"venezuelan" poems
I came home in the middle of the day,
nobody home but me.
The snowdrops in the back yard
were a surpliced choir
bowing their heads in prayer,
the camellia flowering still
like crazy.
Spring in the soft soft air
I turned my face skyward
to peg the washing
and thought
this is our home.
Quiet now,
as we were quiet
last night silently reading,
gently letting our anxious words
fall away, and later
I played, for your ears alone,
in the next room
a Venezuelan dance,
caressing the strings
of the instrument that still
holds my heart
as I know you hold mine
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 5:35 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
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
To the boy with the bad eyebrows,
you were everything I wasn't allowed.
But I didn't like you,
I liked the feeling of liking you.
To the boy who Bollywood dances so well,
We would be so stereotypical,
Indian with Indian,
yet somehow we never came upon eachother.
We should be friends.
To the boy who salutes,
you were the first real one,
and I don’t know if I wanted it,
but it was unexpected.
It just wasn't meant to happen,
but I don't want you to ever leave.
There will always be something here,
I'll always draw to you.
To the boy who made me famous as his rival,
we would be so perfect together.
I've never liked someone as much as you.
Take a jump with me,
I'm sure we would make it beautiful.
To the Venezuelan boy who gave good hugs,
summer flings can't get any better.
We both knew that wouldn't last,
but it was good while it did.
To the boy who's the lion to my inner tiger,
We're almost the same,
and this could've worked,
but I pushed myself into it half-heartedly;
this is for her, not for me.
It just wasn't right.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 8:03 AM UTC
i come from whispers of Venezuelan lullabies
y las stories que viene del corazon de mi mama.
the annual celebracion de Corpus Christi is a
constant reminder de la amarilla, azul, y sangre roja
coursing through my veins.
when i was younger,
yo baile durante horas con mi papa
and sung at the top of my lungs
until the last bit of oxygen
en mi pulmones deteriorated.
mi cultura is the incarnation of who i am,
it inhabits every cell en mi cuerpo,
and never will i ever consider
disintegrating the ashes on which mis ancestros
were founded upon.
it's the embodiment of my children, and their children;
it's mi vida y mi alma,
and no one could ever tear down the walls
of this Venezuelan throne.
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 11:30 AM UTC
Down at Mary Lou's,
There's a Venezuelan *****
I'd have married her at 16
If we were south of Mason Dixon,
She's as sweet as cotton candy
She's a Venezuelan fox,
She has all the right ingredients
To be unorthodox.
Down at Mary Lou's
There's a Venezuelan momma,
She looks hotter than Hell
And knows nothing of Obama,
She has a way with coffee beans
A special way to grind,
The brew so stimulating
Oh baby; What a find!
Down at Mary Lou's
There's a Venezuelan beauty,
She blends outstanding coffee
And she really is a cutie,
Whenever I stop by
I feel her Venezuelan heat,
I get an overwhelming urge
Just to have a bite to eat.
Down at Mary Lou's
There's a Venezuelan girl,
She makes the finest Latte'
With a little mocha curl,
Her steam is hyper-pressured
Milk frothing to a frenzy,
I think I'll wait outside for her
To perform an apprehenzie.
Down at Mary Lou's
There's a Venezuelan dame,
She prepares an awesome beverage
While I play a little game,
It’s called watch the Coffee Maid
Tamp the grounds and make some steam,
Oh, this Venezuelan Coffee chick
Is an old man’s sweetest dream.
There's a Venezuelan princess
Down at Mary Lou's,
If I had done the hiring
She's the one I'd choose,
Her charisma is intoxicating
Her aromas even more so,
And when she wears that skimpy T - shirt
I'm just nuts about her torso.
Down at Mary Lou's
Things are heating up,
I keep dropping in for coffee
At three bucks a cup,
And while I'm on the subject
Regarding a Venezuelan Barista,
If she isn't available.........
Might she have a sista'?
A vacation too short
But the views were **** good,
Thanks to a Venezuelan beauty
Preparing coffee as one should,
I'll return again a year from now
And stop at Mary Lou's,
Will the Coffee chick come back again?
If not I'll sing the blues.
May 22, 2021
May 22, 2021 at 12:29 PM UTC
girls
and their long thin legs and flat tiny waists
surrounded by
boys
hands in their shorts pockets, trying to seem cool
my name is Steve, they say
but
through their smile they eye the prize
a pair of perky German *******
or French
or Venezuelan
it doesn’t matter
drift sick to the porch steps of a church
write poetry
look at clouds
pray for rain
pray tomorrow will be better
my God
please
let tomorrow be better
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC
misty eyed children shift in gossamer sheets
spider web silken swaddling
hold arms and legs at bay
whilst the neocons pull delicate straws
from deep pockets
lined with south African diamonds
and Venezuelan crude
slowly they sip the crimson life
from the babies *******
piercing hearts and slurping long
pulling each and every droplet
into an insatiable void –
feverously unwound and placed back
into wombs forever altered
space creating blank eyed apathy monsters
only fixated on technologic advances
and trending topics
broken minds unable to grasp critical thought
only seven second processing
and on to the next hashtag
expressionless blight on humanity
also, the future of civilization –
tears well as I sit across from children
lost in phone
lost in space
faceless emotionless creatures
bravely feeding medication
to their elders
for 16 dollars an hour –
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 11:01 AM UTC
In Venezuela where the palm trees sway
Under the sun little children laugh and play
Life dances in colors both bright
Two lover's kissing under the Venezuelan moonlight And art and music fills the air
A culture that warmly greets and you'll
Never find a brighter place
And together in Venezuela they stand
In unity hand in hand and
They sing a proud song
For Venezuela their beloved strand.
Sep 3, 2025
Sep 3, 2025 at 6:24 AM UTC
Oh! Cook Coup shall
! call thee bird, or but
a wandering vice.
The Chiefs Table displays
ingredients but never
his classified recipes.
Trump uses Jenny Craig
as his Venezuelan mascot
for food aid, regime change,
with a Haiku of seasoning from-
Syria, Iraq, Libya, Afghanistan,
France, UK Labour.
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 2:43 AM UTC