Not the great compass winds, but the lesser,
the local winds, the mapmakers.
Odysseus once bagged them, but they escaped.
Anemoi, like the wind that de-horns goats,
or the Moorish, Melteme,
the ill-tempered one. Simoom, the poisoner
who fills throats with its tainted garments,
or Rashabbar the black wind
whose nocturnal wings blind all men.
Named, visible winds that chisel our faces,
as if we were cliffs at the edge of the world.
The Squamish, the Elephanta, the Williwaw,
time-swirling thieves. They steal the young,
the babes in their cribs and when we look for them,
a swish of a hem or a hurricane are the same.
The children return, a sculpted dervish
spiralling within them.
Tebbard, the fever wind, wanders through our bones,
a sultry doctor adding fuel to the heat
until a storm breaks, then as driftwood we are salvaged.
The Fever-bringer itself dies,
dry now as mottled kelp on carrion shores.
Winds that gnaw themselves into Chinooks and Mistral,
winds that shape and follow us
to the rim of the sky, where those celestial dragons,
North, East, South and West winds
dream fitfully of once being human.
The Inland Algarve
The landscape is so oddly shaped.
Had once been a domestic landscape,
where the scent of wild herbs and the whisper
The wind through olive branches told stories of past lives,
Walking along a narrow cartwheel
Tracks I often come across the remnant
Of dwellings that once had housed
Poverty-stricken people who had
Ploughed small and reluctant fields
Olive trees had grown wild and tall
Bearing bitter fruit.
Some walls had no purpose, sinking.
Back to earth, becoming rocks again.
A haunted landscape in the inland Algarve,
a region rich with a history of Moorish influence
and traditional farming,
Algarve, and no one saw it doomed
Beauty.
Rabbits and boars peacefully roam, embodying
the natural serenity that still whispers through the land.
And sheep grazed in the gloaming.
Stillness, yet I sensed voices that once
Had loved and lived struggling
Against poverty and early death.
Earth
that turns on itself
being turned inside and out
has focus and shows itself
in luxury and amenities
like in big cities!
Big cities are showcases
they turn and show themselves night and day:
London displays its fog,
Paris its light,
Madrid Moorish beauty
Rio naked architecture...
Shanghai mysterious aura
New York melting pot
Moscow intriguing way
Our world turns being
only a particle of the
general movement of the Cosmos...!
THRUST AND SLASH
A sword in a scabbard, hung from the belt
For the Teutonic Knights, it costs much geld
Heated and tempered but it does not melt
Most blades are l straight and double sided
Easy to draw as the long blade is guided
To the old Eastern mind, such is derided
The Moorish influence is in Toledo still
With a special steel that is designed to kill
For fancier guardsmen it would fit the bill
A cutlass is curved with cupped brass guard
Designed for slashing when stabbing is hard
But need sharpening if the edge is marred
Knives however, like most daggers, are hid
An arm for a lady to grip, and quietly slid
Ready for determined action, as many did
Some thin to a point, as a poignard will do
But there are other places to find them too
As for a Scot in a sock, that’s a Skean Dhu
'2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 19' entry, 03 Nov 2022. Sponsor=Mark Toney
Anemoi, the wind that de-horns goats.
Moorish Melteme, the ill-tempered one.
Simoom, the lung poisoner.
Rashabbar the black swirling.
The Squamish, the Elephanta, the Williwaw,
thieves that steal babes in their cribs.
Tebbard, the fever wind, it wanders through our bones;
the sultry doctor who adds heat to chills
until, like driftwood, we are salvaged.
Chinooks and the Mistral they follow travelers
to the edge of a world,
where the great four Celestial Dragons,
North, East, South and West,
roar like thunder in our sleep
until we dream fitfully of being human.
Neck pulsating, close shave shines over whiskers
Stiff collar pressure, raced anticipation simmers
Key twist intrigue spurs engine's orange rage
Needle throws redline on wide torque gauge
Jaw rigid, fingers grip cockpit lethal leather wheel
G-force grabs chest, insolent beast thrusts surreal
Monster inflamed incredulously adheres to tar
Salivating lion's ravenous rumble has zero par
Ripping up bitumen, sardonic responsive tyres rivet
Road shred's exhausted under rocket fume exhibit
Airtight capsule, caramel cow hide hugs tamer
Eardrums hum, a hundred mile Hyundai shamer
Brawny tawny gold, hot bonnet chrome flashdance
Purrs her melting eclair aerodynamic performance
Pride's pilot elevated by moorish horizon hunts
Hungry headlights still prey with stealthy stunts
30th July 2022
Written for Contest: Joy
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Thine beautiful soul hidden in the veils of flesh
I have met you on the planet of love
Oh soul,with the butterfly wings
Where you learnt this art of seduction?
I see thy reflection in the bright moon
Won't you see the jealousy of stars?
Oh soul,with the moorish eyes
Why you compare years of seperation and few moments of reunion?
The intense feeling of thy love has burned my heart
Won't you smell the Pleasent fragrance?
Thy blood and mine mingled in the lovers pool
Won't you feel the level of euphoria in me?
Oh soul ,burning inside
Set my wandering soul on fire too
Patience,
Don't be greedy this is a 4 course meal save some of your appetite for desert trust me you will not be disappointed
It's the sweetest and most moist
of apple pie for you to eat from in to out
A recipe baked from right off the pages
of the feminine grand witches cookbook of seductive spells
It's
In part beatle bonnet
part butterfly
part eot of lemac
part pussycat
That comes delivered with a side of sticky fingers and lashings of my very own custard cream squirted right on
top
It's so darn sexy and moorish quite frankly i'd be
astonished if you don't ask for a 2nd or 3rd
helping
And ask if you can take the rest home
so you can have it for breakfast in bed in the
morning all over again
Iberia, I long to breathe you in
as long ago I did. . . and then exhale
sangria nights with lace against my skin!
Sweet temptress draped in beauty, you unveil
Flamenco’s soul, exhuming history -
impressions left by ancients on your face -
from Roman glory’s remnants by the sea
to Moorish structures’ arcs of ageless grace.
Oh, how could I retreat with more to learn,
to make no sacrifice, nor question why
I had to keep my plans and not return
to your broad plains beneath Castilian sky?
Time stole my youth; I can’t go back again.
You could have been my home, belovèd Spain.
Feb 6, 2020
for John Hamilton's "Your Best Sonnet 2020" contest
(my best one that was not at least a previous winner in one of your own sonnet contests this year, John.)
Massed crowds of all creeds jostle to enter
Inside cool air and dim light calms the soul
Eyes gaze around this spiritual centre
Built form and faith symbols create a whole
In the greatest mosque squats the Christian place
Two toned stacked arches on columns in line
Iconic forms give an opulent face
Geometric shapes in a complex design
Religion with social is the Muslims’ way
Sahn, zullah and mihrab lead one to prayer
And then Christian gospel no social say
High alter dominance makes one aware
Caliphate, Gothic and Baroque do converge
Yet these two faiths so close will never merge
Father Serra's choicest mission.
Late restored to prime condition.
Architecture's Moorish fashion.
Catenary
high roof, tower Spanish vision.
Awesome very.
The last sigh of the Moor, King Boabdil,
As he flees the triumphant Ferdinand,
Echoes round slopes of a mist-shrouded hill.
He looks back for the last time at the land
That he once ruled. `Weep as a woman will,’
His mother jeers behind her jewelled hand,
`For what you would not defend as a man!’
He stares northwards as long as he can,
Marvelling at the distant snow-capped hills
Gently cradling the Alhambra’s walls,
Its towers, placid ponds, and sparkling rills,
Treasuring them. Later, when he recalls
This scene, he deems its loss the worst of ills
That ever befell him, and, saddened, falls
To yearning for water from those mountains
And the Generalife’s dancing fountains.
A tale as romantic as any told -
This Moorish palace of earthly pleasure,
Its red stone, now mellowed to pink and gold,
Is a wonder of the world to treasure.
Like Boabdil, I want to hoard and hold
Its magical light, and, for good measure,
The sound of Granada’s gurgling streams
In my mind to recall in pleasant dreams.
dying to myself I saw
a shadow of a man
stranger to himself
plodding over salted pan
true heart lost forgotten
shriveled down a mossy well
a soul's darker midnight
a fearful wood both dank and fell
standing up for naught but living
another drear and sunless day
eyes dropped down from bright horizons
life turned hardened shapeless clay
when did a path turn rocky
broken cobbles, broken selves
when wounds bled out a smile
dusted on forgotten shelves
turning faces through the cobwebs
burning off the moorish haze
reaching for an inner ember
stoke desire's holy blaze
only fear and static bind us
cradled in their caustic arms
leeching will, sapping sinew
teeth behind a siren's charms
reaching for the doorframe
leading to a greener glen
tarnished knob, tumbler lock
stumbled foot and then,
the door opens...
The Flamenco Dancer and The Bull
The acoustics of your snuffle
is an absolution
of a descending staccato
in an E chord.
Behold, my lancing third,
an urgency to trick you
with my jalapeño-colored capote,
to mask the stains of your blood
as it oozes, while I thrust
these Romani banderillas
in your neck.
Tease me with impulsive pretence
of your Berber-like invincibility,
while I magnify
your monotonous habits,
triggering the sequel
with the mutiny of these senses
in a most soulful manner.
Beware, my gitano-inspired estoque,
hidden and within a rhythmic beat cycle
in sync with a Moorish chant,
while my arms obliquely stretched
plunging to your bosom,
as I dare to move my hips
in a sultry fashion, to anchor it
in your Andalusian-unceasing being,
Oh! My Iberian-bred tragedy,
consummating my tableau
with your immortal inexistence.
Moorish,
Actual beauty personified,
Unique qualities,
Vivacious,
Enlightening.
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