Best Alhambra Poems
The river is riveting, volatile, wide, deep and long
It has its own spellbinding song
The rocks are sharp and main current very strong
The white water waves wrap around kayak like lizards forked tongue
To the cave river will flow in which kayak will disappear whole
The beauty of the cave is like essence of the soul
In the darkness kayak is even harder to control
But light soon brims from the crystals and kayak appears from opposite hole
Past the cave there is waterfall
Into it the kayak will fall
Part of the fall’s edge has rock like a spike or an awl
Despite of that kayak navigates safely past the waterfall
Beautiful Island comes into view
The exotic birds and flowers are more than the few
Giant butterflies wings with bizarre shapes are also in view
Contrast to mostly Green Island is their blood red hue
The wings are as if covered by lightning that came from the blue
The lightning is more intricate then spider web in Alhambra castle in full view
Like God himself it would have drew
And only he to the meaning of patterns on those wings has a clue
Those wings say the history of the universe
As in dream this mesmerizing surreal place will immerse
The whole spectrum of who’s only echo we normally perceive now we can transverse
The in abyss flying counterbalance of the Omni 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!
You in the distance
you in the ever present
you in my fantasy
you my reality
you the bare water nymph of El Raso
the statuesque beauty
you of a uncommon sensuality
you my craving for passionately
You in a smile of the rivers tranquility
you in see-through
you in the country lanes of my soul
you as you walk slowly towards me
you in those blue eyes when you look at me
you a wistful moment distractingly
you and your love for all natural things
your tenderness for small and delicate beings
You and your love of the sea
the mountains breathtaking appreciates the trees
you my breathless form of woman
no cosmetic can add to your attraction
You by the campfire beneath the stars
you when you talk
you when you laugh
you my fixation even my obsession
you in my blood and my addiction
you the names of flowers unknown to me
You when you're angry, frustrated and sad
you when you want something insanely mad
you when you're lost
you when you're found
you in the orchards nude on the ground
you and your generosity
you the Taurean love of the earthly
You in moments of peaceful silence
no words but together in natures harmony surrounding us
you of a thousand photographs
you of sudden spiritual remarks
you the unknown to me
you my continual discovery
you of those flawless shoulders
and the smooth skin of your long freckled back
You when you couldn't careless what anyone thinks
you when you stand up for yourself
you when you offer anyone your help
you when you suffer with all the wrongs in the world
You when we visit some place new
you captivated by The Alhambra
you in Cordoba
you and your love of rocks and stones
a crystal collection
all the art which adorns the walls
all the old things you keep however small
You when you bend so provocatively
you and homeopathy
you when you hold me
you when you kiss me
you in spirit
you in my life
You Kate
only you
bring the circle to form
loves geometry of wanting
in the flesh
in my pulse
you in my bones
You Kate
only you take this once lost man alone
make him complete
and brings him home
Only you Kate
only you
Beyond the mountains more steep and precipitous then canyon of Bryce
And sometimes in those mountains are glaciers of ice
In lower parts snakes with eyes like points of a dice
Step on one and with your life you will pay the price
There eight willows stand among grass covered heights
Their subtle amber colored leaves and smell carried by a breeze senses excites
In between them huge spider web dendrites
On it silver visage of the moon shines on with its eerie blue lights
Spider web similar to the one that in castle of Alhambra is made
But this one is made of actual spider silk and with innumerable forms it will cascade
It cannot be cut with a blade
And dew like honey will shine in sun’s light rays before the sun will fade
Then again this dew will glow in with eerie silver hue and emit strange tune
As it basks in the uncanny light of full moon
The web itself will oscillate in gentle breeze of June
It is so complex it resembles a cocoon
The web represents nonlinearity of destiny
And it is by it formed neural flame and its point of breakage of boundary
The spider web represents this with mastery and mystery
Defining its beauty made by spiders foundry
The web as a whole
Can help if discovering something new is your goal
It transcends into abyss so it stands proud and tall
But it is only one underlining aspect of a soul
(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!
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
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.
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.
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.
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
He was the Yodelling King of Whitby.
On a calm clear weather day
You could hear his practice yodels
On the cliffs at Robin Hoods bay.
He would stand there at the bar
In his Tyrolean feathered hat
With dark brown lederhosen,
Black cloak thrown over that,
To hold then all enraptured
When he got up on that stage
Setting female hearts a beating
No matter what their age.
His repertoire so varied,
From classical to rap,
With the occasional dance,
Sometimes breaking into tap.
Booked at the Alhambra Bradford
He attracted audience motley
All of his dedicated fan club
Some from as far away as Otley.
Then he strode on that stage
And his throat suddenly dried
And on the brink of stardom
His career withered and died.
They still talk of it in Eccleshill,
Bowling, Idle, even Runswick Bay
And many a tear is still shed
About that fateful fateful day.
He’s still Yodelling King of Whitby,
Still holds the pub under his spell
Particularly performing his finale
Of excerpts from William Tell.
Stardom no longer beckons
It’s lustrous lure dispelled
By the hurtful memory of
That Bradford performers hell.
Some times in his cups
It really gets his goat:
Yodelling King of the World maybe
But for the drying of his throat.
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
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.
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
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — -
I’m afraid I forgot your face,
I look at your picture and remember
holding your hands and hugging you.
I shape a display
from the mosaic of happy days,
but I can’t picture you.
The outlines of bright eyes are lost,
and the cheerful look,
because you have been gone for too long.
Without it,
the part of me that makes me human,
will die, I know.
*
December adds gray lines to the picture,
and it is a cold city in the blizzard of greed.
The orange leaves beneath the trees are wet
under the gusts of the icy yarn of evil.
Your arms around my neck
and a hug to sleep
which is squeezing my cheeks are fading.
My demons come to the door,
and they take me far away.
*
After many years,
you wake up in the silken bed of the Alhambra chamber.
You brush your long golden hair, princess.
You read the message minted in your name.
And you send me a smile of understanding through time.
Awakened from the shackles of meanness
by drops of light that fall
on wooden table and floor
I see your enlightened soul clearly.
*
The iron bracelet disappears in flames.
We hold hands again
while strolling through the streets of the oriental bazaar.
Under a dome of jewels,
our hearts are synchronized through loud laughter.
You listen to me joyfully
in the garden by the river.
Shiraz from the glass speaks
that my love last for eons five.
— -# — -