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Poems On / About CULTURE  5/24/2016 6:50:57 AM
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Travel Haiku - San Diego's Fiesta Cinco De Mayo

Fiesta Cinco de Mayo
he launches his staccato flamenco feat
to our query whether we look mexican enough

On May 3rd and 4th, in celebration of Cinco de Mayo, San Diego's Old Town transforms into a colorful mercado filled with mariachis, Mexican food, and crafts during the Fiesta Cinco De Mayo, the West Coast's premier celebration of the culture and food found south of the border. Mom and dad can enjoy a margarita and dance while kids play in the Pueblo de los Niños (Kids Village) . This celebration of Latino culture commemorates the Mexican defeat of the French at the Battle of Puebla on May 5,1862.
john tiong chunghoo

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2012 The Endin G

2012 the endin g
clouds skiddin g wait clouds scuddin g SKUDDIN g skinnin g the mountain toppin g the world is endin g sometime this year of the Mayan COlander they made stew out of solYant green human beans the culture was brutal they made sacrifice on those flat pyramids in the middle of the thing they actully killed people taken prisoners they fed them and gave them sex orgies and then they took the heart out of the men unlucky to be in the general area and vicinity the Scribner stood on the very last steppe and wrote the Mind of the Mayan was taken away in one aweful Quezacoatail gulp the Giant Bird descended and screamed the world will be endin g in 2012 so just stop writing now and then the culture just ruined in those ruins we see them still today they count the steppes and divide the number of the 666 into the endin g of the world just stopped being really considered it has been abused so much there were total idiots in charge since Mayan days the war has ruled the hate relates to seeing the future in glimpses and hazes ignoring your brother and helping yourself to the exclusion of the needy fellow promising your time to self reflection ignoring the needs of the brother on fire the Pheonix rising from the ashes of time carries warnings of the end visa vee visa lime green underlines the words in the documents they left the WORD printed on parchment and buried in the caves under the sea of expansions under the glimpse of time the Mayan snake eating its own tail in a strang replica of the end of the world Earth will consume itself in the Fire of the End of Time while the Masses soar to the Rapture of the INcan GOD of WAR.
Charles Hice

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Africa Is Just.

It is just a piece of land. Just a Continent. Just one Big country just a storyboard Oozing with Blood of slave Trade. T's Just a battlefield For Political partriachy. Divided by Many Pre-COLONIALY Boarder lines drafted on a Wooden Table. A medical Laboratory Culture Media That Cultures Diseases. Afrika is just......? ! ¿? ! .

It is a Habitat For Street Kids, Street Thugs, Widdows and Orphans. A Hive of demons, MUTATING Christians Communists and Carpitalists. Litterary Litterates, politicaly Violent. With no Currency Of Themselfs. AFRICA is Just My motherland. That i till with both My Hands Bare footed. It is just my foot bearrer she that Hide Many Of my Dreams overnight. It is just an Not Guilty of Collonialism. It is not A Victim of Collonialism but just a Victor. Africa is just. Ndezvavanhu.
Poet jerrimos mugweni(ZVAVANHUVEVHU)

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Cultural Dream

Unable to make concealment for being the cynosure of all eyes, the belle without her adonis... being perished in the shauri of pathological nature, in the halcyon sphere of the hades, the quietus, one of stygian odyssey not inapplicable to all. Fermented in the sacrament of hallowed culture, and the unwonted path that failed this moment. The patrician elders came, saying the medicine that works not requires yet the addition of a leaf. A sufuria carries out its duty at the expense of live fire. The widow's right to woo another studmuffin inherent in the necessity to swim in the aqua of copulation with her deceased husband in the splash of a briny dream, whose anticipated content of verbal precipitation would be divulged and honoured within the grip of an authorized few. Sleep hit each night, belying the direction of brittle cultural haven... not the culture but the young widow that had to be diagnosed. Let her be equipped with her beauty, her chignon, some seemingly quirky succotash and brisket within the context of her hubby's fav: to liberalize the pavlovian urge through the incipient verbena of dream, she would carry her feet tranquilly to the very grave, to the Shangri-La in Lost Horizon, where in firm quietness her love was laid.
Tunji Ibrahim

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Poems On / About CULTURE