The beast Alhambra
roared a violent psalm
Vile conversos
horrid moriscos,
the heretic herds
A spear thrust into
our sun’s martyred ribs
Held in hateful grips
the yellow warblers
dripped in crimson sheen
Flying like Michael
the vengeful vassal
of Aragon’s decree
“O Torquemada
Hark the righteous call
King of Suprema
Execute them all!”
Cold unfeeling wretch,
the flesh guillotine
Teeth clicking sparks
lit endless pyres
Three made Seville
weep at the sight of Friars
Categories:
alhambra, christian, history, horror, islamic,
Form: Rhyme
A period of peace
When peace reigned In the year 1334 or so the residents in Alhambra thought Catholics chimed too early on Sundays at the time, Granada was ruled by, The Muslims, who went along fine with the Christians, who were good farmers and makers of wine not to forget, the Jewish population ( people of the book) kept, the pecuniary, in shape it was agreed that the bells should not ring before seven, but the beautiful gardens behind tall walls
must be watered at five in the morning.
It was a peaceful time, but nothing in human history lasts forever; the Church of Rome had ambition, Muslims fled, and the Jews went into exile in Portugal and were shattered around the towns and villages and became a part of the general population
Categories:
alhambra, absence, anti bullying, august,
Form: Blank verse
We drive breakneck over hot roads.
Churches, big as cathedrals, rocket
from pocket villages.
Castillo's cast their campanile on the baking earth.
The Great Mosque of Cordoba,
the green Alhambra shades us
through a preaching dust.
The Giralda; its Christianized minaret
stretched like a tourists neck,
and above the Papal parapets,
a banished Allah.
The holy places have hollow guts,
their tubes are wrapped
around a torso, like alien spaceships.
One edifice dwarfs another
until awe sinks to its knees
attired in the black mufti
of old peasant women.
We are traveling fast now.
Nave and transept are our crossroads.
Basilica and sacellum our roadside naps.
The car parallel parks itself
beside every altar and shrine,
it's engine running,
as we chase God's works down,
ticking off only ourselves.
Categories:
alhambra, poetry,
Form: Free verse
When peace reigned
In the year 1334 or so
the residents in Alhambra thought Catholic
chimed too early on Sundays
at the time, Granada was ruled by, The Muslims that went along fine with the Christians, who were good farmers and makers of wine
Not to forget, the Jewish population ( people of the book) kept the pecuniary in shape
it was agreed that the bells should not ring before seven, but the beautiful gardens behind tall walls
must be watered at five in the morning.
It was a peaceful time, but nothing in human history lasts forever; the Church of Rome had ambition, Muslims fled, and the Jews went into exile in Portugal and were shattered around the towns and villages and became a part of the
general population
Categories:
alhambra, allah, angst, courage,
Form: Blank verse
The full moon shines
over Granada.
It lights up
the beauty
of The Alhambra,
and its amazing gardens.
A long time ago a palace,
where a sad prince
used to live.
Far from his beloved princess,
whose love
would never be allowed
because of
their different beliefs.
It is said that sometimes,
you can hear
the prince crying,
hidden somewhere
inside of the palace.
It is said that sometimes,
you still can see
those lovers
loving each other
under the moonlight,
in the stunning gardens
of The Alhambra.
There, where the years
seem to be stopped
with the youth
of the sad lovers,
whose souls live trapped
somewhere
in those enchanted gardens.
Categories:
alhambra, beauty, cute love, destiny,
Form: Free verse
Touched by God's light Born in Granada.
Federico used to presume
to be born beside the Alhambra.
Bright mind, deep heart, a soul to be admired.
Between lines, he used to be lost,
a pen was his best friend.
Dalí was a mate, both near from chilhood.
His friends were many,
but his real ones never too close.
He was a shadow facing the light,
but a light in the shades.
Federico was born in Granada,
his beloved land.
He projected his art with a pen,
nobody could understand.
Artist he was born, playing the piano
he used to play music for ears,
but at writing he used to be the best.
Born at a wrong time,
Lorca was misunderstood.
Difficult to understand how life mistreated it him.
Born as a poet that will never be forgotten.
Writing line to line, he was killed,
young as he was,
he had no time to write the best line of his life.
Federico García Lorca,
the one I will always bow for.
Categories:
alhambra, character, dedication, deep, devotion,
Form: Free verse
grandma bare bosomed and barely covered by frayed crocheted pants
looked like a mixture of parakeet and paragon in a fairy tale’s garment
under cover of darkness she would bare her wickedness and emotions
a mocking bird with a beak full of gold and a never ending feathered quill
fire in her heart and a pen crafted from charcoal and indelible passion
tea leaves suspended in a crystal ball swayed by pendulums of words
stepladder to wisdom swinging from a roped pinnacle at the threshold
from reality to psychedelic hunter and gatherer of mushrooms and magic
candles crafted from Arabian lamps exuded Alhambra charms and Alladin
whose cave was her fortress in the woods of past future times and pastiche
desk like a lamp post overshadowing contours and scripted penumbra
it was never too late to have a happy childhood with a wick as companion
no hermit but prophesy personified she send messages out into the world
parchment of wisdom tied to acorns belladonna berries and butterfly wings
required no answers because questions held stronger without instant replies
the old scribe never died because an oak tree grew unperturbed in my soul
27th June 2020
Categories:
alhambra, art,
Form: Free verse
We drive breakneck over hot roads.
Churches, big as cathedrals, rocket
from pocket villages.
Castillo's cast their campanile on the baking earth.
The Great Mosque of Cordoba,
the green Alhambra shades us
through a preaching dust.
The Giralda; its Christianized minaret
stretched like a tourists neck,
and above the Papal parapets,
a banished Allah.
The holy places have hollow guts,
their tubes are wrapped
around a torso, like alien spaceships.
One edifice dwarfs another
until awe sinks to its knees
attired in the black mufti
of old peasant women.
We are traveling fast now.
Nave and transept are our crossroads.
Basilica and sacellum our roadside naps.
The car parallel parks itself
beside every altar and shrine,
it's engine running
as we chase God's works down,
ticking off not only Him
but ourselves.
Categories:
alhambra, poetry,
Form: Free verse
(The Torre Vela is a prominent castle tower
at the "prow" of the Alhambra Palace, and
dominates the Spanish city of Granada.)
My lame-ass lips can't even draw
McDonalds milkshake through a straw:
and if I must
run for the bus,
I take an oxygen inhaler.
You like your house? I rent a trailer.
But yell it through the loudest-hailer:
I kissed Leila!
Some lucky guy looks like George Clooney,
while I resemble Mickey Rooney.
I'm such a shmuck,
if vampires suck,
then call me Vlad the (Bad) Impaler!
I guard my dough? Like a drunken sailor.
But study this at Yale, or Baylor:
I kissed Leila!
I'll never win that Golden Globe
for lounging in a silken robe
like Errol Flynn,
appearing in
a bedroom scene with young Liz Taylor:
my books won't sell like Norman Mailer:
my jokes are rustier and staler
than ol' Jed Clampett's cotton baler:
I'm a no-mark, lamester, loser, failer.
But shout it from the Torre Vela:
I kissed Leila!
Categories:
alhambra, humorous,
Form: Rhyme
(Torre Vela = prominent tower, part of
the Alhambra palace, Granada, Spain)
My lame-ass lips can't even draw
McDonalds milkshake through a straw:
and if I must
run for the bus,
I take an oxygen inhaler.
You like your house? I rent a trailer.
But yell it through the loudest-hailer:
I kissed Leila!
Some lucky guy looks like George Clooney,
while I resemble Mickey Rooney.
I'm such a shmuck,
if vampires suck,
then call me Vlad the (Bad) Impaler!
I guard my dough? Like a drunken sailor.
But study this at Yale, or Baylor:
I kissed Leila!
I'll never win that Golden Globe
for lounging in a silken robe
like Errol Flynn,
appearing in
a bedroom scene with young Liz Taylor:
my books won't sell like Norman Mailer:
my jokes are rustier and staler
than ol' Jed Clampett's cotton baler:
I'm a no-mark, lamester, loser, failer.
But shout it from the Torre Vela:
I kissed Leila!
Categories:
alhambra, humorous,
Form: Rhyme