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.
This is not the entity that has been touted and written about
since the times before tamed fire
It is fire, it is malevolent and for that reason it entices me
Enveloped in a shroud of rage unrelenting
Uncaring in its timid posture, it sits patiently
light caressing its curves like a flamenco dancer
In the veins of a volcanic structure, streams of magma
flow slow and serene, effortless in its fervency
I see it staring back at me, and I must pay my dues
for such a crime to even think I could withstand it
My fingertips wavered within its presence, and yet
with daring stupidity I embraced it, the entity
I believe in the torments of Hell now, this is not of Earth’s soil
Lightning flailed like a wailing newborn within me
With every breath I took, every single one,
was a step towards inevitability
The bellows within my body were a searing forge, the sands
of my finite years turned to glass entering my airways
But oh what divine fruity ecstasy you are
Gehenna, this entity that offers me spiritual sustenance
in this experience of culinary S&M
12/30/15
It's prime time
And the difference is seperated by a fine line
Hello
All these fellows
Softer than marshmallows
Your girl keeps trying to stick to me like velcro
And continues shaking that booty like jello
This is just a demo
In case you didn't get the memo
Not against it but am very unfamiliar with techno
And flamenco
At the expo
Met mo' girls wearing stilettos
Then left those premises with one around each elbow
Later on felt like Gordon Gecko
As I passed a petco and began to head home
Down the next road
Just like that, presto
A sudden new perspective after passing an old and withered meadow
I suddenly stopped to burn some endo
From Mendo
And then found a memento
Had lots of pasta with pesto
Started coolin' and felt pretty mellow
Until these fools started being yellow
Began a trek so
I could have my intellect grow
Inside and above areas known to have an echo
By: Dalton Ogletree
Written: December 1st, 2023
_______________________________________
Colors waltz in a rainbow kaleidoscope
cynosure of sun sparks steel drum teams
Emerald elms embrace periwinkle sky
among fragrant spikes of purple lupines.
Monet and Van Gogh are arm-in-arm
spin a diaphanous color wheel off charts
starry night, yellow circumduct swirls
over white water lilies on mirror ponds.
Consider both humanity and nature
emollient color splits and multiplies
A flamenco actor will kick and clap
Hot crimson ethereal feeling whirling flies.
Gold and yellow dance to evocative music
downpour is brought on by charcoal gray
rain and brightness dance across earth
awaking felicity from fugacious winter sleep.
Akin to a roulette ball of a gossamer color
gambling my emotional imbrication away
winning when the ball stops in blue
dancing sea and sky arouse my day.
A jerrybuilt jumble, so shoddy, diminished;
just cubes of grey concrete with windows and doors.
It started to crumble the day it was finished.
Franco’s “solution” for gypsies and moors.
It’s called “La Dehesa”, the pasture, the grange.
The old ones say once there were orchards here, too.
It’s undergone quite a formidable change:
there’s nothing but concrete obscuring the view.
Like rabbits in hutches we live in our flats,
with neighbours on both sides, below and above,
surrounded by dustbins and children and cats,
and noises of squabbling, noises of love.
Each Sunday, some woman (I can’t tell you where)
starts singing, as morning creeps in through the shutters.
Flamenco, like woodsmoke, just hangs in the air,
and laps over drainpipes and outlets and gutters.
She’s clearly a gypsy. I can’t say I’ve seen her,
but singing is thoughtless, as easy as breathing,
and something about her, her aural demeanour,
is caught in her song, which comes seeping and seething
through windows and clothes lines, as if by osmosis.
She sings for herself. She’s not grabbing attention.
There’s no petty ego. Aesthetic hypnosis
is selfless. Seduction, without condescension.
She sings of her pain and her ecstasy. Both
can be borne on the air, like a children’s balloon.
Her art is unconscious, leguminous growth,
yet as hauntingly lovely as the light of the moon.
Gitanos, gitanas – delinquents and whores.
Well, maybe – but, seeing those ravishing eyes,
or hearing The Song as it wavers and soars,
I know in my soul where my sympathy lies.
prophets wear hand-painted signs and sit in the back of buses
advertising paradise some wear gold rings on fingers
and count money the dream returns mother nature shows me
that her kiss thrusting trust is forbidden knowledge of desire
flamenco dancers dead soldiers marching through white stone collects
cold silence in the sweat of illusion we touch the agony
words drained of their blood is a frightening proposition
of desire we speak of tiny morsels savored like wine
in the ear whispered adultery gray films moving through bones
devoid of worms sleeping in apartments frightened residents look out
through tiny peepholes as disheveled people on shoulders of roads
hold card-board signs beside skinny dogs begging passing cars
for crumpled notes with dead faces
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
The mood lifts from the lips, parched with permanent nicotine,
and falls, like snowflake-ashes from a turbulent volcano.
The uninhabited eye, underneath the patch - a vacant stare
into a cloudless night with flamenco-stars. Further from the truth
comes the truth of perspective, perspicacity, the long draw
of his cigarette and slow sigh of ringlets. The Camel scent
of his clothing mixes with lavender and the draught of tears;
melancholy plugs up the dike. An occasional red fingernail,
as if down a chalkboard, his spine, taunts the old timer.
He grunts, and drains the erupting whiskey bottle. Thoughts
take wing…oft’ he hears her laughter, a bird call. Good eye
plucked from the bar, placed with the rest of the stars -
he doesn’t deserve the halo above his habitat, the floor.
Every day, life spins, like a merry-go-round, with no point.
He’ll never tell - the tale is decades gone and oversold.
5/7/2023
Anatomy of Melancholy
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
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
I wasn't ready for it when it hit.
Pathetic, self-absorbed, wallowing in grief,
plaiting the threads of self-disgust and wit,
I toyed with tragic sonnets for relief.
The night was hot. The cleft of Guadalin
crammed air, weighed down with jasmine, hard to breathe,
like musk in tall clay jars. I heard a skein
of song. It rose. It swirled. It dipped and writhed.
There, at my window, I was held, transfixed.
It was the ancient song of blood and soil.
That wailing voice was stinging, bitter - but was mixed
with darker tremelos which fizzed and boiled,
then sank again. It almost seemed the shock
of that shrill voice, embodiment of pain,
had stunned guitarist's hand. His rhythmic knock
reminded me of coffins in the rain.
Voluptuous and frightening at one time,
mellifluous and jarring, fresh yet rotten,
the music was both guttural and sublime:
my puerile self-obsession was forgotten!
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