I leave you a list of three stanza poems of varied subjects such as pollution, study, animals, among others ... The stanzas are usually separated by a full stop. However, there are trends in poetry in which authors omit the use of punctuation marks, and separate stanzas simply with double spaces..
It is common that the stanzas of these poetic manifestations contain from two verses to those that the author considers, and that these have determined, constant metrics that rhyme with each other. These qualities facilitate learning among the people who listen to the poems, which makes their dissemination and popularization easier..
Now, these poems can also be composed of white or free verses. This means that their stanzas may lack rhyme and meter, so the message that the poet wants to convey becomes more important..
I
You go to the horizon of the seagulls,
there where the mountain of water rests,
you go like one who crosses foam roads
fabric soul, eternal canoe.
II
You leave and the wind rocks your cradle
under the sun, over the mirror,
you leave as a silent reflection of the moon
where enormous mysteries await.
III
The fisherman goes on your oak back,
the captain and the sailor,
Who wants to be candid?
of the sky, the sun and a star.
I
Between blues and seagulls
your presence rises,
and in the salt, your sweet essence,
I can see marine drops.
You notice my absence,
and I know, dear people,
Well, you left me shelter and nest
in my childhood years,
I carry your honey fragrance in me
in every step felt.
II
I did not leave, you know it well,
it's just a until then,
I will return to you in the bronzes
with the snow already on my temple.
I miss my people too,
my blood, my great feeling,
and I can't lie to you,
I don't hide anything from you,
my soul is crowned
wanting to go again.
III
When I return I will kiss the ground,
I will swim all your sea,
I will not hesitate to sing
as the bird does in its flight.
And it is that in me there is an ice
that kisses my soul daily,
a gray that corrodes the calm
since I left your port,
it's like walking dead and alive
no shadow on any palm.
I
Thank you I must give to you,
dear refrigerator,
for taking care of my food
with such enormous love.
II
You cool the water well,
and you freeze the meat,
and the fruits remain
always smooth and very good.
III
If I want a delicious ice cream,
I go to your door then,
where is there such variety
that the smile wakes up.
I
It is the part of the house
where the flavors come together
there they spring from love
the richest smells
II
Pasta is prepared in it
also tasty stews
salads desserts dishes
for very precise tastes
III
Family reunites
in it to share
and well together enjoy
how beautiful it is to live
I
I must study to achieve
the goals in my life,
so that nobody decides
where can i go.
And I study to change
the bad for the good,
to be the thunder from the lightning,
rumble in places,
to reform homes
and put a brake on crime.
II
Studying is the call
for a real change,
who studies is a vigilante,
he is a very dedicated being.
Studying makes you winged,
open the sky and its ways,
to the ear gives trills
of pure wisdom,
it gives sweetness to the voice,
covered with fine clothing.
III
I must study for my family,
for my people, for my people,
for a different world,
Well, educating yourself conciliates.
Who is formed, then, helps,
gives light and gives hope,
lighting reaches
and serves as a guide to whoever,
opportunities create,
and the values strengthens.
I
The planet suffers and suffers
because the contamination,
cancer of every nation,
valley of shadows and brimstone.
II
It is the duty of the citizen,
of every man, every child,
take care, pamper, give affection
to your closest environment.
III
Let's not dirty the seas anymore,
neither the forests nor the rivers,
nor the lakes with ships,
they are sacred, they are altars.
I
School is the place
where are we going to learn
to make being grow,
have fun and play.
II
Friendship gives in heaps,
and very good teachings,
if you know him you advance
between sums and fractions.
III
Its spaces feed
the soul, also the mind,
the source is of knowledge,
and the spirits increase.
I
To stay fit
nothing like good sport,
for the muscle it is consort
and health is the norm.
II
Be it cycling or swimming,
tennis, soccer or fencing,
sport is raw material
for a healthy heart.
III
I apply it daily,
even an hour,
because joy arises
the rest of the schedule.
I
No one knows where it goes,
neither where does it come from
what shape your body is,
or if he dreams, maybe, maybe.
The wind its cool gives,
is that what i do know,
to the mill gives strength and faith
to the man when he feels him,
and his silent presence
go out for coffee.
II
For him the ship plows the sea
with its crystalline trail,
the wind is fine transparency
that helps the man in his walk.
And if we talk about flying,
to the alcatraz he gives his strength
for a smooth journey to exercise
there on the horizon,
also gives the faithful mockingbird
courage so that it does not twist.
III
And even though we can't see
its image nor its shape,
with its strength it goes and deforms
even an oak, with power.
And still in the evening
his great work does not cease,
is infinite speaker,
voice from heaven here on earth
-from the plain to the mountains-,
of the great God, the noble Author.
I
You come in your gray cloud
to give life to the earth,
you come to give birth, nuance,
to the sleeping landscape.
II
The field welcomes you,
the house, the man, the child,
the woman, the dog, the saint,
and the path sprouted from yesterday.
III
You come to take away the rubble,
with your soul of transparencies,
you come loaded with astonishment
to this world full of memories.
The fountain takes away its cantata.
All roads awaken ...
Sea of dawn, sea of silver,
How clean you are among the pines!
South wind, are you coming sonorous
of suns? They blind the roads ...
Sea of siesta, sea of gold,
How happy you are over the pines!
Says the verdon I do not know what ...
My soul goes through the roads ...
Evening sea, sea of rose,
How sweet you are among the pines!
Author: Juan Ramón Jiménez
Oh, death, I love you, but I adore you, life ...
When I go in my box forever asleep,
Make it last time
The spring sun penetrates my pupils.
Leave me some time under the heat of heaven,
Let the fertile sun tremble on my ice ...
The star was so good that at dawn it came out
To tell me: good morning.
I'm not afraid of rest, rest is good,
But before the pious traveler kisses me
That every morning,
Happy as a child, he reached my windows.
Author: Alfonsina Storni
They say I pretend or lie.
I write everything. Not.
I just feel
With imagination.
I don't use my heart.
Everything I dream or live,
What fails me or ends,
It's like a terrace
Still about something else.
That thing is the one that is beautiful.
That's why I write in the middle.
of what is not at the bottom,
Free from my reverie,
Serious about what it is not.
Feel? Who reads!
Author: Fernando Pessoa
Melancholy, take out your sweet beak now;
don't fatten your fasts on my light wheats.
Melancholy, enough! Which do your daggers drink
the blood that my blue leech drew!
Do not use up the woman's mana that has gone down;
I want some cross to be born from him tomorrow,
tomorrow that I have no one to turn my eyes to,
when he opens his big O mocking the coffin.
My heart is a pot watered with bitterness;
there are other old birds that graze inside it ...
Melancholy, stop drying my life,
and bare your woman's lip ... !
Author: César Vallejo
If a thorn hurts me, I turn away from the thorn,
… But I don't hate her! When meanness
envious in me she sticks the darts of her anger,
silently skip my plant, and head towards more pure
atmosphere of love and charity.
Grudges? What good are they? What grudges accomplish?
They neither heal wounds, nor correct evil.
My rose bush barely has time to give flowers,
and does not lavish sap on piercing spikes:
if my enemy passes near my rosebush,
he will take the roses of the most subtle essence.
And if I notice in them some lively red,
It will be that of that blood that his malevolence
from yesterday he poured, wounding me with bitterness and violence,
and that the rosebush returns, changed into a flower of peace!
Author: Amado Nervo
Where the wind, undaunted, revolts
towers of light against my blood,
you, ticket, new flower,
cut into the balconies of the tram.
You run away, straight, straight smooth,
in your petal a name and a meeting
latent, to that center
closed and to be cut from engagement.
And the rose does not burn in you, nor does it deprive you
the late carnation, if the violet
contemporary, alive,
of the book that travels in the jacket.
Author: Rafael Alberti
I pronounce your name
in the dark nights,
when the stars come
to drink on the moon
and the branches sleep
of the hidden fronds.
And I feel hollow
of passion and music.
Crazy clock that sings
dead old hours.
I pronounce your name,
in this dark night,
and your name is familiar to me
farther than ever.
Farther than all the stars
and more painful than the gentle rain.
Will I love you like then
ever? What guilt
has my heart?
If the fog clears,
What other passion awaits me?
Will it be quiet and pure?
If my fingers could
defoliate the moon!
Author: Federico García Lorca
Fleece of my flesh
that in my entrails I wove,
shaky fleece,
Fall asleep attached to me!
The partridge sleeps in the wheat
listening to it beat.
Do not be troubled by breath,
Fall asleep attached to me!
I have lost everything
now I tremble even when sleeping.
Don't slip off my chest,
Fall asleep attached to me!
Author: Gabriela Mistral
While the shadow passes from a holy love, today I want
put a sweet psalm on my old lectern.
I will agree the notes of the severe organ
sighing the fragrant fife of April.
Autumn pomas will ripen their aroma;
myrrh and frankincense will sing their scent;
the rose bushes will breathe their fresh perfume,
under the peace in the shade of the warm orchard in bloom.
To the slow slow chord of music and aroma,
the only and old and noble reason for my praying
it will lift its flight from a dove,
and the white word will rise to the altar.
Author: Antonio Machado
It's a pity that you're not with me
when I look at the clock and it's four o'clock
and I finish the form and think ten minutes
and I stretch my legs like every afternoon
and I do this with my shoulders to loosen my back
And I bend my fingers and pull lies out of them.
It's a pity that you're not with me
when I look at the clock and it's five
and I'm a handle that calculates interest
or two hands jumping over forty keys
or an ear that hears the phone barking
or a guy who does numbers and gets truths out of them.
It's a pity that you're not with me
when I look at the clock and it's six.
You could come close in surprise
and tell me "What's up?" and we would stay
I with the red stain of your lips
you with the blue smudge of my carbon.
Author: Mario Benedetti
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