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Details | Spaniard Poem | |

Old Boyfriends - A Trilogy

                Part 1

One summer in our youth group was a boy
I met.  How I would love to understand
if what he’d felt was equal to the joy
that bloomed in me when he caressed my hand.

His elfin features feminine and fine
revealed him to be prettier than me.
His legs and trunk seemed half the width of mine
and deeper than his skin his delicacy.

He fretted, changed his moods; and ulcers grew
inside him.  Once atop a ferris wheel
he vomited, and I was young and knew
that we were through. . . but how he’d made me feel!

Oh, where is John?  I ask; no one can say.
We’d never really kissed. . . Had he been gay?

     Part 2

Where I grew up, a gent was hard to find
who shared my faith, and so I launched my search
for someone who was handsome, good and kind
at monthly dances sponsored by my church.
Across the river lived a Mormon guy,
tall, blue-eyed, intelligent and sweet.
I was sort of wild; he was shy,
but at a youth event we planned to meet.
Although at every chance we kissed and cuddled,
I sensed he thought I’d bring him to perdition.
I was his “Bathsheba” left befuddled.
Then later, Alvin went and served his mission.
So what if Mr. Perfect let me go?
He drove and spoke and moved annoyingly slow!


             Part 3

Eduardo was a Spaniard from Madrid.
I met him on my study there abroad.
I won’t list all the many things he did,
but I’ll attest that some of them were odd.

Eduardo was “muy guapo,” (very cute),
But still he was concerned that he was not
some burly hulk, so jackets to a suit
he wore downtown in June when it was hot!
And once, though I could not catch every word,
he had with his own mom an argument.
His threat to take his clothes off was absurd,
but when she screamed, I knew he was indecent.

I’d closed my eyes; I should have sneaked a peek. . .
I then could give a more complete critique!

*I have entered these in the This Poem Really S##ks Contest of Jerry T. Curtis with one of my first sonnet trilogies I wrote back in 2002. I was in a poetry club at this time, and after posting each sonnet of the trilogy separately, I received a very rude message which was posted anonymously to me. The note basically rejoiced that I would not be showing any more sonnets like these and told me they stunk. What is strange is that it was a private club and it had to be somebody I knew that had hated either me or the poems so much that he made an effort to reach me by some account that was not even recognized by the club (Only I could see the message. nobody else would see it). I'll never know who sent me that email, but it was my first time to be criticized in a rude manner. I have had a few other occasions since, but this was my first one. Are the sonnets that bad? You tell ME!!

Details | Spaniard Poem | |

Sestina to Spain

Iberia, you took my breath away
with fiery gypsy spirit and romance;
with ancient Moorish history and grace;
with everything there is of you to see;
to hear and smell; to feel inside my soul.
Diversity lives splendidly in you!

The ancient cultures beckoned me to you
when, like the Romans, lured from far away,
I came to you and gave to you my soul,
partaking of your passion and romance.
I’d read of you in school and had to see!
How glad I was to come and know your grace.

A mosque in Cordoba reveals your grace,
but I would learn there is much more of you. . . 
Cathedrals dressed in gold I was to see.
From palace walls, in awe I’d walk away
to find nearby - in gypsy caves - romance
in music. . . as Flamenco filled my soul!

With passion’s beat resounding in my soul,
I toured Seville, where ladies rode with grace
on horses with their toreadors! Romance
is in the air at Spanish fairs. And you
can make it hard for one to turn away
from all the magic offered there to see.

In northern parts of you, I was to see
The Pyrenees, whose beauty touched my soul,
quaint villages with mountain goats! Away
I went southeast then, greeted by more grace.
Along your coast, I saw a side of you
I grew to love, Valencia’s romance!

And in Madrid, I found my own romance,
a handsome Spaniard. Never would I see
his face again because, in leaving you,
I left him and a small part of my soul.
So much I’d not yet seen of all your grace,
but destiny was calling me away. . . 

I yearn to feel romance inside my soul;
breathe history and see again your grace.
Enchanted land, you are so far away!



Details | Spaniard Poem | |

I Rather Enjoy Being Played

By different lovers I’ve been kept,
some skillful and a few inept.
I always respond, unafraid.
I rather enjoy being played.

A Spaniard picked me up one time.
His classic strumming was sublime.
Notes poured from me like a cascade.
I rather enjoy being played.

That man released me, and soon I
was picked up by a strange punk guy
who stroked me roughly. Though betrayed,
I rather enjoy being played.

My strings broke often from his touch,
yet thrilled was I by his thrum. Such
unique new tunes from me were made.
I rather enjoy being played.

His sister held me awkwardly,
but then she sang so beautifully
it mattered not my sound would fade. . . 
I rather enjoy being played.

She and her brother gave me to
some plucking fools without a clue
till an artiste came to my aid.
I rather enjoy being played.

He pressed my frets, this handsome boy.
My stings were vibrating with joy.
I climaxed with his smooth glissade.
I rather enjoy being played.

With him I hope to have remained
in years to come. His love’s unfeigned.
Although I know at times he’s strayed,
I rather enjoy being played.


for the Word Play Contest of Kim Morrison

Details | Spaniard Poem | |

Be Careful Hunter (Refined Version)

.

     Succulently standing
     An ego boosts by surprise in smile
     The rose falls consenting eyes' proposal 
     
     As a Spaniard Conquistador 
     dicovering paradise through the sound of the flute 
     while the ceiling disappears in infinite stars

     Bald eagle feeding from above 
     dove's crop bulges
     Dedicated face metamorphosing 

     Possessed of absorption
     frenetic rhythm babbling 
     proficiently knotting the net
     
     Candid hunter entangling
     irremediable lost
     by dexterity
     
     Trembling dominance yields
     to spill through sudden yell 
     a necklace of pearls

     Caught in the ephemeral flight
     his instincts capitulates...simple hunter
     helpless heartbeats can't see who's the prey
     


.

Details | Spaniard Poem | |

Ode to my daughter on her birthday - 26

My Sarah
When I looked at you last week trying on your new boots
Those almond eyes sparkling at something new, a gift
I saw my little pink girl, a princess, playing dress up again
Your long hair draped your high cheekbones
Life still a game, tinged with drama and theatre 
As you look for fun in all your pursuits!
A player in life with a passion for cooking and music
You have become a kind, loyal, vivacious young woman
Self assured, grounded with a love of tradition
I looked at you and felt an overwhelming pride.

Sunday’s child is ' bonny, blithe, good and gay' they say
Befitting my Sabbath girl, a model child of few demands
Your bedroom a vast sea of Barbie and friends
A Passion for story-time and books
Your Dutch life with Irish sea-touched roots, 
You are a real continental
A great scholar with degrees in Law and Psychoanalysis
You have found your true love with Luis, a Spaniard
As you both prepare to leave the Emerald Isle
I wonder at the achievement of you!

Details | Spaniard Poem | |

short version-I Rather Enjoy Being Played

By different lovers I’ve been kept, some skillful and a few inept. I always respond, unafraid. I rather enjoy being played. A Spaniard picked me up one time. His classic strumming was sublime. Notes poured from me like a cascade. I rather enjoy being played. That man released me, and soon I was picked up by a strange punk guy who stroked me roughly. Though betrayed, I rather enjoy being played. My strings broke often from his touch, yet thrilled was I by his thrum. Such unique new tunes from me were made. I rather enjoy being played. He gave me over to a boy who makes my strings vibrate with joy I climax with each smooth glissade. I rather enjoy being played. With him I hope to have remained in years to come. His love’s unfeigned. Although I know at times he’s strayed, I rather enjoy being played. By Andrea Dietrich For nette onclaud's "Sound Madness Poetry Contest" This is personification of my favorite instrument, the Sexy Guitar!

Details | Spaniard Poem | |

Five Lines or Less

compelled to take

a photo of a Spaniard

and his lovely bride. . . 

    decades later learning of

           their fame and sad demise

Details | Spaniard Poem | |

Koolio

There once was a Spaniard called Julio
Who was just as slippery as oleo
And so was his brief
Claims his client's no thief
When he gets of he always cheers koolio

Details | Spaniard Poem | |

onward

Onward ever onward down the awesome lanes of time, Coming going, dying reborn, another life inclined, One time in Tasmania the Pommy hunters killed us out, A prisoner in irons, cat of nine tails cut about, Ever suffering for my crime, What is it all, this doubt? Ironic is the suffering feel, in Ireland I was starved, Potatoes stole, caught and flogged, Escaped and was at large, Informer talked and I was caught, Transported on the Belle, Bonded servant, flogged, yes sport, In the cotton fields of hell, But I lived awhile orright. Cannon roared, hot lead, aboard, The yard was crashing down, Over the side, a Spaniard to board, Cutlass slashing blood n gore, death there to seek me out. In the dark, in a tribe away out west, Speared a bullock for the tribe to eat, The Squatter shot us with his friends, The Troopers not so sweet, The Crows would not be denied, Another death I tried? My bones are incomplete…Don Johnson

Details | Spaniard Poem | |

Limerick: Once right Spaniard looking for a job

Limerick: Once right Spaniard looking for a job

Once right Spaniard looking for a job
Found nothing in his country to rob:
He crossed the Pyrenées
Left he turned on his knees:
They made him King sans his shedding a sob!

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014


Details | Spaniard Poem | |

She

she is a sparkling jewel 

all can see her shimmer 

she is a throb of daffodils

and lilies in the garden shore

she is a captivating police

and arrest my Spaniard eyes

she is a word spectalamo!

and that is still unheard of

she has got strength in her smile

and it spreads to everyone around her

yet she is for me...

Details | Spaniard Poem | |

1937

Madrid it is a hot and sad place.
Filled once with music and pretty women
now filled with bombs blasting on street corners
and old women hovering over their dead husbands.
Madrid was once a place of love and culture.
Love was full through every hotel lobby
to every small cafe, love was all around.
Now, nothing but abandoded buildings
inhabited by rats and broken dreams.
The hotel lobbies once home to rich folk in tuxedos
drinking expensive champagne and dancing,
now filled with young boys bleeding from bullet wounds
and burn't to the bone.
Madrid once a home to life
now a home to death and war.
Fellow Spaniard fighting fellow Spaniard
in a Civil War between life and greed.
Life was all good and well
till 1937 came around.

Details | Spaniard Poem | |

A DANCE OF NO TUNE

Twisting up my body emboldened
Hyping my spirit to Planet 9
Thrusting gently my soul to an off beat
Jerking up my feet in no fete
Throwing hands in the air

Moving my carcass to an unheard hurly-burly
Heaping up dance on my hips
Humming to a tune of no name
Shaking ones head like an Agama.

Until my Fibula was aching
I became hyper-active
For what, I queried myself?
For a dance of no tune
Indeed a Fandango only of the Spaniard. 




This time in Samonda, Ibadan.
In my quest to situate the 46 years
Independence Anniversary of Nigeria.
We are dancing to no tune in particular.