"portuguese" poems
Never be ashamed of your native language
Say those beautiful
Phrases and words
Loud and proud.
Do not let anyone stop you from speaking
Let your voice be
Heard and recognized
Don't you dare let anybody make fun of your accent
Embrace the thickness
Don't ever lose grasp of it.
For it is one of the precious treasure
You could ever hold on to
After leaving your homeland
To start a new life in a foreign country
That offers you a whole lot of new opportunities.
Hold on to your mother tongue
As tight as you can
Because this new country you now live in
Will do its very best to change your identity
And oppress your culture.
So it be French or Spanish
Korean, Mandarin, Cantonese, Japanese
Tagalog, Cebuano, Ilonggo
Greek, Punjabi, Hindi, Sinhalese
Arabic, Vietnamese, Portuguese
German or Russian
And any other language there is in the world.
It has exquisite words that just cannot be simply translated into English
For it has far greater meaning behind it
It is very much well-written
Alluring to one's eye and
Spoken eloquently and gracefully
That the English language is not able to compare
To your admirably and enticing
Well-spoken mother tongue.
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 9:21 PM UTC
"sly wordplay, it glows, feels like a shimmering address, half warning and half blessing, really alive with cadence"
read Kiki Dresden poetry^
once more into the sea trench divide,
I dive to devise,
Your provoking comment,
demands my full attention,
you divert me from struggling with
ginger & clay,
a contra concept
that molds and enflames,
yet strikes overtly sweet,
it does not
come so easy
as this playful notion
But
your words deserve the
attention immédiate
atenção imediata
that births this script,
tumbling forth in an instantly
instantaneously
me student, you mistress~master,
schooling me on sublimity subliminal,
capturing the capering
stylistic that bursts forth from within,
that my fingertips provide,
while my brain connives & connivers
continuously
you overlay analytics
that never are to me
revealed,
the what and wherefore
of the whom
hiding within
of the im~perpetuity impish essence of
i m p ishness
by charmingly doing me, not once,
but many times better
here a spillage:
an observational ditty,
dressed in a tux,
most formally,
to render the greatest
wordplay
ever invented
t,
the uniqueness of a simple
thank you
my favorite poem
a forever for ever,
the song that
plys and plays me
in the me
so often,
the linguists have banned the word
repeatedly
from my lexicon
so in its stead,
this all-in-one mighty steed
(verb phrase, a noun, or an adjective depending on its usage)
this phatic expression,
here disguised in
Portuguese,
muito obrigado!
muito obrigado!
muito obrigado!
nml 5:39am nyc 10/4, 10/4
Oct 4, 2025
Oct 4, 2025 at 5:44 AM UTC
Reinaldo was the name they gave the great white elephant
Who came to clear the jungles around Sao Paulo
A clever notion that because Reinaldo was born in the jungle
Any jungle would do just fine, Brazilian or Siamese made no difference
Just as clever was the notion that because I was a black man, educated
I would do just fine directing other black men to do work, English or Portuguese made no difference
Was I truly so much a fool, twice over?
Reinaldo occasionally was afflicted with slothfulness
Some of the men thought it was from lack of **** and whip
I was of a mind that it was due to lack of companionship
It was costly enough to ship one giant beast across a great sea
I left a wife, in Maryland, whom I never loved and who never loved me
I admit before the plan was in motion I never considered that Reinaldo could have a family
Sometimes, I wonder, did he have a wife who never loved him?
Loneliness became a common theme in our new home away from home
And Reinaldo and I became friends, at least I thought of him fondly
As far as I could say, of all the men he responded best to me
At times it seemed a load of lumber was hauled as a personal favor
For the handler too soft to handle with fear and anger
But as much as loneliness was a theme, so was change, and death
The lifespan of an elephant compares to the lifespan of men
Were this scheme of mine to have worked as desired
I could have sent for a cow, and made Reinaldo a sire
Soon it was revealed that slothfulness was a symptom of an elephant young, healthy and wise
Who sensed not his own, but a friend's imminent demise
Now I am left to wonder how Reinaldo will fare in a world stranger than I could have known
His softest handler and only friend bedridden, waiting for my disease to take its final toll
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 6:28 PM UTC
For Helene.
Ashes on the water, now.
Love's bones like dust downstream.
At least it got to see itself in our eyes,
Feel itself between hand holding hand
And whispered caresses.
From pillow talk to fists raised at
Concerts, glasses of Portuguese wine
On her balcony to the sound of magpies
We named our neighbours.
We were beautiful.
Began beautifully.
Ended gracefully.
I open hands that held hers and see
Nothing but skin worn by labour,
And air.
Ashes on the water, now.
Embers without a chance against rivers
Cold with melted mountain snow and
Unyielding differences.
Some loves drown with lungs too full
To cry; others float like a funeral-pyre-
Longboat into the night, ablaze.
King and queen, hand upon hand.
Crowns tied from fresh flowers,
We were beautiful.
Began beautifully.
Slid apart the way a glacier parts from
The hills; slowly, but with the force
Of its thousands of tons.
Ashes on the water,
Where the ghost of our union rests
Underneath the surface of our memories.
I will remember you.
Until the stars burn out, raining the
Dust of themselves like snow upon
These waters that always are moving.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 5:08 PM UTC
They set off from white rocks,
red geraniums, blue tile,
and let the green sea
lift and drop their ships far above the white foam waves.
The stony islands that were home
were swallowed in minutes by the hungry Atlantic
but they hunted the big fish,
the giant whales with human eyes
who rolled and sang and swam
in oceans a continent away.
They came from Sao Jorge, Sao Miguel
Faial, Pico, Terceira, Horta -
Nine island emeralds set in a black volcanic chain,
neither of the old country nor the new:
Halfway there and halfway gone -
secret jewels of the Portuguese sailors.
They sailed into unknown waters,
south around tropical shores
where dragons smoked and writhed on the rocks
and birds with brilliant red and yellow plumage
rose in clouds around their heads.
Then north, and north, north again
to colder waters
where sea lions barked and lunged
at the strange massive wooden beast
that coursed the waters,
strung with brown bodies swaying
on the lines and cursing the sails.
North still they swept
casting contemptuous eyes on
the cheap turquoise waters and monstrous slow turtles
of the Sea of Cortez.
Coming up from the desert, past the palms and the yucca,
the Joshua tree and Spanish daggers,
they chased their smooth grey prey,
riding the vast Pacific on their wooden island,
herding the leviathans onto their spears,
adventurers with an audience of only
gulls and sky and seal.
Until they sailed too close one day
to a rock-strewn shoreline
and saw the golden hills.
Gnarled oaks like grandmothers from home
with orange poppy jewels at their feet,
missions strung like beads in a ruby marked rosary.
The boats slowed, ****** in by a Scylla of soil
rich and brown and loamy
waiting to be seeded with grapes and apricots
peaches, avocados, lettuce, alfalfa,
fertile and heavy with sweet promise.
And the whales sang and the lions barked and the gulls cried
but the sailors were entranced, encharmed, ensorcelled.
The treacherous sea, the mysterious deep, the stony jewels of home,
called and wept
and waited in vain for the sailors
- beached and grounded -
cutting not waves but earth,
tracking seasons not whales,
seduced by dirt.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
English: I Love You!
Afrikaans: Ek is Lief vir jou!
Chinese: 我爱你！
French: Je t'aime !
German: Ich liebe dich !
Irish: Is breá liom tú !
Italian: ti amo !
Portuguese: eu te amo !
Zulu: Ngiyakuthanda !
Sotho wasn't available.
We want to be loved.. But yet when was the last time you told someone you loved them?
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
i do not think that this is a poem -
but i decided some things about you & i.
if people are colors, you are blue and i am green.
if people are seasons, you are spring and i am autumn.
if people are flowers, you are a forget-me-not and i am a poppy.
if people are drinks, you are hot chocolate and i am pink lemonade.
if people are candy, you are an everlasting gobstopper and i am a hershey's kiss.
if people are clouds, you are a cumulonimbus and i am a cirrostratus.
if people are times of day, you are dusk and i am dawn.
if people are trees, you are a weeping willow and i am a dogwood.
if people are languages you are french and i am portuguese.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 7:20 AM UTC
Leave me alone
Your thoughts keep melting me
I am a snow man
So ,
heu me (Latin)
Leave me alone
You come like a tornado
Breaking my bones
So,
déjame en Paz (Spanish)
Leave me alone
You come in my dream
Make me a walking dead man
So,
mag-iwan ako nag-iisa (Filipino)
Leave me alone
Now your smile
Is Striking like a thunder
So,
laissez-moi tranquille (French)
Leave me alone
Your eyes are hunting
Unfortunately I am the deer
So,
mujhē akēlā chōṛa dō (Hindi)
Leave me alone
Your teeth is enough
To tear my heart
So,
Liú xià wǒ yīgè rén (Mandarin)
Leave me alone
I am going to start
My life freshly
So,
zostaw mnie w spokoju (Polish)
Leave me alone
I am no longer with you
My life took diversion
So,
me deixe em Paz (Portuguese)
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 8:29 AM UTC
"Saudade" the heart whispers in low tones
but I decide to ignore it
"Saudade" the heart cries
but I wipe its tears with numbness
"Saudade!" the heart screams in agony
and only then do I see
how deep the heart feels
that everlasting pain I decide to ignore
that unique portuguese word that describes perfectly
how everytime I ignore those threatening sad thoughts
they linger somewhere else
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 9:23 AM UTC
Out of the delicate dream of the distance an emerald emerges
Veiled in the violet folds of the air of the sea;
Softly the dream grows awakening—shimmering white of a city,
Splashes of crimson, the gay bougainvillea, the palms.
High in the infinite blue of its heaven a quiet cloud lingers,
Lost and forgotten of winds that have fallen asleep,
Fallen asleep to the tune of a Portuguese song in a garden.
3.1k
Did you know the East Indian Bottle Masala includes as many as 27 spices, or that an oil-free pickle served at their weddings is actually known as Wedding Pickle?
These and many such authentic East Indian masalas and pickles are available at East Indian Cozinha (Portuguese for kitchen), a food store started by Christina Kinny at Kolovery Village in Kalina, Santacruz. "I started East Indian Cozinha with an attempt to preserve and highlight our cuisine and culture," says the 24-year old, who has studied Masters in Social Work and currently, works with an enterprise that helps tribal farmers.
What’s in store?
Going back 500 years, the East Indian cuisine enjoys influences from Portuguese, British and Maharashtrian fare. The staples include rice, coconut, tamarind, fish and meats, with spices forming an integral part of the cuisine. For instance, Prawn Atola is a dry dish comprising prawns coated only with Vindaloo Masala featuring Kashmiri chilli, cumin and turmeric. "Most people from our community were farmers and would be out on field all day. So, the masalas and lemon would help preserve their food for a longer time," reasons Kinny.
At present, the store stocks six varieties of masala in 100g bottles (R150 onwards). These include Khuddi or Bottle Masala, Chinchoni (fish) Masala, Vindaloo Masala, Roast Rub, Kujit Masala and Tem Che Rose. She also offers Wedding Pickle, an oil-free variety prepared with raw papaya, carrots and dry dates. "All the recipes have been passed on from generations and are homemade," she informs.
However, making the masalas is no cakewalk. "It takes three days to dry spices under the sun. Then, we hand pound them and pack them tightly in bottles with wider openings," says Kinny. She recalls that in her grandmother’s time, the masalas were tightly stuffed in beer bottles. The bottles were darker, and hence, helped preserve the masala for at least a year, at room temperature.
Lugra love
East Indian Cozinha also stocks traditional 10-yard saris known as lugras. These are hand embroidered by Kinny’s mother, Carol. Previously made only from cotton with authentic gold borders, now, lugras are embroidered with sequins and threads. "She has been in the garment industry for the last 30 years. She also makes traditional accessories like kapotas (earrings), karis (hair pins), anklets, etc," informs Kinny.
read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 1:52 AM UTC
My beloved Douro Valley
The land where warm Sun sleep,
Vines and oak trees to greet.
Walls made in the past,
Grapes growing fast.
Love the vines,
Portuguese king planted pines.
My Douro River,
A friend and a giver.
Place where port is made,
British put it on trade.
Lovely flavor,
Share with your neighbor.
The region with natural charm,
Producers without a farm.
Douro valley in a good mood,
Wine pairing well with food.
Warmest regards.
Victor Marques
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 4:00 AM UTC
I was born of a fisherman, fine and faithful
Faithful to God and the sea, faithful to my mother and me
I am a daughter of the sea, sensible and salty
To the sea I am impressed, there is peace that permeates
Perhaps it is in my bones, Portuguese explorer’s blood
When I breathe the salt air, its spirit deflects despair
This love derives from my father, this love affair with saltwater
This man of the sea fosters respect, but also tends to overprotect
Perhaps the sea prepared him to be practical and prudent
Undulating waves shaping his vision, dreams escorted to fruition
For these dreams I am grateful, for the breath of the sea
The lust the ocean produces in me
The love from his heart, the love from the sea
Floated over the waters so lavishly so lovely
I'll send him a kiss across the Atlantic
I hope it lands neatly on his cheek
I hope it reaches him, quick
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 2:18 PM UTC
MAE HIRAETH ARNA AMDANOT
( THERE'S LONELINESS ON ME FOR YOU )
Her shadow is
laughing.
Her shadow is
taller than a tree.
She is a key
for which there is
no door
a Polaroid photograph
dying in the sun
( fading into the nothing
from which it comes ).
My mind slashes through time
grasps this memory
of her
clutches it to itself
until once again Death
orders it to
. . .let go.
It...does so.
Her shadow
laughing.
Her shadow
taller than a tree.
***
Hiraeth, pronounced "here eyeth" is a Welsh word that has no direct English translation. It is defined it as homesickness tinged with grief or sadness over the lost or departed. It is a mix of longing, yearning, nostalgia, wistfulness, or an earnest desire...a homesickness for a home you cannot return to, or that never was.
Hiraeth is best buddies with the Portuguese concept of saudade (a key theme in Fado music), Brazilian Portuguese banzo (more related to homesickness), Turkish gurbet, Galician morriña, Romanian dor.
May 20, 2017
May 20, 2017 at 6:51 PM UTC
My mother's not an alcoholic but she's plenty of things I'd like to sing
Thanks for criticizing my skinny jeans and ****** up child hood teeth.
Here's to making my first girlfriend cry and squashing my beliefs,
a toast for being paranoid and obsessed with what you lack.
Better swallow all the car keys, mom, cause I may not come back.
And dad, thanks for slowing down the car so I could stick my head up
for knowing my mom is unstable and when I should just shut up.
Here's to holding me down and bruising my wrists and daring me to leave
because what I found and loved and lost is more than I could ever begin to believe.
So here's to my brother who got the short end of the stick
cause I was born so ******* intelligent
And here's to the buddies who left me on my own
Because we're all too lazy to pick up the ******* phone
Said I'll splatter my brains across your bedroom mirror and serial killers don't have motive,
not everyone knows enough to know what they don't,
but if this isn't the so-called "real world" I don't know what is.
So here's to death, Mr. Portuguese, zodiac signs, poor stitching and the trees (and their leaves.)
So here's to now, Mrs. Angel face, you've finally got your perfect family (and you see)
SO HERE'S TO THIS, my dear bestest friend, to laying in the tub at 2 am (til 4 am)
And here's to wrinkled toes and kissing, to grass stained jeans and living where you are (you've gotten far)
And you can try to end it all but they'll probably just hit you,
And when you go to therapy I'd like to be there with you
Because I don't think they know what they've got
No they don't know, they don't know
they don't know.
So here is you, living on the streets. I'd give it all away so we could be (why not happy.)
So here's to you, open heaven gates. Jesus knew that death awaits us all (well all fall down.)
Everyone I love is dying, everyone I love is dying (screaming) x how ever many times you feel
And I
am
dyyyyyying too.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
Jamming jellyfish
Top-Me
((Giddy App Seahorse))
The horseradish on
my lap______
The jolly Jelly
Gefilte Fish
Little help from my friends
How we click the laptop
One dent to Deceive me
The Rock and Rolling
Stomach his smoke went
Like *** Cheese)
he leaves me
The spicy tongue map
Z-Top Zany Chilli Pepper____
your # tap dance tap
Italian top of
the cheese designer skirt
The outskirts of Naples
Her sweet dimples, please
The Islands of Sicily
So many Cheese forms
Terms of Endearment
Mama Mia Murano-Positano
Her lips of Romano Cheese
(To Top Me) Challenge me
Cheese doesn't mix
with cappuccino,
she's the Capri
Ala Denti
Cheese Wiz chair
Mediterranean Wines
Bear men doing low
sips of time
the grisly(Z) pour
The car smelled like
Flight (Top Me) Swiss air
Meet Dominique
How it went La Cirque
Anti Christ Devil Red-bed
cheese mystique
SOS to their notes
PS the junk car in
Midas the makeover
Make-up artist counter
Clinique
I could paint over your hood
Creamy mind put at ease
He's so displeased
New castle disease
Mingling social disease
She's so infectious
ZZ- Top me rock me
Eyes bloodshot you got me
And nevertheless
With twelve and V
V- Vamps tramps
and 14 karats
The French Lieutenant
Mistress Brie with heavy
bite teeth like garnets
Cher turning back time
The burlesque striptease
Come back little Sheba
Z Top Queen of Sheba
I know it's coming soon____?
All Tight claustrophobic
The tight squeeze
Him speaking
Mandarin Oranges
The British Colony
Unique Chinese languages
Her hills, San Francisco
Jack Nicholson
Comedy of China town
The American Women
Smile cheese at the Disco
The food Cantonese
style
Z muscles Hercules
Joan Rivers
Fashion Police
The Cheese of Portuguese
Its the meat market
With his nifty thrifty Neice
All Socrates
(Gromet and Cheese)
Those Brooklyn
workers
The Falcon Matese____*
More cheese Z-Top
Who could ever top
The string cheese
Silken strings became
to rest, I rest my cheese
What cheese fascinates you
Tell me?
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 9:12 AM UTC
Tiptoeing over this week
leaving fingerprints of sleep
in every fold of your shirt.
Voices like humming birds,
echo of mint and
train tracks on a hot day.
Respite.
Sounds like its meaning,
feels like a sigh.
Learned a new word.
Cafuné.
To lovingly waltz
fingers through hair,
Portuguese stuck to the back of my hand.
The air smells of limes.
Hiding cherries
every day this month
made my tongue purple.
This is not a poem.
It shouldn’t taste like purpose,
lethargic bubbles rising in a cup.
Drawing peaches and crayons
between the millimetre increments
of your knuckles.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 1:41 AM UTC
Forgotten memories remain to be a significant part of the rich tapestry of contemporary establishment, just like an Indian summer which dries the drab and weary soul of those who are ******
History reveals that the Spaniards sold Erythroxylum Coca to Bolivian and Peruvian populations, whilst tyranny exerted its illegitimate dominance.
So, the quest for power and social control remains to be exploitative in the guise of jovial and seemingly convincing salesmen. Just ask the shamans of traditional cleansing.
The pulsating groans of ancient civilisations will never dissipate, despite the lusts of mankind to establish grandiose constructs.
Oh great and mighty spirit of the land, we need your residence amidst our conceited political climate, because you have truly won the war even though our realisation is blinded by fierce presumption.
I desire to take a bite of historical and gourmet delicacies, and to swallow the diversity of gustatory brilliance, because their remains to be a discrepancy between Spanish and Portuguese validity.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
Trinidad and Tobagonians
Haitians
Egyptians
Mexicans
English
Liechtensteins
Turkish
Italians
Norwegians
Germans
Portuguese
Omanians
Tromelin Islanders
Orcas Islanders
French
African-Americans
Maldives
Ecuadorians
Romanians
Ice Landers
Chinese
Argentinas
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 4:55 PM UTC
~
the language of love,
it has no equivalence,
we speak what we hope,
we seek what we love;
vacillating? perhaps,
but there is no ambivalence.
lovers whisper, lovers shout;
alternating between holding it in,
or getting the words out.
whether sweet words of friendship,
or letting the heart go,
each tells a tale, a heartbeat,
one the spirit only knows.
is it the “shemomedjamo” of Georgia,
the “overindulgence that
cannot stop this appetite;”
or “lagom” of the Swedes,
who speak of moderation?
where what i have and what i see,
is perfect, just right!
the words, “koi no yokan,”
from the culture of the east,
Japanese speak of the instant of knowing
a love that’s “meant to be.”
there is “mamihlapinatapai,”
used by those at the tip,
of Tierra del Fuego’s windswept cliffs,
a lover’s wish they can’t set free;
further north Brazilians speak,
of “cafune,” the sweet tugging
at her long and flowing hair;
a love that reaches,
strokes, so tenderly.
the Thai use “greng-jai,”
for love that defers...
and to sacrifice refers;
the French have “retrouvailles,”
a love that sparks rediscovery,
where distance knows no separation;
“onsra,” is a love
soon to be a thing of the past;
used in Burma and India when spoken of
a love that cannot last.
the “saudade,” of the Portuguese,
of love that can no longer be,
though it may have been consuming,
is now but bittersweet.
and then... there is Arabic’s “tuqburni,”
a love that says so gently
“without you i am dying!”
each, it has no English equivalent
yet somehow we manage...
we find our true love,
in relationships, in marriage,
for love is a catholic language;
even when there are no words,
where touch, where tender looks,
translations of the unheard thoughts;
where pillows hold the notes of longing,
empty bars and stanzas filled;
oh love, oh boundless one,
under steeples pledge your troth,
to death’s door you take your oath,
to forever sing your universal song!
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
I speak you
(portuguese, spanish, english aside)
I speak you almost fluently
and now I wear shiny lip-gloss more often
since I'm speaking you without touch
for now. and
distance is beautiful
--like your knuckles
and the back of your taught ankles--
which are not noticed enough
(they hold everything together)
much like distance.
I think both are beautiful on you.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
I think you got it wrong
You say Argentina we say not
You say Malvenas we say Falkland Isles
You say stole in 1830 how that makes me smile
For in 1830 you where Portuguese Not Argentine
You had no republic till 1860s time
So from whom did you steal the country you live in ?
Your history tainted and arguments thin.
Your country is in tatters so why not have a war!
Hang on the Junta tried that before!!
You will look great on TV as you rally the cry
ON TO THE FALKLANDS SO MORE SONS CAN DIE!!
The battle is over now govern your own
The Falklands are British so please stay at home.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 9:55 AM UTC
Age, race, gender, height
Curly, straight, dark, light,
Tall, short, thin, wide,
Nobody's the same outside.
Chinese, Asian, Indian,
Portuguese or American,
We're born into
Our environments.
But if one plus one is two,
Nobody tries to argue,
Because numbers have
unchanging values,
and humans
should
too.
Skin and bones,
Heart and soul,
And that alone,
Makes us valuable.
We are skin and bones,
We are heart and soul,
We are all the same,
And our values don't change.
Age, race, gender, height,
We are one,
And we're all alright.
Skin and bones,
Heart and soul,
We're all the same,
And our values don't change.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
weathered fingertips in sensual crescendo
arouse blitzing keystrokes to commove
wild Js and Zeds, Ks and Is too.
harmony of the king's three-thousand acre jungle
swallowing the stormy orange cyclical stew
and tantamount to its feral cavities
thrushes whet jagged spinal bones to split
news of the no-rhythm, sambas of new religious canter
infiltrates the **** cavernous walls
This inner ear and greater sound
knew to find sanctuary here.
Lends its awesome craft to the next
And next, and next, and next;
beautiful unboxed melodies
new unused sweet single-reeds
threading that 20s centrifuge.
Saxophone. Incantations unfolding
Aloof in its ***** it unwraps
The veil of green, a costume of black coffees
Cigarette stained curtains exhumed to greet
Thick plumes of albicant sinewy smoke
At the heap of its glorious song
Uniting the funnel of eardom to consecrate
Bliss. Intrinsic and purple
An irrational knot of Portuguese drum
Met over by African toms and rattles
A glue imbued into those unmistakable
Chakras of this spell of mourning and reversed
Names of starlight girls and their other'd selves
These are the weapons of our new key strokes.
And upon the cortex it reveals this lift anew
Where death greeted me to intervene a place
Where sound and silence meet, and new strikes
Put my hands in halves. Pear-shaped birds pecking
At the joints, and where bowl-shaped tones bring
Their impeccable limbs to atone with auburn and cerise soils
Beneath the high ridges of doom- the empowering backspace
Does not exist, only new nothingnesses and their hooves
Splashing into each step into the next, and the next, and the next,
And the next.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
sugar sugar pour some water on me
it can be black or green I don't care just
please wash the sugar out of my hair
sugar is bitter
and sickening in
my hair in my nose and ears
my mom tells me to practice my 'violino'
--we lived in Brazil so Portuguese words are still natural at times--
and she smiles so it cripples me a little
I will practice as much as she likes
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 5:10 PM UTC