"venezuela" poems
Afghanistan needs hellopoetry
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Congo, Republic is in need of hellopoetry
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Korea, South needs hellopoetry
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Mali needs hellopoetry
Malta needs hellopoetry
Marshall Islands needs hellopoetry
Mauritania needs hellopoetry
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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
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Niger needs hellopoetry
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Palau needs hellopoetry
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Philippines needs hellopoetry
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Portugal needs hellopoetry
Qatar needs hellopoetry
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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
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 11:08 AM UTC
Wussup, professional Latina?
Diversity been good 2 U?
Water warm enough 4 U?
Shaking down enuf rich gringos
to fund your Non-Profit?
(*speak against capitalismo here*)
Got time for la Revolución after your pedicure today?
(mention the border here)
still watching Oprah, Abuela?
heard from your third ex-husband recently?
Wussup consummate professional.
(*turn on NPR here*)
Got nail polish? Got car waxed? Got investments?
(take a networking business lunch here)
Have you streaked your hair enuf?
(mention indigenismo here)
I hope you are caring well for all the nietos
and still have time to be a tiburona
(insert italicized Spanish word here)
How are all your gente ?
(*mention mujeres fuertes here*)
Hey Latina - when did you move out of the barrio ?
(*mention La Raza here*)
Mujer Latina—wussup.
how is Gringolandia workin' out 4 U ?
(turn off Univision here)
'cause if the oppression gets too bad
you could always move back
to Venezuela
or Chihuahua
or San Juan, or...
(*mention Trump here*)
...Miami?
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 7:01 PM UTC
Carrot arepas on the table,
Busy hands in the kitchen,
Little feet run amok across the house,
And my mouth is full.
They are delicious,
She is the ideal wife,
They are curious,
And are a part of me.
Venezuela gave me their food,
Also her,
Between us both we received them,
And God is the gift giver!
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 3:07 PM UTC
Islamist Extremists. Boat Capsized.
Obama and Nelson Mandela. Celebrity Lies.
Plane Crash. Forest Fires.
Missing Girl. Handgun-buyers.
Amazon Lawsuit. ANT-MAN. Low Supplies!
Walmart Empty Shelves. Chinese Food Scandal.
Microsoft Layoffs. Heat and Gasoline. Oil.
Mad Max! Comic Book Convention Drama.
Breast Lumps and Swelling.
Television. Veteran's Hospitals.
Israel and Gaza Fight On.
Beachgoers Hit by Lightning.
Baseball Drinking Songs.
Sci-fi, Wi-fi, Ebola, and Libya.
Ukraine. Venezuela. Marriage. Liver failure.
Allen Webster. USA. RACE CARS.
Global Catastrophe Down to Warming of the Earth.
Dinosaurs Had Feathers. MH17. Profits.
Desert Bakery. Syria. We Must be Mad.
Philippines: 100 Million People on an Island.
Salmonella Lawsuit. Cheeseburger Diet.
Twinkies Never Going Bad.
Putin, Palin, and the Tour de France.
Fracking. Cats and Dogs.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
The once timid
Shores of my resistance.
Fearing an inundation of the sorts
of Flotsam and Jetsam that can cure a man of loneliness,
Were trampled like soccer fans in Venezuela, when you appeared on my shore.
Certain that the fraughting souls within, were to cover me in stinking pitch.
I retreated to the hills and played the wait and see.
Waiting and watching and hoping to pray.
And when you legged your way
onto my beach,
I cried like a gangster on new years eve
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 12:48 AM UTC
Homecoming body:
A grey cardigan strips down,
bonding skin to
night’s air,
penetrating
Chevrolet safe havens
drowned in lover’s spit.
My Mind
thanks Google,
enabling electronic bibles
to leave disciples stifled
with religious quotas,
an excuse to quote us —
“Trouble at the Border,
read the former
court room reporter
working for the,
sensationalized,
through remnants of
blood stains in our eyes.”
Midway through Chapter 1 —
reeks not only of
of *** in the backseat —
but of Venezuela’s shorelines.
Of her high school hallways.
Of the intrigue of the unexplored Mexican neighbor,
her freedom amidst constraint,
where Visas
lease us
advertising campaigns
for maquiladora made lampshades.
Despite their protest,
common sense
lent comparisons,
a consequence
of stories told in reverse.
They hover over Venezuela’s familiar curves,
her long black hair straddling my shoulders.
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 8:00 PM UTC
What happens
____ to space______
between us
This is the
human race
Ah, Vey?
Just pray
Overly smitten
But not seeing
clearly picture-prey
He or she runs!!
Little darlings
here comes the sun*
The lime doing the time
Falling trees of coconut
Feeling- overloved
Deviant artist
splat coconut milk
No Security Cat
comfort box
So out of recession
Killer fox______
Chocolatey coconut
Cleanse my mind detox
Almond Joy concession
Rise up Face Botox
He cannot
read you
Haywire always
wired up his words
Hurried Hazelnut
coffee if you mind
Over-sugared
Increased brain
functions bitter rinds
So commercialized
The Cocoa Puffs
Going bananas
monkey ***
Lexie Vamp Vex
Mr. Ed overload
of Oz colors baboon
Going up Air Balloon
So many airheads
The Rainforest
GQ he's gone IQ
((Quarterly Neck of the woods))
Not orderly Outback
Steakhouse
Dinosaurs
******
Vicarious
No shortcut
The nervous system
The fast have a drink
furious
Cracking a coconut
Her Safe______**
6-6-6 combinations
Could crack her
Coconut oil neck her
City Girl call her
Intellectual brain
Singing
Gene Kelly
umbrella
Raining coconuts
(On Overload)
Strawberry Fields
This will be short
Yeah right forever
shortcake, not any sort
The trend of
coconut
Nearer because
of you I am
further
She was the
Brazilian Nut
With her
blind gut
((Coconut Houdini))
Island of Bali
Beauty of Judy
Somewhere so over it
rainbow
King Kong
Hairy chest banging
coconut drink slurping
Of girl talk
Strong New Jersey
Stamina
***** of Venezuela
Overload of
Prima, Donna's
Instant Karma
going to get them
Knocked them off
there feet
Where is my
John Lennon
He has the best beat
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 6:58 AM UTC
The women in Pakistan are all dead
Men are hungry,
butter their bread with lead
Cartel gang **** death in Venezuela
Girls bleed, crying
Shadowed figure screams "Impale her!"
America hates women
Women love America
Generalisations of a generally confused man
Man jumps from UK office block
Painted tarmac,
because she refused to simply **** his ****
******* figure hangs from a tree in Japan
Aokigahara hikikomori,
The human condition destroyed this man
Single father, taking his daughter to a park
Accused by a stranger,
Jumping to a conclusion, rather dark
Hooded man runs the world
Masked by power,
Money is bigger than Jesus
Knowledge destroys prejudice
Rock. Paper. Scissors.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
the year opened on two kinds of olympics:
Sochi and selfie.
we spent months looking for
one missing plane
276 missing girls,
and 43 missing students.
from Ukraine to Mexico,
Palestine to Venezuela,
to Ferguson,
the front of the battle lines
were crammed full.
their stories captivated us,
their movements motivated us.
we snapchatted, we vined and instagrammed,
we remembered their names.
Malala Yousafzai
to Mike Brown.
Eric Garner to Ebola.
we made some friends
and some enemies.
and I think,
when I look back,
years from now,
at the year 2014,
the first thing to come to mind will be,
"I was there."
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 10:00 PM UTC
¿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 ”.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 12:24 PM UTC
You're going to die
But there's a list of the 30 best cat selfies on buzzfeed
Something is going on in Ukraine, or is it Venezuela?
But it's ok...
Sherlock is back on
And you haven't finished Game of Thrones yet
God is a twisted sadist if he exists at all
But you have some notifications on Facebook
Don't think,
Just pick up the phone and play Flappy Bird
Let the feelies get to those thoughts that creep in
The revolution wasn't televised
It was tweeted
And its auto-tune remix went viral the next day
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
In the Presidential Palace, the steaks are served up seared.
There’s an excellent wine cellar for meals expertly prepared.
The Palace is cool in summer; in winter it's toasty warm,
And Maduro and his spouse are always safe and free from harm.
In the streets of Venezuela there is anger and despair.
Inflation is the problem but why should Maduro care.
The store shelves are nearly empty; most people live in fear
There is ****** done in daylight and the sense that chaos nears.
This was once a beautiful, Prosperous land, the envy of the South.
Then a populist Socialist came to drive investors out.
Now a nation, resource rich, has been importing oil,
a nation whose own oil reserves are the greatest in the world.
His critics?- dead or imprisoned; the media is controlled
There’s no term limits on his rule. Voters do as they are told.
Demonstrators, even peaceful, can be shot down in the street
While Maduro sips his wine and decides what next he’ll have to eat.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 7:27 AM UTC
an incomplete conundrum
a fixed and failed philosophy
a neverending neurotic nightmare
god can’t help you now
so do you go back to what you know best?
the enigma of unfinished cocktails at empty tables
you look to see what else there is
try to be hopeful, though you know the truth
answer questions with a smile
don’t forget to brush your teeth
and never let them know
Do you like music?
yeah.
That’s fantastic, so do I.
yeah.
you’ve never been to venezuela
you heard it’s nice.
thank god for our freedom, am I right?
I wouldnt go no place else
incomprehensible
you walk sometimes
just to be alone and think
why not more
infatuation
with the
permutation
of the
inundation
of the
conflagration
how do you suppose
it all works?
I mean, everything.
the plants told me
the stars are alive
but how does it work?
and what do you do?
and why?
you go back
things come up, and you forget about the magic
the point is to remember
so write it down
read it often
and never forget
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 10:26 AM UTC
In preserving Hugo Chavez,
every method will be tried.
If stuffing Hugo doesn’t work,
They’ll try Formaldehyde.
Madam Tussaud’s was consulted
But their wax was doomed to melt.
It is steamy in Caracas
And Hugo’s not exactly svelte.
A corpse in a glass coffin
Like Snow White on display
The late lamented Hugo
Was a saint some peasants say.
What is it with these communists
Who all faiths do decry?
They long to be like Lenin;
To be worshiped, deified.
In the end they'll use McDonald's
secret sauce to tan his hide.
Their burgers last forever
don't get me started on their fries.
If you go to Venezuela
Be sure and say hello for me
To the carcass of Caracas
preserved for posterity.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
Starving his people so that they eat off dumpsters is not enough;
Causing more than 3,000,000 of the best and brightest to emigrate is not enough;
An annual inflation rate of 60,324% today (source: Forbes) is not enough;
Rejecting at gun point foreign food and medicine to aid the sick and starving at the borders is not enough;
Trampling on the Constitution and establishing a dictatorship is not enough;
Billions of dollars stolen from the Venezuelan people by cronies is not enough;
Destroying hope, progress, and a leading world economy is not enough;
Today government thugs are literally running over protesters in armored vehicles.
A small group of rabid-left apologists in the U.S. telling us to ignore the man behind the curtain in an insane attempt to defend the indefensible must face reality.
Maduro must go.
His Marxist dystopia must be dismantled.
The Venezuelan people must regain the right of self determination through free and fair elections--not the sham elections all Communist nations use to show close to 100% approval of the ruling tyrant.
Enough is enough!
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 2:00 PM UTC
Watching milk pour into little
ziploc bags with bananas and
Cheerios and fights over which
fruit better invokes the feeling
of sunrise, of home and
morning eye crust and blown
curtains in summer breeze.
Strawberries don't stain dresses
as much as blackberries from
a friend's farm in upstate
New York or Eastern Washington
or some ranch in coastal Venezuela
with coffee and sugar smells
stuck on sticky skin and licking
juice from sweet fingertips
right before it starts to rain.
When February sun peeks
through cumulus clouds after
a five-day downpour, you turn
your face to mine and proclaim
that the world may be beautiful and youthful, after all.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 12:58 PM UTC
Syndicate!
Venezuela.
A land of ghosts.
Where cell phones die.
Undetectable.
As families cry.
For their lost loves.
Hostages taken.
Vanish into night.
For minimal ransom.
Ransoms paid by families of wealth.
Abductees murdered.
Rarely returned.
Hostage takers.
Rarely caught.
In this land of class distinction.
Tension builds.
Some.
The lucky ones get taken from the avenues.
Taken to the ATM.
Where their bank accounts are drained.
Given drugs then dumped again.
Caracas homicide rates high.
Ransoms paid and men still die!
In this dark land where crimes flies.
Never solved in this land so corrupt.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
Every true crime documentary resides in me.
Binge used to be tied to drinking. The language, I think,
is evolving, and I walk the black part of town at
night on a double dare from a lady poet whose
lexical purview lies somewhere between her
**** and the moon. I'm a beacon of fairness,
fair trade coffee stains my teeth, my lenin pants
imported from Bali are ethically made, and I speak
in a respectable and thoughtful half whisper
like the women of the QVC.
I return to the loft free of gunshot wounds
and love my lady poet thin and love my lady poet
tall and she says confusion is the only sustainable
state of being and I say I can agree with that and
she says she's been thinking about transitioning
and I say into more responsibility at work? and she
says haha no. Into a man.
And three weeks later I watch her read a poem
entitled "Traffic My **** Transgender *** to Heaven,"
she goes home with one, two, three Sylvia Plath lookalikes,
and I get swabbed at the doctors and I get prescribed
a moderate dose of Effexor and I speak in high school
Spanish to my office crush — she's from Venezuela, I think.
Power. Control. Stockings, I tell her, I have a thing for stockings
and pink cotton socks. One more drink and I'll hit my
groove. Chill. Power. Control. Put on that soul song I like.
Didn't I do it, baby?
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
Dark sea wine,
send me to Brazil
Caracas, Venezuela,
the Coasts of Gold,
strung out on oblivion,
drowning in the sun,
each exhale an eon,
collapsing upon itself
Hail Mary, sweet ****** mother,
salty ginger, stellar space,
answer a beggar's prayer,
somewhere let horses run wild,
and may a lion lie with a lamb's tail
Soaked in jazzy flow,
the white Apogaean tides
crash like a silver blade against bronze,
romance, the death of heroes,
Achille's spear,
penetrating this moment, ripping it bare,
slicing young flesh,
open wounds bleeding blessed red life to the world,
an amber glaze
Thrones pin peace to the wall,
a trophy pelt for all to see
with cool blazing eyes,
yet all look away
while I two step waltz like a jigging liquid light wave,
lithe feet raining down moves like a dog in the woods,
chasing deer through smokey paths hidden from human stained eyes
by thick brush
Stiff whiskey midnight,
gibbous moon hangs mellow yellow like half a wheel of cheese,
canonized in secret watching,
the pretty girl problems
thrown around like trash blown in the park
lovely day, where does this path lead?
the open road forever howls
life, death, birth, infinity
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
The Italian coast is a dangerous place for an American
Its full of sharks, so I’ve heard.
Englishmen consider the wogs chums
Americans more as the singular
With a hat from Chile,
pants assembled in Mexico,
and bananas grown in Venezuela,
The whole seems to be lesser than its parts.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
Calavera, burlón y algo alocado
Siempre Ricaurte fue, pero valiente;
Y un día, con Bolívar que iba al frente,
Se marchó a Venezuela uniformado.
De «San Mateo» brilla el sol. Cercado
Se ve el parque. Bolívar, impaciente,
Al cerro se lanzó, como demente,
Y gritó entonces: «¡Todo está acabado!»
Y respondió Ricaurte: «Dondequiera
Fama dejando voy de calavera....
Pues verán lo que haré sin gran trabajo».
Y fuego al parque le prendió. Subía,
Y en las nubes, riéndose, veía
Su castillo de pólvora aquí abajo.
848
She's a rebel at heart.
Veins that show pain
disappear from the warmth of this art.
Earthquakes reoccurring in so many places
protesters arrested for their true traits.
Fighting for rights feels great like candy from Venezuela
in contrast to Amityville **** wicked calamity
the amplifier is cops have an intent to ****
You hypocrite must you downplay the situation still?
Officers like animals hungry for a meal
I made this simple simplistic
because we all have walls that get ruined
by what we all want to keep away
and that's what turns the soul ill.
Am I a fool for believing I can change the world
and find a way out?
This is me with no doubt to help a stranger
through the rain cloud until the sun shines and the days out. Confusion dawned to me dawn to a few be careful.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 6:51 PM UTC
I met him in the night.
A Gayborhood local
told me he was from Venezuela, but didn’t have to,
his accent, so beautiful with its deep grit and softness,
twang and lisp.
I already knew, he didn’t have to tell me.
He bought me drinks, and watched
me and only me,
as I bit from the fruit of his garden.
He invited me to an afterparty, I didn’t know
him, but we went through alleys,
dampened by the heat of bodies
melding to the brick walls, glistening
in the streetlights and nightlife. Unknown lips
pressed and held, to stay, not to
part. It was
beautiful.
Within the alley was
our destination: underground. It was
a luscious venue, crowded, exuberant and whimsy.
Velvet covered the walls, and he brought me more drinks.
I finished them all.
I remember
locking lips with a stranger, and how
it hurt.
He was warm and sweaty, and
smelled of Burberry and whiskey,
his stubble left
my face burning.
He grabbed my hand, and led me to
the bathroom, then I woke up
in his bed.
I remembered
his husband’s name, and that
he lived in Caracas, that
we had *** and took
a shower together, that
his mother, dying from leukemia,
slept upstairs, unknowing.
I wept
in a stranger’s arms,
cradled by their tiny physique.
I wept
for our beloveds.
Oct 16, 2020
Oct 16, 2020 at 1:27 AM UTC