sun? My plans for my adventure have never been static and have constantly changed over my few young years... In my mind I have gone to Art school in Paris and backpacking through Morrocco and teaching in Costa Rica and done the Inca trail in Peru and spent time at a Kibbutz in Israel and volunteered in India and sailed all the Seven Seas... Now as I stand on the presipice of my Epic Journey, not afraid, but invigorated, I have a choice; I can go alone; strong, fearless, ready to embrace the wolrd with arms wide open, wings spread and nothing and no one to hold me back from my dreams... Or I can take you with me, share my adventure with you, and start a new journey that includes you? We could make a path, you and I, through the world, where ever we choose to go, make our own adventure, new dicoveries... and have a very long journey together, and instead of worrying about old plans, make new memories. Would you like to come with me on my adventure, my love? Will you start a journey with me?
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12
WOMEN I cast you out for pandering your *** WOMEN You are shameful On you I gift this hex: *If you need to be the object of manly gratification If you have no interest in the freedom or the liberation Then your life will now be governed by the exploitation A vessel pure and simple for man’s *********** WOMEN You are worthless **** upon my shoe Read between the lines my friend Figure out the clue For it is in here somewhere Deep within this write Nothing's ever as it seems Nothing's black and white WOMEN Does a bloke walk round? With his ***** hanging out? Does he emphasize his testicles? Does he bandy it about? I think you know the answer Just stop and use that brain Then maybe in the future Equality will rightly be reclaimed But all the time you flaunt your **** ****** you ***** in their face You, my friend To the sisterhood **Are a ******* skanky **** disgrace** Wake up and smell the Costa For conditioning is wrong You need to understand You cause The Cause to be prolonged This is my stand I hold my own I’m never fazed By stick nor stone For I know deep within my heart The value of my worth I will never sell my principles For merriment or mirth **So … please …. just take a moment To digest The words within this write Unharness faux benevolent blinkers Because this is our absolute pre-emptive right**
0
Feb 3, 2011
Feb 3, 2011 at 4:31 AM UTC
bathsheba
WOMEN
WOMEN I cast you out for pandering your *** WOMEN You are shameful On you I gift this hex: *If you need to be the object of manly gratification If you have no interest in the freedom or the liberation Then your life will now be governed by the exploitation A vessel pure and simple for man’s *********** WOMEN You are worthless **** upon my shoe Read between the lines my friend Figure out the clue For it is in here somewhere Deep within this write Nothing's ever as it seems Nothing's black and white WOMEN Does a bloke walk round? With his ***** hanging out? Does he emphasize his testicles? Does he bandy it about? I think you know the answer Just stop and use that brain Then maybe in the future Equality will rightly be reclaimed But all the time you flaunt your **** ****** you ***** in their face You, my friend To the sisterhood **Are a ******* skanky **** disgrace** Wake up and smell the Costa For conditioning is wrong You need to understand You cause The Cause to be prolonged This is my stand I hold my own I’m never fazed By stick nor stone For I know deep within my heart The value of my worth I will never sell my principles For merriment or mirth **So … please …. just take a moment To digest The words within this write Unharness faux benevolent blinkers Because this is our absolute pre-emptive right**
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50
MY NEICE IS A AN OLD ROCK AND ROLL SINGER OF THE PAST YOU SEE MY NIECE CAITLIN IS A ROCK SINGER JUST LIKE MY BROTHER IS THERE COULD BE PREVIOUS LIVES STORIES HERE LIKE SHE COULD BE ROY ORBISON OR RICKY MAY OR SOMEONE BETTER, CAUSE MY NIECE CATLIN IS SO PERFECT AT SINGERS, IT GOES FURTHER THAN GENES IF MY MATE PAUL BERENYI DIED IN 1995 LIKE A ****** TOLD ME HE COULD BE CAITLIN, BUT YOU CAN’T TRUST OTHER PEOPLE BETTER JUST TRUST THE NEWS AND NO MATTER WHO CAITLIN WAS IN HER PREVIOUS LIFE SHE SHOULD ****** CHOOSE, WHAT IS A HER CHARACTER I AM JUST CRONUS THE POWERFUL GOD I CAN TELL IF I HAVE THE INTERNET FACTS I CAN FIND PREVIOUS LIFE PATTERNS BY, WORKING OUT WHEN PEOPLE DIE AND HOW MANY YEARS, AND NORMALLY IF THEY YELL THEY WERE EITHER, KIDNAPPERS, OF OLD HOOLIGANS OF THE PAST BUT CAITLIN IS A GREAT SINGER, AND SHE HAS SOME PREVIOUS LIFE PATTERN I KNOW MY BROTHER IS A SINGER TOO, BUT THERE IS MORE THAN THAT I KNOW LIKE, I WAS ISABELLA OF FRANCE, I WAS THEIR FAMILIES ENTERTAINER I KNOW SCOTT MCDONALD WANTED TO TEASE ME SO HE DIED AND BECAME TWO CATS, LUCKY THE CAT WHO WILL TEASE DAD WHEN IT RAINS, AND MUSCLES WAS TO SAY ONLY ANIMALS DO WHAT I DID BACK THEN THAT IS WHY THE GUYS TEASED ME IF PAUL DID DIE, IN 1995, HE COULD BE MY NIECE CAITLIN BECAUSE NOW I MENTION IT, IT COULD’VE BEEN BEFORE 1995 WHEN I SAW HIM AT TUGGERANONG WITH ANTHONY COSTA WATCHING BASKETBALL BUT I KNOW DAD IS IN THE ****** OF LISA CAMPBELL, WITH ROBIN WILLIAMS WHAT I AM TRYING TO DO, IS BRING MY FAMILY HAPPINESS CAITLIN COULD BE PAUL BERENYI, OR COULD BE ROY ORBISON AND NO MATTER WHO SHE IS, SHE IS MY NIECE, AND SUSAN IS MY OTHER NIECE AND I LOVE THEM BOTH TO BITS AND NOW, THE RAIN IS COMING CAUSED BY PAUL BERENYI SAYING NO MATTER WHO I AM, CRONUS SHOULD KEEP IT DOWN GO TO BED USA, AS THERE IS A BIG SURFING TOURNAMENT IN MERCURY ORGANISED BY THE TERRORISTS, TO CALM THE HEAT, AND NOT **** THEIR HOOLIGAN BUT CRONUS TELLS DAD, TO KEEP THEM STRAPPED IN THE SUN WHERE NO WATER CAN SAVE THEM, THEY’LL SUFFER
0
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 1:55 AM UTC
johnny-georgy-brown
STUFF ABOUT PREVIOUS LIVES
MY NEICE IS A AN OLD ROCK AND ROLL SINGER OF THE PAST YOU SEE MY NIECE CAITLIN IS A ROCK SINGER JUST LIKE MY BROTHER IS THERE COULD BE PREVIOUS LIVES STORIES HERE LIKE SHE COULD BE ROY ORBISON OR RICKY MAY OR SOMEONE BETTER, CAUSE MY NIECE CATLIN IS SO PERFECT AT SINGERS, IT GOES FURTHER THAN GENES IF MY MATE PAUL BERENYI DIED IN 1995 LIKE A ****** TOLD ME HE COULD BE CAITLIN, BUT YOU CAN’T TRUST OTHER PEOPLE BETTER JUST TRUST THE NEWS AND NO MATTER WHO CAITLIN WAS IN HER PREVIOUS LIFE SHE SHOULD ****** CHOOSE, WHAT IS A HER CHARACTER I AM JUST CRONUS THE POWERFUL GOD I CAN TELL IF I HAVE THE INTERNET FACTS I CAN FIND PREVIOUS LIFE PATTERNS BY, WORKING OUT WHEN PEOPLE DIE AND HOW MANY YEARS, AND NORMALLY IF THEY YELL THEY WERE EITHER, KIDNAPPERS, OF OLD HOOLIGANS OF THE PAST BUT CAITLIN IS A GREAT SINGER, AND SHE HAS SOME PREVIOUS LIFE PATTERN I KNOW MY BROTHER IS A SINGER TOO, BUT THERE IS MORE THAN THAT I KNOW LIKE, I WAS ISABELLA OF FRANCE, I WAS THEIR FAMILIES ENTERTAINER I KNOW SCOTT MCDONALD WANTED TO TEASE ME SO HE DIED AND BECAME TWO CATS, LUCKY THE CAT WHO WILL TEASE DAD WHEN IT RAINS, AND MUSCLES WAS TO SAY ONLY ANIMALS DO WHAT I DID BACK THEN THAT IS WHY THE GUYS TEASED ME IF PAUL DID DIE, IN 1995, HE COULD BE MY NIECE CAITLIN BECAUSE NOW I MENTION IT, IT COULD’VE BEEN BEFORE 1995 WHEN I SAW HIM AT TUGGERANONG WITH ANTHONY COSTA WATCHING BASKETBALL BUT I KNOW DAD IS IN THE ****** OF LISA CAMPBELL, WITH ROBIN WILLIAMS WHAT I AM TRYING TO DO, IS BRING MY FAMILY HAPPINESS CAITLIN COULD BE PAUL BERENYI, OR COULD BE ROY ORBISON AND NO MATTER WHO SHE IS, SHE IS MY NIECE, AND SUSAN IS MY OTHER NIECE AND I LOVE THEM BOTH TO BITS AND NOW, THE RAIN IS COMING CAUSED BY PAUL BERENYI SAYING NO MATTER WHO I AM, CRONUS SHOULD KEEP IT DOWN GO TO BED USA, AS THERE IS A BIG SURFING TOURNAMENT IN MERCURY ORGANISED BY THE TERRORISTS, TO CALM THE HEAT, AND NOT **** THEIR HOOLIGAN BUT CRONUS TELLS DAD, TO KEEP THEM STRAPPED IN THE SUN WHERE NO WATER CAN SAVE THEM, THEY’LL SUFFER
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39
¿Por qué, por qué tiene que ser así? Esto no es correcto, no para mí. No quiero que me digan que pruebe el “Café de Costa Rica”, los “Bombones de Colombia”, las “Arepas de Venezuela”, las “Carnes de Argentina", las “Pastas italianas”, los “Tacos mexicanos”, la “Tortilla española”, la “Comida china” o la “Pizza con el ingrediente especial de Italia”. No quiero que me digan “Esto está hecho en China” ni “¡Wao! Esto no está hecho en China, está hecho en Taiwan”. No quiero que me digan “Mira este documental de África”, “Que hermosa se ve esa foto de la Torre Eiffel” o “Que alto debe estar ese edificio de New York”. No quiero que me cuenten cómo les fue en su viaje a Europa, su jornada en California o sus problemas mientras estuvieron en Canada. No quiero que me relaten las historias aprendidas durante su tiempo en Egipto o los bailes ensayados mientras estaban en Brasil. No quiero que hablen de su críticas respecto a la cutura de India, de Guyana o de Cuba. No quiero que me describan lo exquisita que estuvo la comida en Perú, en Australia o en República Dominicana. No quiero que me muestren la música de Jamaica o la de Rusia. No quiero que me digan  o me enseñen nada, nada más. Quiero yo poder probar los alimentos en su nacionalidad. Quiero sentir el aroma del café en las mañanas durante unas vacaciones en Costa Rica y probar ese toque especial que hace que la pizza en Italia sea diferente a la que acostumbramos a ordenar. Quiero ver cómo hacen los artefactos, estar en China y luego en Taiwan, tener esa experiencia de crear algo. Quiero visitar África y tomar mi propio documental, treparme en ese gigante edificio y apreciar la hermosa vista. Quiero ser yo la que cuente mi experiencia en las calles de Europa, California o Canada. Quiero aprender historias sobre Egipto y sus magníficas esculturas, incluso quiero aprender a darzar como lo hacen en Brasil y cada movimiento perfeccionar. Quiero dar las críticas sobre mis pensamientos hacia dichas culturas, pero con respeto. Quiero describir los suculentos platos y hacer que las personas se los imaginen, de tal manera que hasta en sus paladares puedan sentirlos. Quiero  escuchar la música de Jamaica y la de Rusia y si es en vivo, aún mejor, así podré meditarla e interpretarla. Puede sonar un poco alocado y para muchos sin sentido, pero para mí es más que un simple pensamiento o cualquier capricho, son sueños y metas que a diario me propongo. Para ello hay que trabajar duro, pero desde mi niñez me enseñaron que “el que quiere puede, solo hay que perseverar para triunfar”. Sé que algún día lo voy a alcanzar y todos se sorprenderán, cuando con orgullo les relate sobre lo que un día fue “un simple  deseo internacional ”.
0
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 12:24 PM UTC
anicolets
Deseo internacional
¿Por qué, por qué tiene que ser así? Esto no es correcto, no para mí. No quiero que me digan que pruebe el “Café de Costa Rica”, los “Bombones de Colombia”, las “Arepas de Venezuela”, las “Carnes de Argentina", las “Pastas italianas”, los “Tacos mexicanos”, la “Tortilla española”, la “Comida china” o la “Pizza con el ingrediente especial de Italia”. No quiero que me digan “Esto está hecho en China” ni “¡Wao! Esto no está hecho en China, está hecho en Taiwan”. No quiero que me digan “Mira este documental de África”, “Que hermosa se ve esa foto de la Torre Eiffel” o “Que alto debe estar ese edificio de New York”. No quiero que me cuenten cómo les fue en su viaje a Europa, su jornada en California o sus problemas mientras estuvieron en Canada. No quiero que me relaten las historias aprendidas durante su tiempo en Egipto o los bailes ensayados mientras estaban en Brasil. No quiero que hablen de su críticas respecto a la cutura de India, de Guyana o de Cuba. No quiero que me describan lo exquisita que estuvo la comida en Perú, en Australia o en República Dominicana. No quiero que me muestren la música de Jamaica o la de Rusia. No quiero que me digan  o me enseñen nada, nada más. Quiero yo poder probar los alimentos en su nacionalidad. Quiero sentir el aroma del café en las mañanas durante unas vacaciones en Costa Rica y probar ese toque especial que hace que la pizza en Italia sea diferente a la que acostumbramos a ordenar. Quiero ver cómo hacen los artefactos, estar en China y luego en Taiwan, tener esa experiencia de crear algo. Quiero visitar África y tomar mi propio documental, treparme en ese gigante edificio y apreciar la hermosa vista. Quiero ser yo la que cuente mi experiencia en las calles de Europa, California o Canada. Quiero aprender historias sobre Egipto y sus magníficas esculturas, incluso quiero aprender a darzar como lo hacen en Brasil y cada movimiento perfeccionar. Quiero dar las críticas sobre mis pensamientos hacia dichas culturas, pero con respeto. Quiero describir los suculentos platos y hacer que las personas se los imaginen, de tal manera que hasta en sus paladares puedan sentirlos. Quiero  escuchar la música de Jamaica y la de Rusia y si es en vivo, aún mejor, así podré meditarla e interpretarla. Puede sonar un poco alocado y para muchos sin sentido, pero para mí es más que un simple pensamiento o cualquier capricho, son sueños y metas que a diario me propongo. Para ello hay que trabajar duro, pero desde mi niñez me enseñaron que “el que quiere puede, solo hay que perseverar para triunfar”. Sé que algún día lo voy a alcanzar y todos se sorprenderán, cuando con orgullo les relate sobre lo que un día fue “un simple  deseo internacional ”.
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2
(fictional tale of real beverages) he sat at table number 9 she chose 10 their eyes never met but only through the wall wide gilded mirror across the room he thought her name was Faith she guessed his was Luke he took a sip from his mocha massimo every 41 secs she guessed he was 41, slowly stirring her white-no-sugar earl grey she wondered if the girl on page three of his 'Sun' was a blond, a brunette or a red head he wondered what principle she's at in 'Why men love bitches' they ate lemon and poppy seed muffins with small bites his lips were firm hers unable to hold on to the cheery blush lipstick any longer he thought she was single and had a RSPCA rescued cat called Biscuit she guessed he was married with three children and a wife called Porscha she must be driving a Ka he must be driving a Jag she waters her plants every Tuesday, goes to pilates classes on Thursday and on Sundays she watches Terms of Endearment in her pink jumper with her friend Chris and a box of tissues he walks his dog at 7, plays rugby for Long Lane on Saturdays and on Fridays goes for a pint of Guiness with his friend, Joe he snores/ she sings in the shower he's a catholic/ she never quite liked Jesus he hates his wife/ she loves her cookies they laugh at the old woman shouting at a bus driver in the street and hate gyms, cyclists in Lycra and anything to do with politics they secretly read Keats, eat onion bagels and tomato soup and listen to Gershwin * they never spoke they never will because if they would Faith would never be able to watch Star Wars again and Luke - Luke would lose his faith in love at first sight
0
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 9:52 AM UTC
corina-gina-papouis
Costa's
(fictional tale of real beverages) he sat at table number 9 she chose 10 their eyes never met but only through the wall wide gilded mirror across the room he thought her name was Faith she guessed his was Luke he took a sip from his mocha massimo every 41 secs she guessed he was 41, slowly stirring her white-no-sugar earl grey she wondered if the girl on page three of his 'Sun' was a blond, a brunette or a red head he wondered what principle she's at in 'Why men love bitches' they ate lemon and poppy seed muffins with small bites his lips were firm hers unable to hold on to the cheery blush lipstick any longer he thought she was single and had a RSPCA rescued cat called Biscuit she guessed he was married with three children and a wife called Porscha she must be driving a Ka he must be driving a Jag she waters her plants every Tuesday, goes to pilates classes on Thursday and on Sundays she watches Terms of Endearment in her pink jumper with her friend Chris and a box of tissues he walks his dog at 7, plays rugby for Long Lane on Saturdays and on Fridays goes for a pint of Guiness with his friend, Joe he snores/ she sings in the shower he's a catholic/ she never quite liked Jesus he hates his wife/ she loves her cookies they laugh at the old woman shouting at a bus driver in the street and hate gyms, cyclists in Lycra and anything to do with politics they secretly read Keats, eat onion bagels and tomato soup and listen to Gershwin * they never spoke they never will because if they would Faith would never be able to watch Star Wars again and Luke - Luke would lose his faith in love at first sight
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32
When the Costa Concordia met with a reef, it was certain some lives would be lost. As she listed to starboard at eighty degrees, Her Captain was first to get off. Captain Schettino was schmoozing some blonde when his ship began veering to shore. He was unwilling to go down on his ship,- The blonde? yes, but hold the encore. It seems his chief waiter hails from the Isle, the Isle with the ship eating reef. They drew close to shore so he’d wave to his wife an excursion that beggars belief. The Coast guard responders where shocked and amazed; They just couldn’t believe what they saw: The Cruise liner Captain, paddling furiously, beating women and children to shore. Unlike Captain Smith, who stood at his post, hearing “ Nearer my God to thee.” The tune that Schettino will sing his bambinos is “Nearer to Shore take me!” He’ll spend time in jail, but the punishment pales when compared to the scope of his sin This sailor has fallen from grace with the sea in his dreams let their screams never end.
0
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 9:05 PM UTC
john-f-mccullagh
Oh Captain, my Captain!
When the Costa Concordia met with a reef, it was certain some lives would be lost. As she listed to starboard at eighty degrees, Her Captain was first to get off. Captain Schettino was schmoozing some blonde when his ship began veering to shore. He was unwilling to go down on his ship,- The blonde? yes, but hold the encore. It seems his chief waiter hails from the Isle, the Isle with the ship eating reef. They drew close to shore so he’d wave to his wife an excursion that beggars belief. The Coast guard responders where shocked and amazed; They just couldn’t believe what they saw: The Cruise liner Captain, paddling furiously, beating women and children to shore. Unlike Captain Smith, who stood at his post, hearing “ Nearer my God to thee.” The tune that Schettino will sing his bambinos is “Nearer to Shore take me!” He’ll spend time in jail, but the punishment pales when compared to the scope of his sin This sailor has fallen from grace with the sea in his dreams let their screams never end.
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24
Llora palestina, llora Llora gaza Lloran las fronteras Supuran sus llagas llenas de cantos de injusticia Largos cantos de dolor que emanan de las entrañas Llora Honduras, llora El Salvador, Llora Nicaragua Tus hijos los más pequeños montados en bestias Huyendo de otras bestias, rodeados de bestias Hacia la bestia padre Padre de todas las bestias (solo basta recordar para entender) Llora México entre plomos y promesas Llora el indio en la sierra La mujer en costa chica El campesino en la huasteca México un plantío de drogas y de sangre Donde los ricos se hacen más ricos Y los pobres valen menos que las balas que los matan Llora la Tierra, Onile, la Pachamama Entre lenguajes hegemónicos y pueblos sublevados Hace mucho que nadie la escucha Solo los indios y los brujos con sus hechizos Pero pronto volveremos a poner la frente al piso Para oír de cerca lo que reclama.
0
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 5:33 AM UTC
xuanito-de-la-puente
Llora Pachamama
Llora palestina, llora Llora gaza Lloran las fronteras Supuran sus llagas llenas de cantos de injusticia Largos cantos de dolor que emanan de las entrañas Llora Honduras, llora El Salvador, Llora Nicaragua Tus hijos los más pequeños montados en bestias Huyendo de otras bestias, rodeados de bestias Hacia la bestia padre Padre de todas las bestias (solo basta recordar para entender) Llora México entre plomos y promesas Llora el indio en la sierra La mujer en costa chica El campesino en la huasteca México un plantío de drogas y de sangre Donde los ricos se hacen más ricos Y los pobres valen menos que las balas que los matan Llora la Tierra, Onile, la Pachamama Entre lenguajes hegemónicos y pueblos sublevados Hace mucho que nadie la escucha Solo los indios y los brujos con sus hechizos Pero pronto volveremos a poner la frente al piso Para oír de cerca lo que reclama.
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23
Cuando he llegado aquí se detiene mi mano. Alguien pregunta: -Dime por qué, como las olas en una misma costa, tus palabras sin cesar van y vuelven a su cuerpo? Ella es sólo la forma que tú amas? Y respondo: mis manos no se sacian, en ella, mis besos no descansan por qué retiraría las palabras que repiten la huella de su contacto amado, que se cierran guardando inútilmente como en la red el agua, la superficie y la temperatura de la ola más pura de la vida? Y, amor, tu cuerpo no sólo es la rosa que en la sombra o la luna se levanta, o sorprendo o persigo. No sólo es movimiento o quemadura, acto de sangre o pétalo del fuego, sino que para mí tú me has traído mi territorio, el barro de mi infancia, las olas de la avena, la piel redonda de la fruta oscura que arranqué de la selva, aroma de maderas y manzanas, color de agua escondida donde caen frutos secretos y profundas hojas. Oh amor, tu cuerpo sube como una línea pura de vasija desde la tierra que me reconoce y cuando te encontraron mis sentidos tú palpitaste como si cayeran dentro de ti la lluvia y las semillas! Ay que me digan cómo pudiera yo abolirte y dejar que mis manos sin tu forma arrancaran el fuego a mis palabras! Suave mía, reposa tu cuerpo en estas líneas que te deben más de lo que me das en tu contacto, vive en estas palabras y repite en ellas la dulzura y el incendio, estremécete en medio de sus sílabas, duerme en mi nombre como te has dormido sobre mi corazón, y así mañana el hueco de tu forma guardarán mis palabras y el que las oiga un día recibirá una ráfaga de trigo y amapolas: estará todavía respirando el cuerpo del amor sobre la tierra!
0
2.5k
Pablo Neruda
Iv
Cuando he llegado aquí se detiene mi mano. Alguien pregunta: -Dime por qué, como las olas en una misma costa, tus palabras sin cesar van y vuelven a su cuerpo? Ella es sólo la forma que tú amas? Y respondo: mis manos no se sacian, en ella, mis besos no descansan por qué retiraría las palabras que repiten la huella de su contacto amado, que se cierran guardando inútilmente como en la red el agua, la superficie y la temperatura de la ola más pura de la vida? Y, amor, tu cuerpo no sólo es la rosa que en la sombra o la luna se levanta, o sorprendo o persigo. No sólo es movimiento o quemadura, acto de sangre o pétalo del fuego, sino que para mí tú me has traído mi territorio, el barro de mi infancia, las olas de la avena, la piel redonda de la fruta oscura que arranqué de la selva, aroma de maderas y manzanas, color de agua escondida donde caen frutos secretos y profundas hojas. Oh amor, tu cuerpo sube como una línea pura de vasija desde la tierra que me reconoce y cuando te encontraron mis sentidos tú palpitaste como si cayeran dentro de ti la lluvia y las semillas! Ay que me digan cómo pudiera yo abolirte y dejar que mis manos sin tu forma arrancaran el fuego a mis palabras! Suave mía, reposa tu cuerpo en estas líneas que te deben más de lo que me das en tu contacto, vive en estas palabras y repite en ellas la dulzura y el incendio, estremécete en medio de sus sílabas, duerme en mi nombre como te has dormido sobre mi corazón, y así mañana el hueco de tu forma guardarán mis palabras y el que las oiga un día recibirá una ráfaga de trigo y amapolas: estará todavía respirando el cuerpo del amor sobre la tierra!
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50
*we three send you a song over continents, over oceans through centuries* hope this finds you well better than we found our times with plague, blind beliefs and uncertainty about us and fragile mortality and living on the edge when life was not comfortable which was often for us *we three send you a song over continents, over oceans through centuries* hope life’s better for you O radiant humanity of the future not that it was bad for us but it’s logical to assume things always get better and so it’s utopia you must be in as we send you this message and your world must be ridden of anxiety and worry it must be times of peace and harmony where the peoples of the world live together like children of one family *thus we three send you a song over continents, over oceans through centuries* and so in your ease and enlightened times such as they must be remember us by this painting by Lorenzo Costa and also hum along to our tune of goodwill and cheer that you might imagine and if you master the art of time-travel come visit us, and we’ll give you a song one that you can hear, one you can join in and perhaps you’ll take us back along with you to such happier, happier times such joyous, joyous bright times as yours must be there in your distant century
0
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 7:08 AM UTC
raj-arumugam
we three send you a song
*we three send you a song over continents, over oceans through centuries* hope this finds you well better than we found our times with plague, blind beliefs and uncertainty about us and fragile mortality and living on the edge when life was not comfortable which was often for us *we three send you a song over continents, over oceans through centuries* hope life’s better for you O radiant humanity of the future not that it was bad for us but it’s logical to assume things always get better and so it’s utopia you must be in as we send you this message and your world must be ridden of anxiety and worry it must be times of peace and harmony where the peoples of the world live together like children of one family *thus we three send you a song over continents, over oceans through centuries* and so in your ease and enlightened times such as they must be remember us by this painting by Lorenzo Costa and also hum along to our tune of goodwill and cheer that you might imagine and if you master the art of time-travel come visit us, and we’ll give you a song one that you can hear, one you can join in and perhaps you’ll take us back along with you to such happier, happier times such joyous, joyous bright times as yours must be there in your distant century
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42
“There's loads of boring stuff. Like Sundays and Tuesdays and Thursday afternoons. But now and then there are Saturdays.” ~ ‘Doctor Who’ People think that Tuesday afternoons are boring. These are the type of people who get up at three-pee-em on a Saturday afternoon then pa-a-a-arty all that night. I don’t get on with these people. No, for me, Tuesdays are glorious. Tuesdays are ‘me’ time. Tuesdays are full of art, like French and English and cinnamon lattes in Costa as I read a book. Or I write. I create some poetry or prose – nothing spectacular but something that means I’ve said something about the world. Then, sometimes, the afternoon is empty. I don’t have a tutorial, I don’t have work and I don’t have people. I can just bake and dance and sing without having to pretend. I love Tuesday afternoons.
0
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
natalie-clark
Tuesday Afternoon
“There's loads of boring stuff. Like Sundays and Tuesdays and Thursday afternoons. But now and then there are Saturdays.” ~ ‘Doctor Who’ People think that Tuesday afternoons are boring. These are the type of people who get up at three-pee-em on a Saturday afternoon then pa-a-a-arty all that night. I don’t get on with these people. No, for me, Tuesdays are glorious. Tuesdays are ‘me’ time. Tuesdays are full of art, like French and English and cinnamon lattes in Costa as I read a book. Or I write. I create some poetry or prose – nothing spectacular but something that means I’ve said something about the world. Then, sometimes, the afternoon is empty. I don’t have a tutorial, I don’t have work and I don’t have people. I can just bake and dance and sing without having to pretend. I love Tuesday afternoons.
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10
South coast days on end The ante meridiem Married to summer People in constant motion To the merry-go-round we go To the merry-go-round we go In the center Like the mobile over my bed Where the heart beats Where our eyes see in teleidoscope Inside the lines are brighter And wider and envelop The journey in itself Is the gift
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Apr 11, 2025
Apr 11, 2025 at 9:44 AM UTC
Carlo-C-Gomez
Costa Mesa
South coast days on end The ante meridiem Married to summer People in constant motion To the merry-go-round we go To the merry-go-round we go In the center Like the mobile over my bed Where the heart beats Where our eyes see in teleidoscope Inside the lines are brighter And wider and envelop The journey in itself Is the gift
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14
Rubicon on broadway  young and beautiful  in white Cadillacs and Buicks audio pop gods transmit  preludes for the night  through hair waves  and satellite finger tips Buried souls are only resurrected among friends at Shakespearian rags at 10 in mind with wine, no whine  oh mine, oh mine  no more golden toads in Costa Rica— the planet is a metaphor for the body— old spice and white gum our everyday gospel
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Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 9:08 AM UTC
ugochukwu-charles-onyewuchi
Class cancelled due to revolution
Rubicon on broadway  young and beautiful  in white Cadillacs and Buicks audio pop gods transmit  preludes for the night  through hair waves  and satellite finger tips Buried souls are only resurrected among friends at Shakespearian rags at 10 in mind with wine, no whine  oh mine, oh mine  no more golden toads in Costa Rica— the planet is a metaphor for the body— old spice and white gum our everyday gospel
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18
The moon over Rio is upside down for someone who's only ever given it thought from New England, so while in Rio I hang myself upside down like a perching fruit bat before it goes on its nightly raid of Senhora de Andrade's hummingbird feeder. I hang myself upside down to see the moon as I'm used to it and the blood flows to my head accompanied by Gal Costa and I right myself return to my senses and hope that the local kilo restaurant is still serving, otherwise it's hummingbird nectar tonight.
0
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 11:39 AM UTC
jayseth-guberman
Só Louco
The moon over Rio is upside down for someone who's only ever given it thought from New England, so while in Rio I hang myself upside down like a perching fruit bat before it goes on its nightly raid of Senhora de Andrade's hummingbird feeder. I hang myself upside down to see the moon as I'm used to it and the blood flows to my head accompanied by Gal Costa and I right myself return to my senses and hope that the local kilo restaurant is still serving, otherwise it's hummingbird nectar tonight.
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17
Or,  The Poor Man's Bread Three pieces Of pandesal to begin a day. Where’s the salt in here? I ask. Then came three beads of sweat Trailing my face after a walk On three streets: Valero, Leviste and Dela Costa. I climb on the 9th Floor, Of Liberty Centre Building, To make salt.
0
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 8:34 PM UTC
bryan-amerila
Pandesal
Or,  The Poor Man's Bread Three pieces Of pandesal to begin a day. Where’s the salt in here? I ask. Then came three beads of sweat Trailing my face after a walk On three streets: Valero, Leviste and Dela Costa. I climb on the 9th Floor, Of Liberty Centre Building, To make salt.
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11
¿Sabes tú? Mi vida es como un canto que nadie ha de cantar, pues tuvo las violentas inquietudes del mar y el espejismo de la droga hindú... Yo anduve errante, soñador proscrito, un año, o veinte, o quizás cien, y medí las pirámides de Egipto y las murallas de Jerusalén. Yo tuve más tesoros que los Zares, y un diamante mayor que el Gran Mogol, y en cada uno de los siete mares me vio náufrago el sol. Yo visité con tembloroso paso, como quien rinde un fúnebre tributo, la húmeda celda de Torcuato Tasso y el oscuro taller de Benvenuto. Yo busqué en los jardines de Versalles la huella leve de María Antonieta, y lloré por Ronaldo en Roncesvalles y por Ícaro en Creta. Y como fin de una aventura rara, enloquecido por un astro hostil, fui jeque de un aduar en el Sahara y negrero en la Costa de Marfil. Aún guardo en el cristal de una redoma, para unir mis creencias y mis dudas, un pelo de la barba de Mahoma y una hoja del árbol donde se ahorcara Judas. Tuve un corcel de resonante casco que florecía en la llanura seca, y mendigué en las calles de Damasco, y oré en una mezquita de La Meca. Y mucho más, que huyó de mi memoria y que quizás no ha de volver jamás: días de amor y odio, de fracaso y de gloria; y mucho más... y mucho más... ¿Sabes tú? Quizás nada ha sido cierto. Acaso únicamente lo soñé... -o sé bien si dormido o despierto; no sé...- Quizás la vida que he vivido ha sido tan abrumadoramente ****** que inventé los recuerdos por no morir de olvido, y nunca vi de cerca el mar. Pero si sé que he naufragado en una lágrima de mujer: fue un naufragio romántico, a la luz de la luna, y me quedé en el fondo, sin querer.
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1.6k
José Ángel Buesa
Cuento para la niña triste
¿Sabes tú? Mi vida es como un canto que nadie ha de cantar, pues tuvo las violentas inquietudes del mar y el espejismo de la droga hindú... Yo anduve errante, soñador proscrito, un año, o veinte, o quizás cien, y medí las pirámides de Egipto y las murallas de Jerusalén. Yo tuve más tesoros que los Zares, y un diamante mayor que el Gran Mogol, y en cada uno de los siete mares me vio náufrago el sol. Yo visité con tembloroso paso, como quien rinde un fúnebre tributo, la húmeda celda de Torcuato Tasso y el oscuro taller de Benvenuto. Yo busqué en los jardines de Versalles la huella leve de María Antonieta, y lloré por Ronaldo en Roncesvalles y por Ícaro en Creta. Y como fin de una aventura rara, enloquecido por un astro hostil, fui jeque de un aduar en el Sahara y negrero en la Costa de Marfil. Aún guardo en el cristal de una redoma, para unir mis creencias y mis dudas, un pelo de la barba de Mahoma y una hoja del árbol donde se ahorcara Judas. Tuve un corcel de resonante casco que florecía en la llanura seca, y mendigué en las calles de Damasco, y oré en una mezquita de La Meca. Y mucho más, que huyó de mi memoria y que quizás no ha de volver jamás: días de amor y odio, de fracaso y de gloria; y mucho más... y mucho más... ¿Sabes tú? Quizás nada ha sido cierto. Acaso únicamente lo soñé... -o sé bien si dormido o despierto; no sé...- Quizás la vida que he vivido ha sido tan abrumadoramente ****** que inventé los recuerdos por no morir de olvido, y nunca vi de cerca el mar. Pero si sé que he naufragado en una lágrima de mujer: fue un naufragio romántico, a la luz de la luna, y me quedé en el fondo, sin querer.
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48
somewhere between the fog in San Francisco and the sun rise in Costa Rica, i realized: you're smile doesn't compare to the exhilarating feeling of being in a cloud during a lightning storm and the feeling of your arms around me won't stop the humidity from clinging to my skin. life goes on without your love and I'm not sorry for realizing that
0
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
lauren-13
Plane
somewhere between the fog in San Francisco and the sun rise in Costa Rica, i realized: you're smile doesn't compare to the exhilarating feeling of being in a cloud during a lightning storm and the feeling of your arms around me won't stop the humidity from clinging to my skin. life goes on without your love and I'm not sorry for realizing that
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7
Yo soy el antípoda del poeta americano Poets in the wind Yo soy el cadáver de la tumba Horses in the bed Yo soy el alabastro californiano California is my dream Yo soy el sueño de California Tiffany's bay Chocolate brew Yo soy la Costa Oeste West coast lips Adiós to California, Juan Adios to California, John Not John Coltrane Not John Smith Not John Bach John Hiatt is the name
0
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 2:39 PM UTC
turco-dimas
Adiós to California.
Yo soy el antípoda del poeta americano Poets in the wind Yo soy el cadáver de la tumba Horses in the bed Yo soy el alabastro californiano California is my dream Yo soy el sueño de California Tiffany's bay Chocolate brew Yo soy la Costa Oeste West coast lips Adiós to California, Juan Adios to California, John Not John Coltrane Not John Smith Not John Bach John Hiatt is the name
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17
Si solamente me tocaras el corazón, si solamente pusieras tu boca en mi corazón, tu fina boca, tus dientes, si pusieras tu lengua como una flecha roja allí donde mi corazón polvoriento golpea, si soplaras en mi corazón, cerca del mar, llorando, sonaría con un ruido oscuro, con sonido de ruedas de tren con sueño, como aguas vacilantes, como el otoño en hojas, como sangre, con un ruido de llamas húmedas quemando el cielo, sonando como sueños o ramas o lluvias, o bocinas de puerto triste; si tú soplaras en mi corazón, cerca del mar, como un fantasma blanco, al borde de la espuma, en mitad del viento, como un fantasma desencadenado, a la orilla del mar, llorando. Como ausencia extendida, como campana súbita, el mar reparte el sonido del corazón, lloviendo, atardeciendo, en una costa sola, la noche cae sin duda, y su lúgubre azul de estandarte en naufragio se puebla de planetas de plata enronquecida. Y suena el corazón como un caracol agrio, llama, oh mar, oh lamento, oh derretido espanto esparcido en desgracias y olas desvencijadas: de lo sonoro el mar acusa sus sombras recostadas, sus amapolas verdes. Si existieras de pronto, en una costa lúgubre, rodeada por el día muerto, frente a una nueva noche, llena de olas, y soplaras en mi corazón de miedo frío, soplaras en la sangre sola de mi corazón, soplaras en su movimiento de paloma con llamas, sonarían sus negras sílabas de sangre, crecerían sus incesantes aguas rojas, y sonaría, sonaría a sombras, sonaría como la muerte, llamaría como un tubo lleno de viento o llanto o una botella echando espanto a borbotones. Así es, y los relámpagos cubrirían tus trenzas y la lluvia entraría por tus ojos abiertos a preparar el llanto que sordamente encierras, y las alas negras del mar girarían en torno de ti, con grandes garras, y graznidos, y vuelos. ¿Quieres ser fantasma que sople, solitario, cerca del mar su estéril, triste instrumento? Si solamente llamaras, su prolongado són, su maléfico pito, su orden de olas heridas, alguien vendría acaso, alguien vendría, desde las cimas de las islas, desde el fondo rojo del mar, alguien vendría, alguien vendría. Alguien vendría, sopla con furia, que suene como sirena de barco roto, como lamento, como un relincho en medio de la espuma y la sangre, como un agua feroz mordiéndose y sonando. En la estación marina su caracol de sombra circula como un grito, los pájaros del mar lo desestiman y huyen, sus listas de sonido, sus lúgubres barrotes se levantan a orillas del océano solo.
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1.6k
Pablo Neruda
Barcarola
Si solamente me tocaras el corazón, si solamente pusieras tu boca en mi corazón, tu fina boca, tus dientes, si pusieras tu lengua como una flecha roja allí donde mi corazón polvoriento golpea, si soplaras en mi corazón, cerca del mar, llorando, sonaría con un ruido oscuro, con sonido de ruedas de tren con sueño, como aguas vacilantes, como el otoño en hojas, como sangre, con un ruido de llamas húmedas quemando el cielo, sonando como sueños o ramas o lluvias, o bocinas de puerto triste; si tú soplaras en mi corazón, cerca del mar, como un fantasma blanco, al borde de la espuma, en mitad del viento, como un fantasma desencadenado, a la orilla del mar, llorando. Como ausencia extendida, como campana súbita, el mar reparte el sonido del corazón, lloviendo, atardeciendo, en una costa sola, la noche cae sin duda, y su lúgubre azul de estandarte en naufragio se puebla de planetas de plata enronquecida. Y suena el corazón como un caracol agrio, llama, oh mar, oh lamento, oh derretido espanto esparcido en desgracias y olas desvencijadas: de lo sonoro el mar acusa sus sombras recostadas, sus amapolas verdes. Si existieras de pronto, en una costa lúgubre, rodeada por el día muerto, frente a una nueva noche, llena de olas, y soplaras en mi corazón de miedo frío, soplaras en la sangre sola de mi corazón, soplaras en su movimiento de paloma con llamas, sonarían sus negras sílabas de sangre, crecerían sus incesantes aguas rojas, y sonaría, sonaría a sombras, sonaría como la muerte, llamaría como un tubo lleno de viento o llanto o una botella echando espanto a borbotones. Así es, y los relámpagos cubrirían tus trenzas y la lluvia entraría por tus ojos abiertos a preparar el llanto que sordamente encierras, y las alas negras del mar girarían en torno de ti, con grandes garras, y graznidos, y vuelos. ¿Quieres ser fantasma que sople, solitario, cerca del mar su estéril, triste instrumento? Si solamente llamaras, su prolongado són, su maléfico pito, su orden de olas heridas, alguien vendría acaso, alguien vendría, desde las cimas de las islas, desde el fondo rojo del mar, alguien vendría, alguien vendría. Alguien vendría, sopla con furia, que suene como sirena de barco roto, como lamento, como un relincho en medio de la espuma y la sangre, como un agua feroz mordiéndose y sonando. En la estación marina su caracol de sombra circula como un grito, los pájaros del mar lo desestiman y huyen, sus listas de sonido, sus lúgubres barrotes se levantan a orillas del océano solo.
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66
Emerge tu recuerdo de la noche en que estoy. El río anuda al mar su lamento obstinado. Abandonado como los muelles en el alba. Es la hora de partir, oh abandonado! Sobre mi corazón llueven frías corolas. Oh sentina de escombros, feroz cueva de náufragos! En ti se acumularon las guerras y los vuelos. De ti alzaron las alas los pájaros del canto. Todo te lo tragaste, como la lejanía. Como el mar, como el tiempo. Todo en ti fue naufragio! Era la alegre hora del asalto y el beso. La hora del estupor que ardía como un faro. Ansiedad de piloto, furia de buzo ciego, turbia embriaguez de amor, todo en ti fue naufragio! En la infancia de niebla mi alma alada y herida. Descubridor perdido, todo en ti fue naufragio! Te ceñiste al dolor, te agarraste al deseo. Te tumbó la tristeza, todo en ti fue naufragio! Hice retroceder la muralla de sombra, anduve más allá del deseo y del acto. Oh carne, carne mía, mujer que amé y perdí, a ti en esta hora húmeda, evoco y hago canto. Como un vaso albergaste la infinita ternura, y el infinito olvido te trizó como a un vaso. Era la negra, negra soledad de las islas, y allí, mujer de amor, me acogieron tus brazos. Era la sed y el hambre, y tú fuiste la fruta. Era el duelo y las ruinas, y tú fuiste el milagro. Ah mujer, no sé cómo pudiste contenerme en la tierra de tu alma, y en la cruz de tus brazos! Mi deseo de ti fue el más terrible y corto, el más revuelto y ebrio, el más tirante y ávido. Cementerio de besos, aún hay fuego en tus tumbas, aún los racimos arden picoteados de pájaros. Oh la boca mordida, oh los besados miembros, oh los hambrientos dientes, oh los cuerpos trenzados. Oh la cópula loca de esperanza y esfuerzo en que nos anudamos y nos desesperamos. Y la ternura, leve como el agua y la harina. Y la palabra apenas comenzada en los labios. Ese fue mi destino y en él viajó mi anhelo, y en él cayó mi anhelo, todo en ti fue naufragio! Oh, sentina de escombros, en ti todo caía, qué dolor no exprimiste, qué olas no te ahogaron! De tumbo en tumbo aún llameaste y cantaste. De pie como un marino en la proa de un barco. Aún floreciste en cantos, aún rompiste en corrientes. Oh sentina de escombros, pozo abierto y amargo. Pálido buzo ciego, desventurado hondero, descubridor perdido, todo en ti fue naufragio! Es la hora de partir, la dura y fría hora que la noche sujeta a todo horario. El cinturón ruidoso del mar ciñe la costa. Surgen frías estrellas, emigran negros pájaros. Abandonado como los muelles en el alba. Sólo la sombra trémula se retuerce en mis manos. Ah más allá de todo. Ah más allá de todo. Es la hora de partir. Oh abandonado!
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1.6k
Pablo Neruda
La canción desesperada
Emerge tu recuerdo de la noche en que estoy. El río anuda al mar su lamento obstinado. Abandonado como los muelles en el alba. Es la hora de partir, oh abandonado! Sobre mi corazón llueven frías corolas. Oh sentina de escombros, feroz cueva de náufragos! En ti se acumularon las guerras y los vuelos. De ti alzaron las alas los pájaros del canto. Todo te lo tragaste, como la lejanía. Como el mar, como el tiempo. Todo en ti fue naufragio! Era la alegre hora del asalto y el beso. La hora del estupor que ardía como un faro. Ansiedad de piloto, furia de buzo ciego, turbia embriaguez de amor, todo en ti fue naufragio! En la infancia de niebla mi alma alada y herida. Descubridor perdido, todo en ti fue naufragio! Te ceñiste al dolor, te agarraste al deseo. Te tumbó la tristeza, todo en ti fue naufragio! Hice retroceder la muralla de sombra, anduve más allá del deseo y del acto. Oh carne, carne mía, mujer que amé y perdí, a ti en esta hora húmeda, evoco y hago canto. Como un vaso albergaste la infinita ternura, y el infinito olvido te trizó como a un vaso. Era la negra, negra soledad de las islas, y allí, mujer de amor, me acogieron tus brazos. Era la sed y el hambre, y tú fuiste la fruta. Era el duelo y las ruinas, y tú fuiste el milagro. Ah mujer, no sé cómo pudiste contenerme en la tierra de tu alma, y en la cruz de tus brazos! Mi deseo de ti fue el más terrible y corto, el más revuelto y ebrio, el más tirante y ávido. Cementerio de besos, aún hay fuego en tus tumbas, aún los racimos arden picoteados de pájaros. Oh la boca mordida, oh los besados miembros, oh los hambrientos dientes, oh los cuerpos trenzados. Oh la cópula loca de esperanza y esfuerzo en que nos anudamos y nos desesperamos. Y la ternura, leve como el agua y la harina. Y la palabra apenas comenzada en los labios. Ese fue mi destino y en él viajó mi anhelo, y en él cayó mi anhelo, todo en ti fue naufragio! Oh, sentina de escombros, en ti todo caía, qué dolor no exprimiste, qué olas no te ahogaron! De tumbo en tumbo aún llameaste y cantaste. De pie como un marino en la proa de un barco. Aún floreciste en cantos, aún rompiste en corrientes. Oh sentina de escombros, pozo abierto y amargo. Pálido buzo ciego, desventurado hondero, descubridor perdido, todo en ti fue naufragio! Es la hora de partir, la dura y fría hora que la noche sujeta a todo horario. El cinturón ruidoso del mar ciñe la costa. Surgen frías estrellas, emigran negros pájaros. Abandonado como los muelles en el alba. Sólo la sombra trémula se retuerce en mis manos. Ah más allá de todo. Ah más allá de todo. Es la hora de partir. Oh abandonado!
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58
En el mar tormentoso de Chile vive el rosado congrio, gigante anguila de nevada carne. Y en las ollas chilenas, en la costa, nació el caldillo grávido y suculento, provechoso. Lleven a la cocina el congrio desollado, su piel manchada cede como un guante y al descubierto queda entonces el racimo del mar, el congrio tierno reluce ya desnudo, preparado para nuestro apetito. Ahora recoges ajos, acaricia primero ese marfil precioso, huele su fragancia iracunda, entonces deja el ajo picado caer con la cebolla y el tomate hasta que la cebolla tenga color de oro. Mientras tanto se cuecen con el vapor los regios camarones marinos y cuando ya llegaron a su punto, cuando cuajó el sabor en una salsa formada por el jugo del océano y por el agua clara que desprendió la luz de la cebolla, entonces que entre el congrio y se sumerja en gloria, que en la olla se aceite, se contraiga y se impregne. Ya sólo es necesario dejar en el manjar caer la crema como una rosa espesa, y al fuego lentamente entregar el tesoro hasta que en el caldillo se calienten las esencias de Chile, y a la mesa lleguen recién casados los sabores del mar y de la tierra para que en ese plato tú conozcas el cielo.
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1.4k
Pablo Neruda
Oda al caldillo de congrio
En el mar tormentoso de Chile vive el rosado congrio, gigante anguila de nevada carne. Y en las ollas chilenas, en la costa, nació el caldillo grávido y suculento, provechoso. Lleven a la cocina el congrio desollado, su piel manchada cede como un guante y al descubierto queda entonces el racimo del mar, el congrio tierno reluce ya desnudo, preparado para nuestro apetito. Ahora recoges ajos, acaricia primero ese marfil precioso, huele su fragancia iracunda, entonces deja el ajo picado caer con la cebolla y el tomate hasta que la cebolla tenga color de oro. Mientras tanto se cuecen con el vapor los regios camarones marinos y cuando ya llegaron a su punto, cuando cuajó el sabor en una salsa formada por el jugo del océano y por el agua clara que desprendió la luz de la cebolla, entonces que entre el congrio y se sumerja en gloria, que en la olla se aceite, se contraiga y se impregne. Ya sólo es necesario dejar en el manjar caer la crema como una rosa espesa, y al fuego lentamente entregar el tesoro hasta que en el caldillo se calienten las esencias de Chile, y a la mesa lleguen recién casados los sabores del mar y de la tierra para que en ese plato tú conozcas el cielo.
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73
I miss the fields of Andalucía, where the Sierra Nevada can be seen in the East from Costa Del Sol perimeters; and community is something which far surpasses the façade of being in the same room. Sliced onions in the abode of La Villa Rosetta will permeate the Milky Way on Spanish rooftops, as herds of goats amble along mountain roads. But let us forever remember that chorizo is beautiful, as she proudly displays her scent against the turrets of Algeciras. I love a fiesta, because familial chords remain uncut.
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Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
david-barr
Spanish Inseparability
I miss the fields of Andalucía, where the Sierra Nevada can be seen in the East from Costa Del Sol perimeters; and community is something which far surpasses the façade of being in the same room. Sliced onions in the abode of La Villa Rosetta will permeate the Milky Way on Spanish rooftops, as herds of goats amble along mountain roads. But let us forever remember that chorizo is beautiful, as she proudly displays her scent against the turrets of Algeciras. I love a fiesta, because familial chords remain uncut.
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1
Sat at the station, With nowhere to go Trains Arrive to depart And Bustling commuters Phones attached Rush on by Sat at the station Nowhere to go Fear etched in the lines Of a Face lost in time Eyes seeing, Their spark gone Empty costa cup Gripped by a hand Nails black, skin blistered Newspaper, a forgotten date Lies next to Cracked leather boots Soaked then scorched Too many times Sat at the station With nowhere to go
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May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
nick-strong
Sat at the station With nowhere to go
Sat at the station, With nowhere to go Trains Arrive to depart And Bustling commuters Phones attached Rush on by Sat at the station Nowhere to go Fear etched in the lines Of a Face lost in time Eyes seeing, Their spark gone Empty costa cup Gripped by a hand Nails black, skin blistered Newspaper, a forgotten date Lies next to Cracked leather boots Soaked then scorched Too many times Sat at the station With nowhere to go
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25