Green Spanish Eyes - Part 2
Continued from Part 1
Ah Consuela! I’m watching the vertigo veiling her green Spanish eyes,
while the drumbeat pounds, droning, the rhythm sounds, moaning,
of jungles Jamaican entwined
in the valleys concealing the vineyards revealing
the vaults in the caves of her mind.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching life’s carnivals call to her green Spanish eyes,
and with paused palpitations the tom-tom temptations
come taunting her tremulous feet
with her toe tips a’ tingle while jute boxes jingle
for jesters that jive on the street.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she rides ocean tides in her green Spanish eyes,
and her silhouette’s travelling on ripples unravelling
and shaking the shipwrecking shores,
as she strides from the light to the black cauldron night
through the candlelit cabaret doors.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she dances till dawn flashing green Spanish eyes,
with her movements adorning a trickle of morning
as sipped by the mouth of the moon,
while her tresses twirl, shaming the filaments flaming
that flow from the sun’s oval spoon.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she masks for a moment her green Spanish eyes.
Then the magpie that sings ceases preening her wings
and descends as a lean bird of prey –
as she flutters her ’lashes and laughs in broad splashes,
his narrowing eyes start to stray.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching fey carousels spin in her green Spanish eyes,
and the porcelain ponies and leprechaun cronies
race, reaching for gold and such things,
even being reminded that only the blinded
are fooled by the brass in the rings.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she shepherds the shadows with green Spanish eyes,
but as evening sinks, ebbing, the skyline climbs, webbing,
and weaves through the temples of stone,
while the nightingales sing of a kiss on the wing
in the depths of the dunes all alone.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching the music and magic in green Spanish eyes,
as she dances enchanted, while firmly implanted
in tugs of his turbulent arms,
till he cuts through the strings, tames the magpie that sings,
and seduces once more with his charms.
Ah Consuela! I’m watching, the citadel steams in her green Spanish eyes,
but behind the dark curtain the savants seem certain
that nothing and no one exists,
and though vapours look vacant, the vagabond vagrants
remain within mythical mists.
Continued in part 3
Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2012
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