A gauche gaucho,
a galoot,
rawboned and grizzly,
rode into
a snoring border town.
"Google me," he said,
as he hitched his mare to
a wild hair.
The cranky cowhand
had gambled on
an internet cantina being open
but the only horse in town
had been gridlocked for hours.
Later they found him
slumped over
a frozen quesadilla.
"Poor Bastard." They cooed.
"Poor lonely gaucho
with his empty man-bag
and no mail.
Just a gadget for company,
an uncharged old ‘Blackberry’.
O the god-damn humanity."
São Paulo is a
long street that
crosses Brazil
with its "trade"
infernal...
Rio is a stage
lit where
the popcorn maker of
corner, it's handle
of samba and the madam
from Barra, she owns
of gafieira in Lapa...
Belo is a farm
modern...but its
horses are mechanics...
There you breathe the air of
in the ancient days...
The Northeast that was once
fiction plays functions, left
to be illusion and mirage
to be a consumption pole...
The north, still lies down
asleep in wonder
of the green... as planes
traffic their saps...and the
Uncle Sam still eludes
the natives...
From the Central Plateau,
or from the green heart
from the homeland will arise a
resounding cry that
will dislodge the Court
castled...
So the South that still
thinks it is Cisplatin
or argentine gaucho
will untie the triple alliance
and it will be truly believed
Brazilian...!
Oh my Brazil...manly...!
A gauche gaucho,
a galoot,
rawboned and grizzly,
rode into
a snoring border town.
"Google me," he said,
as he hitched his mare to
a wild hair.
The cranky cowhand
had gambled on
an internet cantina being open
but the only horse in town
had been gridlocked for hours.
Later they found him
slumped over
a frozen quesadilla.
"Poor Bugger." They cooed.
"Poor lonely gaucho
with his empty man-bag
and no mail.
Just a gadget for company,
an uncharged blackberry.
The god-damn humanity."
Senryu
I’m a cowboy
Herding in reluctant words
To make a poem
Argentina’s pampas
Where wild horses live
Poetry in motion
The gaucho
Is a free verse maker
On horseback
HOW TO ALIGN A FINE LINE
Who can resist the pull of such a competition
Where the rules are so clear,
But the topic is like sex in the 60s revolution:
Filled with pitfalls but (yes, it was) - freer
Similar to the Argentine gaucho named Bruno
Who said well there’s one thing I do know
- Slang is fine,
Intentional misspellings are divine,
But a llama is numero uno.
And whose “who’s” is in question? Not mine!
Hey, they’re writing “their” over there
When it oughta be “they’re”.. . . Ok, Fine!
The effect of all this is to affect my degree of care
(And to effect a change in all poets, I hope).
Since mine is not a KNOCK-OUT of a poem
And I am certainly no dope
Nor am I a gnome from Nome or even Chomsky Noam
I hesitate to use the non-existent
Cringer word “irregardless” regardless
Of the consequences extant,
Or in future years countless.
………………………………………
Written by a nameless, talentless poet
For Nancy Jones’s Contest “Fine Line”
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