Best Flamenco Poems
Autumn winds duende with flair.
The leaves falling from trees aflame,
twisting and twirling across the aire,
gliding on the cool, frosty first rain.
The leaves falling from trees aflame
rouge the baile floor as a mosaic
gliding on the cool, frosty first rain
with alegrías rhythms wild and archaic
Rouge the baile floor as a mosaic
the winds swaying their sensual hips
with alegrías rhythms wild and archaic
as gusts burst forth with Flamenco clips.
The winds swaying their sensual hips,
twisting and twirling across the aire
as gusts burst forth with Flamenco clips
Autumn winds duende with flair.
Pink hue flamingo it must be due to all
the carotenoid pigments feasted on
algae and crustaceans
An elongated neck spirals
and filters such sensations
Sharing color is Okinawa salmon sushi,
bolster lobster and shrimp scrimp
Graceful qualifiers primp poised tropical dwellers
balancing effortlessly on one outstretched leg,
A ballerina’s pirouette in fuchsia tutus’
Statuesque stillness in shallow water
Rosette feathers flair flamboyance
Passionate plumage, blushing boas
Webbed feet tap and stamp below,
an aquatic burlesque show
The flamenco dance named after you
Rose-tinted creature tranquil, wader
Hook-billed blackened lamellae
sieved nobly, an intense look in a print
Cluster buster of pink with lengthy legs that sprint
Emotional tension fills the air...
Lights and laughter everywhere
A fiesta audience waits eagerly for a night of passion.
The dance of Spain and a sensual dancer
The Andalusian Gypsy dancer
El baile flamenco tonight…Ole!
The guitarist enters…masterfully
Displaying his unique musical talent.
His music controls the dance
Finally, bailaoras, the great Camille, enters
More than beautiful, she exudes sexuality
Dramatically, her aura intrigues and mystifies
The Flamenco, some say, is animalistic
Elegant movements of the flamingo birds
So, much like the dancer's stance…
Camille points her gold slipper like a prima ballerina
Music begins--- she does not move…poised as a statue
The audience sits on the edges of their seats.
Motionless, no expression in the start
When she feels the rhythm, she responds
Camille claps loudly, steadily
As her emotions build, she begins…
Her back, arched and dignified
Arms elegant and poised
The flamenco begins torridly
Gracefully but fiercely, Camille stomps---
Golden shoes with their percussion sounds
Bedazzling her admirers,
No one knows where the dance will go…
That is part of the beauty of the flamenco
Her passionate moves romance or comfort her admirers
Thus, the greatest joy of flamenco dancing
Climatically building as a heroine in a play
Camille has no equal…
Astutely, the castanets click in her hands…
The difficulty of the dance emerges…
Hands and feet working not in synchronicity
But against each other
Her mother taught her well…
The dancer is the accompanist, moving her body
To the flying fingers of the guitarist.
Ultimately, the music ebbs away
Camile picks up her fan and looks at the guitarist
Both dancer and musician are spent...
Audience stands up, cheering and clapping.
This is the spice of life in Spain!
BARCELONA FLAMENCO
clicking of heels, like torrential downpour. guitar
plucking at the eardrums, chest wall erupting.
like a hurricane of crisp crimson leaves of Autumn ~
a raked pile, blowing around in tumultuous sweep,
her skirt, spread out in the expanse of rubious dawn,
passion’s glorious splendor, a prolific hunger.
his eyes dance as frenetic flames, hypnotized
by Spain’s red cape. His imagination, like a bull,
thunders, steaming nostrils, horny stabs at the
glorious threads of her swirling romantic escapade.
buxom black smoke and radiant yellow-gold crackles,
whip the frenzy, of her smoking hot Barcelona flamenco.
he nearly succumbs, exhausted from the steam room,
the ferocious red waves lapping at his face, his feet,
his heart. he decides he must meet her, when the fire
dims, douses, settles. he must charm the incubus.
9/22/2017
Poems That Paint A Picture 3
Sponsor: Silent One
My mother’s eyes of ebony, sparkling stars
Carefully, she paints her lips' gypsy red
A cascade of flowing ringlets, her hair shines from afar
Muscatels quaint flowers, she wore on her head
Her costume; polka-dot, red and white
To have spent more time with dance, her regrets
Her smell unique, perfume is there more delight?
With my small hands in hers she taught me castanets
A spirited folklore, so well I know
Flamenco music hath a far more pleasing sound
I grant I never saw a goddess glow
My mother, when she tapped, stomped the ground
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any revealed, beyond compare
Mother's Day
She stands there in the center of the room
not moving! She is focused on the strum
of the guitar. we see pure passion bloom
before our eyes as feelings coming from
the gypsy's song are transferred to her feet,
for she interprets years of suffering
by stamping them into the floor! The heat
of her emotions makes this woman bring
her palms together high above her head,
then stomp with more and more intensity.
She swings her hips beneath a skirt of red
while slender arms are swaying gracefully.
The gypsy singer utters his last cries,
and the flamenco dancer's flame then dies.
Sept. 25, 2017
Sevilla, the evening pins flowers on your hair
A pirouette of tasselled gown rustles by
Igniting a lusty swirl along theater’s wing,
Over spotlights on red liquefied hips
That kiss of flamenco gyres into a dance ;
Relishing the wine which drips as you lift
And tap those feet through moonshine’s gloam:
O, such swaggers devour my senses
While Latin music sets the castanets ablaze--
Then a pause, a sensuous movement, jigging.
Sevilla, you are a luscious pageant of a song,
A brief canticle gliding on my bones, that I
Fondle you in the dark caressing scented nape:
What endless thrill you bring on an August dusk!
Then together drunken madly , recklessly
I will be love's sunrise, and you my finale's art,
As this heart etches a twirl in flamenco sighs,
Clinging to each refrain of such possessed trance.
For Silent One's Contest:
Poems That Paint a Picture-3 9/24/2017
~ a most memorable dinner in Sevilla
watching a Flamenco concert~
The Flamenco Dancer and The Bull
The acoustics of your snuffle
is an absolution
of a descending staccato
in an E chord.
Behold, my lancing third,
an urgency to trick you
with my jalapeño-colored capote,
to mask the stains of your blood
as it oozes, while I thrust
these Romani banderillas
in your neck.
Tease me with impulsive pretence
of your Berber-like invincibility,
while I magnify
your monotonous habits,
triggering the sequel
with the mutiny of these senses
in a most soulful manner.
Beware, my gitano-inspired estoque,
hidden and within a rhythmic beat cycle
in sync with a Moorish chant,
while my arms obliquely stretched
plunging to your bosom,
as I dare to move my hips
in a sultry fashion, to anchor it
in your Andalusian-unceasing being,
Oh! My Iberian-bred tragedy,
consummating my tableau
with your immortal inexistence.
A Polite Warning. The Following poem is somewhat steamy. Not explicit, but explicit in
inference. If this sort of thing offends you, then please be considerate and don’t read
it. Thank you.
Naked Flamenco
( A sultry summer night spent together
With ardour between us growing
She whispered, “Let me dance for you”
I agreed, little knowing………………. )
Binding spells of mysterious wanting
Soft dark her eyes looked
Into the shades of my mind
An enchantress of fantasy
She etched her velvet pattern
On veiled secrets
Parted
Dangerous lashes flutter desirous
In emerald peacock pupils
Midnight burnished hair let fall
In captivating tangles
To full ephemeral corners
Of soft bitten lip
Coy damp line drawn on her cheek
Captivated
Her expression acknowledges
With known provoking smiles
Eye lights shine saying “already mine”
With twisting flamenco poised
Sensual arm insinuates to finger tip
And eventide's rose is pale skinned
And naked
Curved line from ankle
Writes portents to the nape of her neck
Through black tousled sexual spinal blades
Shoulder dipping
Quivers her femininity to rising breasts
While arched longing
Mouths the indescribable tactile seconds
Of her promontory dancing
Patient in toe tip exquisite she places
Penchant elegance
Of her naked ballet
The ribbon swirl of vanished gossamer dress
Depicted wing-ed arms
She rises a surrealistic
Flight of angels created
In soft light air brushed forms
Of muscle, rib cage, bones and tendons
Body writhed centres eclipse
On pubic between
The epitome of gestalts navel breathing
I shudder Goosebumps of enthralling
Built by such grace of a heavenly
Consecrated female
Led beyond mere heated needing
To a place resplendent
With sheer un-tameable and un-nameable beauty
Guitar stringing twangs the milliseconds
Of her overture
Spanish castanets tap click fervent
Pronouncing the rhythm of my heart
Naked pale formed Goddess
Gently rips from me
Every appreciations confession of
Perfections contours
Fine satin sheen hairs risen
Beading sweats slight trickle
Aroused by my infatuation
Nipples stiffen
And I am drawn from and by
Heavy breath to music’s ending
To land in her presence
Panting
She has seen through me
Every century of a woman’s glory
And with a slow beckoning finger
Her eager eyes
Tell me
It is so
A juerga with flamenco guitars,
With fires blooming like red flowers,
Corpses dancing in moonlight
The dance of wounded souls,
Vibrant red dresses
White shirts like birds,
Falling shawls,
Dancers,
Sky,
Claps,
Cubic
Movements of
Color, music's
Seeds, hands being wings
In shadows on the wall,
From soul detaching passion's
Lights, motion vibrating the string,
Resonance for a new dimension.
The Studio At The Beach Part II- The Green Dress Regalia
Her dear father and his consoling ways
If she couldn’t concentrate on schoolwork
he'd put his book down, light his cigar,
In a deep mellow reverie, pick up his guitar
I know it hasn’t been easy with schoolwork
he'd sigh, smoke billowing from his mouth
Shrouding our faces in a gray-white fog
He'd speak in a comforting melodious purr
Wrapping his arm around his daughter’s shoulder,
My precious little jewel, there is no reason
for you to be so downcast, you're breaking my heart
the owl-eyed cat
sleeps quietly
near my
Spanish blue guitar
while one eye
peeled open
to watch the
gray mouse afar
that dance across
the six tender
nylon strings that
clap the castanet
in both hands
as she performs
that old Spanish
flamenco dance
The Flamenco dancer swirled and twirled past me
her red voluminous red skirt floating
such intensity in her face
I was enthralled with her strength
and proud posture . . .
her feet stomped in rhythm
to a strumming guitar and tambourines
her hands curved over her head
fingers snapping and hands clapping
O, she was a gypsy proud
I could feel her soul and passion
and I dreamed, could I . . .
just a girl ever dance- Flamenco
__________________________
September 24, 2017
Free Verse/Flemenco
Copyright Protected, ID 942348
Written for the contest, Poems That Paint A Picture - 3
sponsor, Silent One
Third Place
In swirling crimson maelstrom
She spun her magic spell
With guitars stringent chords
Highlighting tale
The tempest of her torment
Displayed upon the stage
Her moves reflecting flashes
Of her rage
The black stiletto rhythms
Thundered loud upon the stage
Echoed by her partner of the dance
Pulse ardour through the audience
And enrapture all who watched
Dismissing awestruck eyes
With haughty glance
With awesome execution
She whirled with fervent Fire
Sparking flames of passion as she turned
She seized the heart and squeezed the breath
made each heart skip a beat
As the audience before
her slowly burned
The temper tantrum rhythms
fading with the fire
quieted as the guitars quenched the coal
We watched in admiration
as a muted storm blew out
leaving in its wake
a spent and smould'ring soul
It was not a night for work
the moon was at the full
high over the sea
erotic and disturbing
l could hear the gypsy singer in the tavern below
self assured as usual she had a slightly distant air about her !