"trinidad" poems
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Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 11:08 AM UTC
Germans, love to be funny
German-English, love to be friends
Trinis, love to work hard
English, love to talk loud
Bajan, love to travel
Hmong-Americans, love to look classy
Korean-English, love to hangout
Koreans, look good in "gangsta"
Tobagonians, love to give gifts
Americans, love fresh vegetables
Chinese-Americans, love butter biscuits
Canadians, don't know that one guy
Kenyans, love Ethiopian food
Guineans, are the best Arabic teachers
Jordanians, love Kentucky Fried chicken
Brazilians, love Trinidad
Brazilian-Americans, have 5 kids
Puerto Ricans, love Ecuadorians
Ecuadorians, love Puerto Ricans
Peruvian-Americans, love concert piano
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
Vi en las costas de Trinidad
conchas nereidoasirenadas
tejer sus cabellos ,
cantar Rege los peces
en Jamaica
al amor en Carthagena ,
madurar como mango
a los poetas del Sur bailar
Cumbia
Y vi en sus ojos la revolucion
alrededor de la estatua de Bolivar .
19.10.2000
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
HE lived on the wings of storm.
The ashes are in Chihuahua.
Out of Ludlow and coal towns in Colorado
Sprang a vengeance of Slav miners, Italians, Scots, Cornishmen, Yanks.
Killings ran under the spoken commands of this boy
With eighty men and rifles on a hogback mountain.
They killed swearing to remember
The shot and charred wives and children
In the burnt camp of Ludlow,
And Louis Tikas, the laughing Greek,
Plugged with a bullet, clubbed with a gun ****
As a home war
It held the nation a week
And one or two million men stood together
And swore by the retribution of steel.
It was all accidental.
He lived flecking lint off coat lapels
Of men he talked with.
He kissed the miners' babies
And wrote a Denver paper
Of picket silhouettes on a mountain line.
He had no mother but Mother Jones
Crying from a jail window of Trinidad:
"All I want is room enough to stand
And shake my fist at the enemies of the human race."
Named by a grand jury as a murderer
He went to Chihuahua, forgot his old Scotch name,
Smoked cheroots with Pancho Villa
And wrote letters of Villa as a rock of the people.
How can I tell how Don Magregor went?
Three riders emptied lead into him.
He lay on the main street of an inland town.
A boy sat near all day throwing stones
To keep pigs away.
The Villa men buried him in a pit
With twenty Carranzistas.
There is drama in that point...
...the boy and the pigs.
Griffith would make a movie of it to fetch sobs.
Victor Herbert would have the drums whirr
In a weave with a high fiddle-string's single clamor.
"And the muchacho sat there all day throwing stones
To keep the pigs away," wrote Gibbons to the Tribune.
Somewhere in Chihuahua or Colorado
Is a leather bag of poems and short stories.
2.8k
(Went out today,
Charter boat
Trinidad Bay
Limited out on rock fish
in two hours
Watching Elks Head
from the ocean,
Grandpa)
Isadore
Called him Izzy
Chewing all day
on a fat cigar
Looked at lot like Jimmy Durante
His father stowed away on a ship
Wasn't going to be a Russian military conscript
Genocidal pogroms were coming
how he knew
we'll never know.
Ended up in Philadelphia town,
Scranton Pennsylvania
Moved along to Brooklyn
Stubby Izzy
fighting it out with the Irish immigrants
Dreaming of having a chicken farm
over there in New Jersey
Izzy met Grandma Sarah at the family clothing store
they fought it out for 70 years
The 60's book
Games People Play
They were the star attraction
The friction was the glue
that kept them together
The friction was the match
that lit their passion.
Grandpa Izzy
funniest man I ever met
Drove an old 48 Ford
selling housewares in the Southern route.
In the morning far too early
Sneaking into his room
tickling his feet to the sounds
of ohhs and hoho's
At five years old
Grandpa Izzy
took me fishing
on some New Jersey pond -
Afternoon sun with yellow colors
bringing all the foliage alive
Sun setting
fish rising
a hand held in mine
defined the peace
I seek
in reoccurring dreams through out a lifetime
A troubled teen
all suicidal
the drive in the 48 Ford
with Grandpa Izzy
running down the Malibu pier
catching the half day boat before it
disappeared
Grandpa Izzy
never lived far from a race track
I don't know about those losing days
but the secret he said
Was to never lose your sense of humor
Always be able to laugh at yourself
Izzy smoked those big old chewed cigars
lived until he was 94
Ended up not knowing
Who or where he was
Maybe we all
end up
that way too
But in my memory
there is sharp focus
he remains alive in me
If heaven is there
I know I'll find
Izzy and I
on that New Jersey pond,
a fishing line
and
peace inside.
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 12:57 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
Let cruise to Jamaica.
And pretend we're Jamacian.
Let cruise to Brazil.
And pretend we're Brazillian.
And we will have some fun.
Let cruise to Spain.
And pretend we'll Spainards.
Let cruise to the Carribeans.
And pretend we're Carribeanians.
And we will have some fun.
Let's put away of worries.
And just enjoy one another.
As we.
As we explore the world.
Let cruise to Trinidad along the coast.
And enjoy all the joy of the beauty of the world.
God has created a beautiful world for all of us to get to know.
And if we must.
We can go to Mexico.
Or change our journey.
And stop over in Britain.
And pretend to be truly English.
Least in our mind.
As we have some fun.
And journey to Ireland.
To enjoy the folks that's there.
We're on an adventuresome cruise.
Where we are creating our own rules?
As we have some fun.
There be places we might not get to see.
But we will enjoy all our memories.
As we have some fun travelling.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 5:34 PM UTC
I am like a plane
I read somewhere or heard somewhere
I think on NPR
about what it's like to see the world!
from a plane window.
Imagining is having the sights before you!
from a plane window.
The clouds and the blue blue blue
It's the atmosphere.
Dear God! You're actually flying
Except you're in a whites only plane.
Oh! If only it could be bottled and given to the masses
Ms. Marlowe introduced me to Prometheus.
To search for a way
to have what you imagine in yr dreams and in books and hopes
to be before you
is a ropebridge.
It only snaps in the movies baby!
If you're any different
and it snaps for you,
you got death.
Which is what you wanted all along,
no?
When I was a child my mind was ratchet like a plane in turbulence
it is rickety
the space between Trinidad and Tobago makes me readjust my insides and outsides
Climbing Climbing he shakes and flatlines
He becomes a hero he knew all along
Modern Medicine can make freed slaves become the mothers and fathers of the rice cripsies
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 5:14 PM UTC
Rendezvous with you.
All through the Carribeans.
From Trinidad to the West Indies we are going to be.
Leaving behind all worries that seems to be.
We're not taking phones because we're getting away.
If we needed to be in touched with anyone.
We will do the calls.
Because associates and friends get bored.
And will continue to call.
We will see the sun rise come up.
And the sunset go down.
And see some of God beautiful mountain and scenery around.
But, more than that.
So much more.
I'll be on a rendezvous with you.
We're not traveling strangers like on a cruise ship.
Who share a thrill?
And soon tries to forget.
We are two great lovers on a exploring trip.
Connecting to one another through a love relationship journey.
Let's walk.
Let's sail together.
While we love one another.
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 8:40 AM UTC
Until recently,
most of my memories readily available
remind me of ghost needles,
ice picks
& phantom Taipan bites
jabbed wildly
into a heart that beats nails
through my veins.
There are only five people on this planet
I give a **** about.
Everyone else
are just scars
whose dull stabs of pain
remind me why I don't take life seriously.
You words remind me
of that pain I used to endure,
the blood eyed, vicious demons
with barbed-wire kisses
and razor blades to my throat
while their katana fingernails
clawed out my liver and kidneys
riding me like a sybian
whispering comforting Trinidad Moruga Scorpion lullabies.
And I thank you
for reminding me
we have to go through hell
to find the bliss we love.
Jul 14, 2012
Jul 14, 2012 at 12:15 PM UTC
Cuando mi madre llevaba un sorbete de fresa por sombrero
y el humo de los barcos aun era humo de habanero.
Mulata vuelta bajera.
Cádiz se adormecía entre fandangos y habaneras
y un lorito al piano quería hacer de tenor.
Dime dónde está la flor que el hombre tanto venera.
Mi tío Antonio volvía con su aire de insurrecto.
La Cabaña y el Príncipe sonaban por los patios del Puerto.
(Ya no brilla la Perla azul del mar de las Antillas.
Ya se apagó, se nos ha muerto).
Me encontré con la bella Trinidad.
Cuba se había perdido y ahora era verdad.
Era verdad, no era mentira.
Un cañonero huido llegó cantándolo en guajiras.
La Habana ya se perdió. Tuvo la culpa el
dinero...
Calló, cayó el cañonero.
Pero después, pero ¡ah! después...
fue cuando al SÍ lo hicieron YES.
1.2k
mate, you're faking it,
you're no white-knight
in shining armour,
forget it, you ain't
what you're singing about,
mate,
forget it, hashtag it,
when you turn 50
you'll end up
filming a *****
with some eastern european
peasant-girl...
cheap-exploitative exotica,
just before you dip your ****
in Brazil;
ooh.... or do you just mean oh?
whatever mate,
i couldn't really care to mind;
the ***** ain't my mother,
well, we're well affiliated
with treating dogs better than humans,
so where's the argument?
in Trinidad & Tobago or
the Ivory Coast? tell me! tell me, *****
for a worthwhile cuppa!
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
Ask me what I want to do, go fish
if I had a genie, it’s what I would wish
in the lake, river, creek or pond
eagerly cast next to a fern frond
Wiggle my bait and work it some more
hoping a fish cannot ignore
flipping up under docks
or the edges of piles of rocks
Working the tree stumps
waiting on a big thump
on my lure, adrenaline pumps
waiting for the end of my rod to jump
Bass, on Carolina, Alabama, or Texas rigs
crappie and pan fish I’ll catch on a jig
white bass and hybrids, on slabs and spoons
I have even caught them casting at loons
Sam Rayburn, Cedar Creek or Lake Fork
I’m getting excited just like a dork
Tawakoni, Amistad, or Nacogdoches
if I ran out of bait, man I would use roaches
Livingston, Stryker, or the Trinidad Lake
catching some fish, fry them up on a plate
bait cast, and spin cast, pushbuttons oh wow
I also can fly-fish, I taught myself how
Gar, carp and buffalo, anything that bites
looking for something to make my line tight
Matagorda, or Galveston, or Port A
I have no problems fishing the bay
Intercoastal waterway or out in the surf
no problems cooking surf and turf
Black drum, Red fish or Speckled trout
as long as they’re biting I’ll never pout
Whiting, and Croakers and even Hardheads
catching are fun, getting the slime off you dread
gaff tops are pretty, but just as slimy nasty
I’ve never had any, I hear their pretty tasty
Flounders are flat and so are sting rays
but if that’s what’s biting I’ll fish everyday
jacks, and mackerel and bonnet head sharks
so many fish in the ocean, that’s just a start.
How about invasives, silver carp and snakeheads
cast for the snakehead, jumping carp in a net
I’ve fished lots of bass, native and Florida strain
but there is one thought that sticks in my brain
Is I’d like to go catch some peacock bass
top water action would really kick ***
catch and release or serve it up in a dish
as you can see I really love to fish
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
Something satisfying, yet so humiliating.
Throwing the perfect left hook, guided with bad intentions.
Feeling like De La Hoya at his best.
No gold medal will be honored for such animosity.
Flesh meeting plaster, drywall cascades.
Cavity made around my insignificant strike.
Such primal tendency, such an angry motive of strength.
A fifty dollar satisfaction that cannot be beat.
Simply smashing something man made, yet ashamed.
In common with a ******* when it's over, not the great Golden Boy.
With the purity of destruction in my fist, the drywall was my moment.
Innate my primal rage grows, to control it is impossible.
That moment, I felt like I was dancing circles around Felix Trinidad.
Robbed as De La Hoya was, so too was my ego.
But as the Golden Boy, I cannot let this loss define me.
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 5:09 AM UTC
My aunt died last night.
A part of me is Trinidadian.
My aunt died last night.
I am half Trinidadian.
Her name was Aunty Rita.
It was a common,
family joke
to yell her name.
Like this,
RITAAAAAAAAAA.
And now I don't think I'll ever hear that again.
My mom is going to Trinidad for a week.
And I wish I could go too.
Is it ironic that I dreamt of Trinidad the night before.
Is it ironic that I dreamt that a dog died or almost died and I cared for it.
My aunt died last night.
Aunty Rita.
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 12:52 AM UTC
She’s a fatgirl and she’s sad
‘Cause she knows she’s doing bad
Eating chocolate makes her nauseous
Ain’t no time for being cautious
She don’t give a ‘bout her body
She could eat up anybody
She’s a daughter of her dad
Dad who’s born in Trinidad
They hit KFCs with cash
Empty buckets ‘till they crash
Then she wakes up from this frenzy
Spinnin’ round in burger Benzie
Now she’s puking diamond tears
Meaning that she really cares
She is done with being sad
“I’m a woman here, my dad!”
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 5:37 PM UTC
***The Jamaica Jewel's sails are full with skull & bones on high mast,
canons thunder, I pillage & plunder with a trim keel my ship is fast.
My boots and vest are leather black with sword & buckles of gold,
when sunlight reflects, landlubber's quake & their blood runs cold.
I always dress in black except from my hat a plume of vermillion,
A pirate's chest full of treasure and pieces of eight by the million.
Just the sound of my name sends shivers to timbers of all,
I am Capitan Blood Head, on mermaid lips and ports-o-call.
On sand & beach Capitan Blood Head wanted alive or dead,
where rivers become waterfalls posters for bounty is what's read.
So the legend lives on, from Key Largo, San Juan & St. Kitts Cay,
from Trinidad and Tobago to Saint John and Montego Bay.
Don't you dare cross Capitan Blood Head and his Scallywags,
and don't even think about The Capitan's favorite Sea Hags,
or walk the plank to Davy Jones' locker you sank. AGRRR!!!***
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 1:47 PM UTC
Let me go to Trinidad
And escape the sins that live in the cold
(Even computer screens can't thaw it)
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
Wondering in my illusion...
Confused like a left behind bee
With my bed tasting every part of me
Empty full,empty full d brain goes in unison.
Got it! Yes, Got it!
Best castle ever built in d air
What else,we already there
Do it! Yes, Do it!
Rising on my feet,perfect time to take the next step,time to walk
I think I shld Hav a cup of tea bfor outstretching dat leg
A *** of soup, dear leg,more time I beg
Oh Miss stone heard about the Smith's let's have a talk
There goes a bird, it's flying! It has wings!
There is G. Bush,he is a man, he is walking with two legs!
Ohw! Legs, let's outstretch Now, in our heads we've hurt no eggs
Time to take d next step,bfore dat, a cup of coffee pls.
NBA, La liga,Rugby nation,nd Mr Cricket
Soap, Opera's, Mark Spencer, D$G, Trinidad and Tobago
My jaw aches, dear pillow I need ur kiss, a journey awaits to forego
It's night already,lets sleep more ND enjoy d lullaby of the owl and cricket.
Ohw! Legs, our walk,our journey, do you forget?
Move fast! Move fast!.. What I see is blur
Our castle, My castle where have you gone?!,at afar I saw it's windows, neigh I see no door.
Like a smoke in its habitat, it has vanished,hello sweet regret.
Would have lived like a prince ND danced like a princess in her cot
Talked with Bush ND eaten with the queen
Owned NBA, Trinidad and Tobago.....yes would have.. Yes would have
Dressed like a king nd slept like a baby.. Of course would have, of course would have
But No! It's not
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 2:30 AM UTC
Cristo en la cruz. Los pies tocan la tierra.
Los tres maderos son de igual altura.
Cristo no está en el medio. Es el tercero.
La negra barba pende sobre el pecho.
El rostro no es el rostro de las láminas.
Es áspero y judío. No lo veo
y seguiré buscándolo hasta el día
último de mis pasos por la tierra.
El hombre quebrantado sufre y calla.
La corona de espinas lo lastima.
No lo alcanza la befa de la plebe
que ha visto su agonía tantas veces.
La suya o la de otro. Da lo mismo.
Cristo en la cruz. Desordenadamente
piensa en el reino que tal vez lo espera,
piensa en una mujer que no fue suya.
No le está dado ver la teología,
la indescifrable Trinidad, los gnósticos,
las catedrales, la navaja de Occam,
la púrpura, la mitra, la liturgia,
la conversión de Guthrum por la espada,
la Inquisición, la sangre de los mártires,
las atroces Cruzadas, Juana de Arco,
el Vaticano que bendice ejércitos.
Sabe que no es un dios y que es un hombre
que muere con el día. No le importa.
Le importa el duro hierro de los clavos.
No es un romano. No es un griego. Gime.
Nos ha dejado espléndidas metáforas
y una doctrina del perdón que puede
anular el pasado. (Esa sentencia
la escribió un irlandés en una cárcel.)
El alma busca el fin, apresurada.
Ha oscurecido un poco. Ya se ha muerto.
Anda una mosca por la carne quieta.
¿De qué puede servirme que aquel hombre
haya sufrido, si yo sufro ahora?
501
La vida mágica se vive entera
en la mano viril que gesticula
al evocar el seno o la cadera,
como la mano de la Trinidad
teológicamente se atribula
si el Mundo parvo, que en tres dedos toma,
se le escapa cual un globo de goma.
Idolatremos todo padecer,
gozando en la mirífica mujer.
Idolatría
de la expansiva y rútila garganta,
esponjado liceo
en que una curva eterna se suplanta
y en que se instruye el ruiseñor de Alfeo.
Idolatría
de los dos pies lunares y solares
que lunáticos fingen el creciente
en la mezquita azul de los Omares,
y cuando van de oro son un baño
para la Tierra, y son preclaramente
los dos solsticios de un único año.
Idolatría
de la grácil rodilla que soporta,
a través de los siglos de los siglos,
nuestra cabeza en la jornada corta.
Idolatría
de las arcas, que son
y fueron y serán horcas caudinas
bajo las cuales rinde el corazón
su diadema de idólatras espinas.
Idolatría
de los bustos eróticos y místicos
y los netos perfiles cabalísticos.
Idolatría
de la bizarra y música cintura,
guirnalda que en abril se transfigura,
que sirve de medida
a los más filarmónicos afanes,
y que asedian los raucos gavilanes
de nuestra juventud embravecida.
Idolatría
del peso femenino, cesta ufana
que levantamos entre los rosales
por encima de la primera cena,
en la columna de nuestros felices
brazos sacramentales.
Que siempre nuestra noche y nuestro día
clamen: ¡Idolatría! ¡Idolatría!
428
**** me dead dis is not Trinidad we living in dis is Hell.
Man ****** women and man, killing children and duh give ah dam.
Duh take men land or they guh chop off your hand,
Women loykey so every man is every woman man.
Yes in dis island, Government is only tricks and scams.
**** me dead, dis is not Trinidad we living in, dis is Hell.
Men up here different, them duh chase fly buh chasing family instead.
Men beating men if they play mad and touch their bread.
Duh talk about their gyal, watch them and more than five bullets in Yuh head.
Betham and Lavantille, watch any man too hard, well sure Yuh dead.
Because when their guns done talk, there is no more to be said.
**** me dead, dis is no Trinidad we living in, dis is Hell.
Women want all de gun man, so money coming quick, like quicksand and quick hand.
Who tell women to cheat, man duh care over here, women dead too.
Man will buy the world for them, when they done, he want back everything even food.
It's plenty clues, Trini men can't shoot gun, so its either magnet bullet or they using glue.
One more thing too, some police have all wah they need, they will burn down your **** field and geh high from de same ****
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 12:25 PM UTC
I’ve broken 4 shoelaces in my life
I’m getting on closer to 50 now
Than I’m closer to say 23…
.
I probably have 2 broken shoelaces left
In me…
Oct 2, 2021
Oct 2, 2021 at 5:52 AM UTC