Long Spaniard Poems
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A
picture
I’ve saved shows
a suave Spaniard
on a horse. Dressed in
a matador’s jacket,
he’s turned to the crowd, smiling.
Behind him, sitting sideways is
a woman, dark hair pulled back, earrings
dangling, wearing a long pink ruffled dress.
She gazes happily at the man with
fondness. Quietly stunning, the pair
seems used to attention. They pose
as I capture with my small
camera. . .the essence
of Seville’s spring fair:
its beauty, its
charm, and love
in full
bloom.
July 23, 2016 For the Two Stanzas Contest of Broken Wings
I used two etheree, one with reversed order of syllable count one to ten.
*years after i took this picture, I learned something fascinating about it. Please read in my notes above.
Twisting up my body emboldened
Hyping my spirit to Planet 9
Thrusting gently my soul to an off beat
Jerking up my feet in no fete
Throwing hands in the air
Moving my carcass to an unheard hurly-burly
Heaping up dance on my hips
Humming to a tune of no name
Shaking ones head like an Agama.
Until my Fibula was aching
I became hyper-active
For what, I queried myself?
For a dance of no tune
Indeed a Fandango only of the Spaniard.
This time in Samonda, Ibadan.
In my quest to situate the 46 years
Independence Anniversary of Nigeria.
We are dancing to no tune in particular.
my fingertips
touch ...
tender, but with melodic intent
you tremble
just SO ...
and sigh sweetly
the delightful answer
to my questioning hands
a gentle press ...
your supple curves against me
fitting me like dovetail
your quivers ...
soft-thrumming my flesh
matching your moans
the hushing pulse of your body
urges me on ...
your swan-like neck
satin beneath my hot palm
as it moves lower
pressing ...
deft digits dancing across you
like a wild Spaniard
we are ... one
our purpose, the same
oh, sing to me now
let my passion be your cry
let our lullabies of love and desire
move souls ...
and ache hearts
my beloved ...
guitar.
I am a word, a simple scribble -
ink arranged on empty page;
I'm voiced with passion from a preacher's
pulpit, or the actor's stage.
I'm sprayed in hate on subway walls
or whispered in a lover's ear,
I am the poet's knife, his lyric
few will sing, and fewer hear.
There is a bridge across a bay;
a golden gate of south and north,
though deep the gulf and far the span,
it carries countless travelers forth.
And I have been that bridge to some,
who span the gorge at any cost
between the thought and understanding
that might otherwise be lost.
Recall a wall inside berlin;
a harsh divorce of east and west,
patrolled by dogs and steel-hard men
and cold barbed wires that never rest.
And yet I've seen a similar
blockade in every border town;
two languages of words distinct
that keep each side to mind its own.
A frenchman and a spaniard, who
perhaps live just across the street;
they know each other's faces well
though naught is spoken should they meet.
I've built my bridges and my walls
and yet two things transcend me still:
the music of an artist's hands,
and love that spreads a heart's good will.
written Feb 1985
Iberia, you took my breath away
with fiery gypsy spirit and romance;
with ancient Moorish history and grace;
with everything there is of you to see;
to hear and smell; to feel inside my soul.
Diversity lives splendidly in you!
The ancient cultures beckoned me to you
when, like the Romans, lured from far away,
I came to you and gave to you my soul,
partaking of your passion and romance.
I’d read of you in school and had to see!
How glad I was to come and know your grace.
A mosque in Cordoba reveals your grace,
but I would learn there is much more of you. . .
Cathedrals dressed in gold I was to see.
From palace walls, in awe I’d walk away
to find nearby - in gypsy caves - romance
in music. . . as Flamenco filled my soul!
With passion’s beat resounding in my soul,
I toured Seville, where ladies rode with grace
on horses with their toreadors! Romance
is in the air at Spanish fairs. And you
can make it hard for one to turn away
from all the magic offered there to see.
In northern parts of you, I was to see
The Pyrenees, whose beauty touched my soul,
quaint villages with mountain goats! Away
I went southeast then, greeted by more grace.
Along your coast, I saw a side of you
I grew to love, Valencia’s romance!
And in Madrid, I found my own romance,
a handsome Spaniard. Never would I see
his face again because, in leaving you,
I left him and a small part of my soul.
So much I’d not yet seen of all your grace,
but destiny was calling me away. . .
I yearn to feel romance inside my soul;
breathe history and see again your grace.
Enchanted land, you are so far away!
May 4, 2010 Now used for Thvia Shetley's Foreign Travel Contest
By different lovers I’ve been kept,
some skillful and a few inept.
I always respond, unafraid.
I rather enjoy being played.
A Spaniard picked me up one time.
His classic strumming was sublime.
Notes poured from me like a cascade.
I rather enjoy being played.
That man released me, and soon I
was picked up by a strange punk guy
who stroked me roughly. Though betrayed,
I rather enjoy being played.
My strings broke often from his touch,
yet thrilled was I by his thrum. Such
unique new tunes from me were made.
I rather enjoy being played.
He gave me over to a boy
who makes my strings vibrate with joy
I climax with each smooth glissade.
I rather enjoy being played.
With him I hope to have remained
in years to come. His love’s unfeigned.
Although I know at times he’s strayed,
I rather enjoy being played.
By Andrea Dietrich
For nette onclaud's "Sound Madness Poetry Contest"
This is personification of my favorite instrument, the Sexy Guitar!
How have you been, it's ok to tella
Explorer of the sea, like me can't you see
That Brooks and Paris need some money
Please support our trip to the far east
On the search for gold, spices, and peace
Make an alliance, no more will be deceased
And then with all your glory, power will be released
Now of course you know, I'm a man of navigation
We'll be chasin a new Spaniard nation
No hesitation just regulation
Make a fresh start on a new foundation
No more waitin, this is your chance
Travel be sea and not by land
I promise you we will do the best that we can
And once we succeed I hope you understand
That you will be the most famous queen of all time
Please Miss Isabella, I do not have a dime
Instead of a letter, I'm sending you a rhyme
It sounds a bit better, and rappin's not a crime
But enough about that, let me tell you this
If my directions are right then we will sure not miss
If no corrections are made then I can surely list
A whole scroll full of demands cause we'll be so rich
And I'm not just sayin that trying to be modest
I'm telling you the truth, I'm being totally honest
Nobody else can navigate even as well as I can aim
And once we reach and claim
We'll put your name to fame
Our route is better planned and leadership's a must
In my eyes, we're the only two that you can trust
Let me explain in detail exactly what we need
A whole bunch of sea men and a couple ships indeed
We need a lot of food, and of course some vitamin C
Just to make sure the men don't get scurvy
We need some beer and wine, some utensils to dine
A whole lot of rifles for men on the front line
Acceptable weapons win the battle every time
And I need a lot girls, bout 39 would be just fine
Now my time is almost up, you just need to know my route
We're gonna sail round Africa and take the passage south
And then we'll sail around and finally reach the Asians
That is when we'll start the new Spaniard nation
By different lovers I’ve been kept,
some skillful and a few inept.
I always respond, unafraid.
I rather enjoy being played.
A Spaniard picked me up one time.
His classic strumming was sublime.
Notes poured from me like a cascade.
I rather enjoy being played.
That man released me, and soon I
was picked up by a strange punk guy
who stroked me roughly. Though betrayed,
I rather enjoy being played.
My strings broke often from his touch,
yet thrilled was I by his thrum. Such
unique new tunes from me were made.
I rather enjoy being played.
His sister held me awkwardly,
but then she sang so beautifully
it mattered not my sound would fade. . .
I rather enjoy being played.
She and her brother gave me to
some plucking fools without a clue
till an artiste came to my aid.
I rather enjoy being played.
He pressed my frets, this handsome boy.
My stings were vibrating with joy.
I climaxed with his smooth glissade.
I rather enjoy being played.
With him I hope to have remained
in years to come. His love’s unfeigned.
Although I know at times he’s strayed,
I rather enjoy being played.
Lost in a Land of Gold and Honey
What is white?
What do you call white?
White can be a mixture of races like shepherd pie.
A mixture of vegetables, meat, spices, then creating a seal of mashed potatoes.
All you see is the topping of white mashed potatoes.
So, what do you call white?
Let your colours bleed and blend whither brown, black, yellow, red, green, or white colour skin.
You peel back the bark of each family tree.
You’ll find we all share some sort of, religion, language, hopes, and dreams.
We are all under the same clouds,
rise in the same golden sunrise,
slumber in the same star filled night,
and stand on the same fertile soil.
We all thirst, we hunger,
we hate, we love,
we cry, we laugh,
we live, we die,
we all bleed red,
and mourn for our loved ones.
My parents, my parent’s parents, were born and raised in the United States, Spaniards in a city of segregation. Excluded from Whites, Mexicans, and African Americans even though we were white and Spaniard I was labeled.
So, what is white?
Because you’re not white, it makes you less special you become less innocent so the law looks at you as guilt.
1/14/2018
there are some people
I do know
they speak of places
I can't go
ooh then some
if God is real
might should I ask
the chores of one
done by two
Makes easy the task?
Hadian speak to the Romans.
Yes God is Real
He's real in our Souls
Yes God is real
that We have washed
and made us whole
Gods love for us
is what we should know
yes God is real
cause we can feel him
in our souls!
Answered by the Romans
This was spoken when Hadrian wished
to build the Temple of Venus and Rome.
While in Rome a woman asked
if she could kiss the
dark haired Spaniard. The fella answering her questions
laughed and told her she was referring to Caesar she
humbled herself and said she thought
Caesar was a legend and a myth.
until she saw his face she didn't believe. The jews
around her told her that he wasn't the savior god
but he ( Caesar) wished them to worship
him as god, something
these men refused to do. She smiled
at them and said Hail Caesar might I feed my
people. Several woman than throw tomatoes at her
and called her a whore. She rose stained and shame
""Si, Dio e reale!" " Si, Dio es real!"