Long Flamenco Poems
Long Flamenco Poems. Below are the most popular long Flamenco by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flamenco poems by poem length and keyword.
The interview went nowhere.
He just refused to answer.
Avoiding every question
Like a crazed Flamenco dancer.
He always left everybody wanting more
As he tiptoed his way out of the door.
It’s typical, he told me
As he guzzled down his coffee,
That the rhythm and the music
At an early age had caught me.
And he hummed a little tune from yesteryear
That was trapped all this time inside his ear.
That could’ve been me, I think,
If I never had a drink.
They’d be handing me awards like so much candy
That could’ve been me, I bet,
But much to my regret
I never made it past the first floor landing…
The evidence is out there,
If you search a little bit.
But in looking for the Truth
You never know just what you’ll get.
He said, wisdom doesn’t always come with years
But you think about it more as the end nears.
I should have been a diver
But my life was spent just wading.
And with every year that passes
There’s another dream that’s fading.
It’s always sad to think what might have been
But there’s no use going over it again…
That could’ve been me, I know
If I’d just got up to go.
There’d be fame and fortune lying at my feet.
That could’ve been me, it’s true
But what can you really do?
I never really learned how to compete.
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
i wanna dance the mambo,the cubin cuba mambo,
i wanna dance the cha cha,hip movements with the cha cha!
or maybe try the salsa, sensual is the salsa.
i wanna dance the samba,the fun brazilian samba,
or maybe the lambada,brazilian hot lambada!
argentinian tango,intense erotic tango,
or maybe the flamenco ,passionate spain flamenco,
may even try the polka,high energy in polka,
the czech bohemian polka
i wanna go and party,good time dancing the rumba,
latino americano,cubano,africano.
i wanna do the hip hop,hip hop hip hop don't stop
dance reigns in the ball room,
i will dance the Ball Room,under and above
with you i dance the Ballroom ,classic dance of love.....
are you ready partner?
-------charma
While careening with Carene,
a boogie-woogie with Wanita, wow!
Then, a whirl with Pearl,
a jiggy jig with Jacqueline.
At intervals rhumba with a Rosalie.
An experimental ballet
with Bonnie, Bob, and Blaire.
Thanks, Charlie, for the Cha-cha-cha!
A quick shimmy with Shailene,
disco with a duchess
prancing with a prince,
and quickstep with a queen.
A charleston with Cherise
before long, samba with Sabrina,
a quick jive with Jennifer,
followed by a tango with Tasneem.
Pole dancing with Priscilla,
Poppy, Penny, and Pandora.
Kuchipudi with Kahini
and kizomba with Kabibe.
Conga with a coven
flamenco with old flame,
what will be my last dance?
Danzón with the Devil, I expect.
The Last Dance Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Craig Cornish
Date wrote: 13-July-2021
In Spain they call it Flamenco
In Portugal it's Fado
It's simple life yet so complex
Heavy but light
Dark but so bright
One can step into a basement or a theatre so large
One can feel overjoyed or supremely depressed
These extremes of emotions are life itself
But perhaps there is that balance when you sit and watch and listen
The click clacking of shoes
The desperate strums of strings
The rhythmic slapping on the cajon
The moans of lost romance
Sip your coffee or Porto vino, or Sangria if you wish
Lose yourself in Iberian folk music
And decide how you want to spend your horas in the dancing abyss
A pageant of hued flappers drapes the air,
where maiden butterflies awake upon
fresh tunes gliding in crystal winged sensation:
how beautiful they are, enough to initiate
my own spring of rebirth as April endows
this hint of childlike wonder: my breath emerging
while rafters explode in velvet glow… tossed petals
unfurling their limbs while monarchs circle along
ovules with flamenco swings, so luminous.
Much like this season they are born from, rustlings
weave a glazed ascent in radiant pirouette
of joy: I encounter a different scene, a different
potion of life through this moth-like shimmer
from laced nights: at last, spring’s bosom is decked
in flickers that my own awakening yields
to this cycle’s homage for butterflies’ swift magic :
tassels waltzing… until their charmed life- spans are done.
For Rob Carmack's Screwed X111 Contest
Resubmitted 4/25/2016
There is a place so beautiful I'd love to see again.
My dream vacation started in Madrid, in central Spain.
How I long to stroll again down by Retiro Lake
and see El Prado art museum. Then for old time's sake,
I'd find some iced “horchata” down by Alcala Gate,
and later see Flamenco at a bar where folks stay late.
Come tag along with me as I remember old Castile.
We'll bring potato omelets in french loaves for our meal.
In any one direction, heading north, east, south or west,
is something quite amazing for your senses to digest.
A cross upon a peak is near the great Escorial.
And Avila, by Romans built, is circled by a wall.
Segovia, Toledo, and further by the sea,
lies Valencia. That's a place I want to be!
Try the calamares (squid). I like it best when fried!
Oranges abound and the paella's bona fide.
In March , through all Valencia there is a grand display:
people burning giant statues made of papier mache.
Northward are the Pyrenees, rugged, vast and green,.
Sheep in fields, refreshing clime, and villages serene.
There's bustling Barcelona if we journey up the coast.
Farther west, along a bay in Galicia, I like most
a place named San Sebastian, a very lovely town.
It has some trees with tops like cute umbrellas upside down.
Last, to Don Quixote's Andalucia -south let's drive
where for centuries the moors' enlightenment could thrive.
Cordoba, Granada, and Seville we have to visit.
The mosques with marbled columns at Cordoba are exquisite.
Granada has a palace like none you've ever seen.
The ornate rooms and gardens were fair pleasures for a queen.
Malaga I never saw, but if ever I should go
back to Spain, that's a beach I really want to know.
So many different nations arrived on Spanish shores:
Greeks, Phoenicians, Visigoths, Carthaginians, Celts and Moors.
Iberia is fascinating. Its diversity
is so enchanting, it's the best vacation spot for me!
4/28/2015
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.
Words
are
Like Birds
They fly out of clear blue skies,
out of thick gray smother,
out of black thunderclouds,
out of serine, colourful sunsets.
Words may be like Majestic, Eagles,
swift and elusive as Humming Birds,
enlightening and silent as wise old Owls,
or as irresponsible as the Cuckoo Bird.
Words may be like god’s, Sparrows,
keen as the Hawk,
permeating as the Woodpecker,
or as elegant as Swans.
Words may be as eloquent as many a Song Bird,
or as beautiful as Peacocks,
they may be like the Flamenco,
or scavengers, like Vultures.
Words may ascend to great heights , or stoop so low.
Words soar into one’s world, upon veiled wings,
leaving their messages to be deciphered
by the discerning ear, the subconscious mind.
Words are dissipated by the winds that carry them aloft.
But seldom has their flight been lofty !!
Words, and one’s word, seldom carries any weight,
for deception seems to be word’s ever lasting fate.
B. J. “A” 2
January 16th, 2013
My husband and I ate a mango.
Afterwards, we danced the Tango.
I wanted to dance the Flamenco,
My husband wouldn't,
So I let my Man Go.
I would have to find another,
To dance with me, I spied my brother,
My brother said, Shirl, go and ask mother,
I have been painting I will smother,
You with paint my girl.
So my advice is to take a whirl,
Or twist and twirl,
Or maybe curl,
Yourself up in a chair,
So nobody will see you there.
Shirl was tired of prancing around,
Her feet had hardly touched the ground,
Her energy was once renowned,
That was long ago.
When she was young,
The days seemed so happy and gay,
Black and white, no shades of grey,
Today she didn't feel that way.
She was feeling very down.
Like a circus that had lost its clown,
Or a Go-Go dancer,
Who fell off of the stage,
She was feeling quite enraged.
I should not have eaten that Man Go,
The fruit that makes me want to Tango.
Why is it called mango, anyway,
It's not politically correct to say,
MANGO even though my Man ran away