Best Mantilla Poems
Limerick croises : Once our ‘Rita jumped into Sea Anne-Anne – 14
Once our ‘Rita jumped into Sea Anne-Anne
Sirens howled « panic stations » refrain
One Valhalla Rani
Offered her much money
For a shot sans mantilla – in vain
Our ‘Rita – you bet – a stunning beauty
Not given to falling for flattery
Was all of prime six feet
Which she tucked under meat
For Sevillan beds stood (on) two feet plus three !
So they put her up that night till Morgan
Classified her as subterfuge weapon
NSA roped her in
To put one o’er Putin
Now Chinese wish her to test rat poison !
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Categories:
mantilla, spanish, woman,
Form:
Limerick
Limerick : Once a Senorita from Sevilla
Once a Senorita from Sevilla
Took to hiding looks under mantilla
Not unbeknown to her
Sullen senior Senor
Gazed but at her wide open Gran Via.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Categories:
mantilla, sexy,
Form:
Limerick
IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY - LXXVII
IF ever I had a country proud of its wall-less porous boundary
And if ever by no mistake of the Supreme High Command of the International Militaro-Business Conspiracy I were appointed the CHIEF TARIFF IMPOSER and Eminence Grise of and on all the self-righteous realms rocambolesque republics and renegade run-of-the-mill rotten rotting rostrum-raving riven ribald rascally rickety refugee-raised democracies
Mark my words I’ll put an end to the raping of my dearly-beloved national integrity by
One, importing all available rutting Queen Bees of the "Killer African Bees" and have them breed with local wasps of high pedigree in the front-line of battle along the Southern Border under every tree where I’d let Red Ant-Hills multiply free
Two, import Myanmar Pythons with a taste for digesting young fresh human flesh, mixed with the local brand of Everglades alligators, down the Mississippi and the Colorado River sprinkled liberally with the Grand Canyon brand of the Rattle-Snake with their tell-tale warning-rattle nipped off, together with the silent army of Black Widows clad in their enticing mantilla webs, as a second-line of defense against the illegal refugee
Next, if they still keep coming I’d roundup all the lazy good-for-nothing thick-maned Bisons of the prairies and have them lined up for a Charge-of-the- Heavy-Brigade stampede by whipping their asses to the sound of the Land of the Free
And if this doesn’t stem the tide of illegal immigrants, drug dealers and tourists with empty pockets, I’d call on the faithful Black and White striped Tribe of Appalachian SKUNKS with my tonitruant bugle, line them up so that their posteriors faced Tierra del Fuego and let them squirt to their hind-hearts’ desire even at the risk of driving the entire population out of the country
Yes Siree, this’s what I’d do as the Eminence Grise and Chief Imposer of Tariffs of My Beloved Contree
And this even if I never ever had no country worth saving for the ennui of a penny
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, June 11, 2019
Categories:
mantilla, america, drug, humor, immigration,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
Limerick crochetés: Once our Señorita from Sevilla – XV
Once our Señorita from Sevilla
Came to Paris on a flotilla
She stepped out on high deck
Slipped and twisted her neck
Guess what happened to her mantilla
She stood under five metres flood pour
Couldn’t help but gulp Seine while she swore
Dreamed of Paris fiesta
During noon freeze siesta
But the wine tasted nothing like Dior
So to set sail called her Armada
Up Thames to sip with Liz II limonada
Head hit by Tower Bridge
Due to thawed Arctic fridge
Flamencoes with Raleigh in Andromeda
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2018
Categories:
mantilla, drink, fun, humor, natural
Form:
Limerick
Good Father Saez was right about the rain.
It didn't beat against the wooden door.
Without the rain their carriage they could gain,
and Jose made his way down tiled brown floor
to seek the colonnade and stay not more.
Now leaving nave, group strolled the covered way.
Then Jose noticed daughter's spirit soar
and listened keen what lady spoke to say.
"Margarita, be careful you don't get the edge of your dress in
the water. There's many little puddles by the edge of the walk."
"Yes, mother. I'll be careful. I'll take good care of my new dress."
"I think blue's your best color, dear. Black mantilla and gloves go
well with it. Your pearl tiara is exquisite. Black pearl is so hard
to find. Where did you get it?"
"Uncle Miquel gave it to me at my Quincenera," Margarita lied.
"I think it must be worth much money. Take good care of it."
"I would lay down my life for it."
Several steps back, beyond range of hearing, Don Huerra spoke
privately to foreman, Diego Silva. They spoke not of weather,
religion, or business, but only of the beautiful senorita walking
ahead. It was in mind of the middle-age vaquero to own this
proud, willful woman. He wanted to break her spirit as he
had done so often with wild mares. He wanted to teach her many
things, to have her desperately want and love him. El Segundo
listened attentively, little black eyes glowing like furnace coals.
Categories:
mantilla, conflict,
Form:
Free verse
Her dark eyes, sultry and steamy
Flashed a sideward’s glance
From beneath the black lace of her Mantilla
He gave her a browse
A more appraising look altogether
Her eyes flashed up again
A lingering languid glance
Which spoke of her muliebrity
Not the putative girl
They were now the cynosure
Of each others eyes
No words were spoken
Everything was intuit
With amative study
And libidinous perusal
She his object of pulchritude
He her beloved inamorato
Then they had to separate
And the spell was broken
Until next Sundays reunion
Categories:
mantilla, love
Form:
Free verse
JOURNEY- 1995
Weren’t we hauling ass?
The sheep, the olive trees, sentinel windmills,
the woodlands and fields, the rivers, the creeks,
the undulating topography like the musical score
of a landscape melody riding on the rhythms of
a percussion ensemble of steel wheels and rails,
the white-light blue sky of Castilla-LaMancha
blowing by us like a film on fast forward
Draped over his seat, easing into sleep,
his form and demeanor were a narrative sculpture,
a cold rocky coast of beauty and grace chiseled
by storms so far out to sea that no one can see
and even at rest his body was somehow too fluid
for his clothes
Once envied and loved, he had learned hard
lessons, had crafted his life as a righteous
extension of his parents’ investment in a labor of
love, forged a hard resiliency in recurrent encounters
that had blistered his soul but melted his anger with
the purifying precision of a refiner’s fire on the
Day of the Lord
And he’d discovered a woman who wore long
loose dresses on a classical body, who painted her
toes, worked magic in the garden and rekindled his
love like renegade lightning in a drought-stricken
wood
As train moved south, the bright day receded,
and as the September moon dropped cool silver
light like a fine lace mantilla through the craggy
brown summits of the Sierra Morena,
I thought of my friend as like the big locomotive
that pulls the “Garcia Lorca” from Barcelona to
Granada: A powerful presence regardless of
conditions, quiet, electric, always at your service!
Emanuel Carter
Categories:
mantilla, friendship, journey,
Form:
Free verse
My manuscripts are hers.
I find no solace in puddles,
no security in single, silver spoons.
She is there, always.
My breath is not safe.
Her ghosts floats out in puffs,
that so go to the very ozone.
Like a dirty cigarette from my nose,
(I am like a Frenchman in these moments)
She occupies the coldest days.
And I veil my face with this shameful mantilla, knowing
that nobody knows her in God's walls.
She never breathed on God's walls.
I gasp tiny sighs with silk and milk against my cheeks,
and steadfast arms hold, hugging my own,
forcefully making my home
that houses two curtains.
(I never loved that Sun)
It was sang to me each day, a voyage through her lips
until she died to leave a poor man's replacement behind;
a machine that knew how to boil broths and rice,
to switch on the lights.
I am a bowl for her spit, an ashtray
for her choking paper stubs.
A basin for the sickness.
That is I,
I, I, I never knew you.
My wrists are wrapped in twine, soon to be sold
for a dime, for a dime.
Night by nightly I see she,
known by her smell and the way she
forces me into the truck,
The Judentruck.
Her froggy eyes marvel the world like a lazy fly.
I know her, because she appears as I,
if I surrendered an earthly life
for the height of the Everest, Appalachians,
for the sight of atmospheric curvature
full as her fat, happy belly, full jug
full stop.
Clam-hands smother my mouth and again,
the smell of China.
Each night I am under again.
Categories:
mantilla, anxiety, growing up, imagery,
Form:
I have been told that I need to grow up,
The bulletin just arrived on my desk that
I have issues manifold,
To share this drink an ineffectual cup,
Perceant words heard before hope's sliver of a door closed again despite attempts
untold,
The esoteric assembly gathers frivolous fools still flatter,
As the accused rises the jury renders their verdict,
Guilty of trying, crying and attempting to take from the platter,
Banishment to lands where even failure fears to fail ware the poisonous jibes and
darkling despair's abyssal pits,
As he staggers with blistered, tired feet,
For anything he would do for her sweetest words in the ears to deign,
Try to grasp the memory of a memory,
these empty hands incomplete,
He would have given her his jester's crown on bended knee end the reign,
Reaching for you, only these empty hands,
Does the death of desire bring low
a harrowed heart,
Looking any where for you, finding only
vacant and tattered lands,
Perhaps only the dust of despair and the
ashes of dejection his true love's first
kiss will impart,
Stumbling upon your words of rejection,
with these empty hands I find,
Thought she was finally the one but no so setting my lost sun's glow,
Wayward feet reach the shoals of left behind,
Back to the boat I see the murder of joy and the theft of glee upon seven seas of
solitude once more to row,
The mournful masterpiece finished at last,
These empty hands only wanted to hold you,
The mantilla removed the covering lifted
crystalline truth for all who pass,
Two empty hands grasping for yet just out of reach your unattainable heart which
never knew
Categories:
mantilla, sadwords,
Form:
Rhyme
++ The Gathered Women, a short poem++
A Magnificence captures
Us
Unexpectedly
We run off
To hunt our mantillas
From long ago youth
To address
And dress our heads
In all felt humility
—————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 2/21/22
**a mantilla is a lace veil
Catholic women wore to church
before the 1990’s
Categories:
mantilla, christian, devotion, feelings, history,
Form:
Free verse
Specially caught shells and pearls,
still lace is woven with worn fingers.
The anointed ten, working together,
crochet a web of intricate design.
Shells on the sandy shelf satisfy,
but doilies and tablecloths linger.
For long in darkness and flickering,
scented candles and burgundy wine.
Pearls of buttons and bows preen,
but a veil of mantilla lace whispers.
The free flow of digits and knuckles -
gentle, well-versed - her palm’s a vine.
Round and round, her wrists writhe,
breath’s aligned within the scriptures.
Categories:
mantilla, beauty, spiritual,
Form:
Rhyme
They struggle with a violent grace,
the bawdy cries of a bandoneon,
the open gash of her torn stocking.
They both understand
that naked hopes come last,
first there is this ceremony
the ritual goading
white flesh and dark shadows
must be rubbed
with an urgent blood.
This bar is a plaza de toros,
a place for the lace mantilla
to be torn away,
a dance floor for broken nightingales
They are cheap wine
but they know how to pour,
crushed and tied as they are
to the pressing moment.
The gap in her stocking
is not large
but its wound is deep,
and sadly nothing,
nothing they have to offer
can ever fill it.
Categories:
mantilla, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
They struggle with a violent grace,
the bawdy cries of a bandoneon,
the open gash of her torn stocking.
They both understand
that naked hopes come last,
first there is this ceremony
the ritual goading
white flesh and dark shadows
must be rubbed
with an urgent blood.
This bar is a plaza de toros,
a place for the lace mantilla
to be torn away,
a floor for broken nightingales
They are cheap wine
but they know how to pour,
crushed and tied as they are
to the pressing moment.
The gap in her stocking
is not large
but its wound is deep,
and sadly nothing,
nothing they have to offer
can ever fill it.
Categories:
mantilla, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
They struggle with a violent grace,
the bawdy cries of a bandoneon,
the open gash of her torn stocking.
They both understand
that naked desires come last,
first there is this ceremony,
the ritual goading
white flesh and dark shadows
must be rubbed
with an urgent blood.
This bar is a plaza de toros,
a place for the lace mantilla
to be torn away,
a dance floor for broken nightingales.
They are cheap wine,
but they know how to pour,
crushed and tied as they are
to the pressing moment.
The gap in her stocking
seems to reflect their deeper wounds,
holes where hope died,
and nothing they seek now,
can ever fill them.
Categories:
mantilla, poetry,
Form:
Free verse