Bullfighting
Matadors
and bulls in the ring
confront each
where mayhem
erupts when horse and man fall
and fans scream for death.
Bravo Toro!
Snorting and bloodied in the mid-day sun,
he paws the ground. His angry eye is fixed.
He charges and the matador is spun
off balance, tangled in his cape, he trips.
His suit of lights impaled and tossed aloft,
transfixed, a crumpled rag doll, motionless,
the crowd is silenced. Yet again he’s tossed.
A deep groan from the crowd. The bull, possessed,
exultant in his own in-bred finesse,
senses the blood of generations past
course through his fighting frame until, at last,
distracted and victorious he makes way.
This bull will live to fight another day.
Ah, to write something exciting:
full of suspense and nail-biting,
narrow escapes while bullfighting…
The reader and I are gonna
run with the bulls in Pamplona,
sip on an ice-cold Corona;
the allure is so inviting.
Travel across the Atlantic -
it certainly sounds romantic,
but the first draft sounds pedantic:
a lie to say I’m delighting…
Then, with a thought not yet complete,
overwhelmed by utter defeat,
I hop a ride on the delete:
bull, yes, but mostly rewriting…
----------
A Zehel: aaa bbba ccca ddda with 8 syllable lines
Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Matador
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: October/2015
Bravely
he
poses
before
the
gates
of
sudden death -
Poised
to
face
his
most
formidable
foe -
He's
the Toreros,
fearless
with
bullfighting
etched
way down
in
his soul.
He's
Debonair;
In
a
Traje De Luces,
holding
Banderillas,
and
Montera.
A
Matador?....
Yes,
Agile
with
grace,
His skills
are
mystic
Inside
the
Bull Ring
where
thousands
roar!
to
watch him
wave
his
Capote De Paseo,
to
the face
of
a charging
beast -
And
with each
narrow escape,
the
Matador De Toros,
hear's
the crowd
roar!
for
his artistry......
He's
a
flamboyant
maestro -
King
of
the ring -
Dressed
to
kill,
preparing
to
thrust
banderillas
Into
a bull,
upon
the blood red
dirt,
in
black
Zapatillas
Copyright (c). 2016 Ken Jordan
Patricia McCormic – Bullfighter
A bull, a sword, a big red cape
A cheering crowd, a girly shape
She was the first back in her day
A Matador, the best they’d say
At least among the girls back then
For until her, they were all men
Not just a girl, a Yankee to boot
Dressed up in a manly suit
She fought 300 bulls or more
And only six times did bulls gore
But once the gore was so severe
They thought her end was very near
A priest came out to give “last rites”
After one of her losing fights
And he issued one last order
Let her die north of the border
But she survived to fight again
And faced those bulls with her girly grin
This courageous girl would stand
With just the red cape in her hand
The bulls would charge, she wouldn’t flinch
As the bulls passed by within an inch
She’d end the dance with the coup de gras
Amid the “Bravos” and “Hurrahs”
For ten years she endured
The thought of getting skewered
By bulls that she engaged within the ring
Now her thoughts are so much lighter
She’s a teacher, she’s a writer
As bullfighting no longer is her thing
Another true story from the web
Today is the day my heart has to take a stand
Against the agony and anguish of being alone.
Hopefully today, my head can make it understand
That it has unequivocally had the upper hand.
It’s a prudent proposition, the evidence has shown;
Today is the day my heart has to take a stand.
How can you hold on to this hollow strand
Holding this overly oppressive weight of stone?
Hopefully today, my head can make it understand
That forever is but a forgotten fire never fanned
By the fervor of two fevered souls never grown.
Today is the day my heart has to take a stand.
Hasn’t the bullying, bullfighting, butting and
Beating been enough to burst every single bone?
Hopefully today, my head can make it understand
That war is definitely warranted and I command!
Love has become loathsome liar we must disown!
Today is the day my heart has to take a stand,
Today, my head will make it understand.
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