Festival Of San Fermin
Running the gamble
— living the dream
(Pamplona Spain: July, 1977)
‘Pathway To Hell ...”
Money is to promises
what bureaucracy is to care
Chasing lost indemnity
— uncertainty’s despair
(Dreamsleep: August, 2024)
The Lost Garden
A bad seed
illy planted
Fallow
—and alone
(Denison Iowa, September, 1967)
Au Chante
The pathway
to happiness
Goes through
—the open heart
(Midway Airport: August, 2024)
Ah, to write something exciting:
full of suspense and nail-biting,
narrow escapes while bullfighting…
The reader and I are gonna
run with the bulls in Pamplona,
sip on an ice-cold Corona;
the allure is so inviting.
Travel across the Atlantic -
it certainly sounds romantic,
but the first draft sounds pedantic:
a lie to say I’m delighting…
Then, with a thought not yet complete,
overwhelmed by utter defeat,
I hop a ride on the delete:
bull, yes, but mostly rewriting…
----------
A Zehel: aaa bbba ccca ddda with 8 syllable lines
Be,
it's the eyes that draw me in
subtlety seductive
with a hint of fear
but freshly lit and duty free
there's no denying
a night time dream of deference
where drips of desire
tumble down
her dainty cheek
no torture, no suppression,
no midnight depression
as those nails start digging in
we cross
then re-cross
in a nearly perfect ring
toro
Pamplona fills the bill
she winks,
it's adoration
a soul she's climbing in
no spilling of tight held secrets
tonight no bull is going to win
Key,
Black to White, Black to White
back to front, front to back
dancing naked
a pale moonlight
passions rising
over a burning sea
you can see
madam
you can see
in the twin mirror of me
won now
now won
one two
one two
nailed
the predictive text
of life
unpredictability mailed
sent off only to be returned
sites left to be seen
running the streets
Pamplona by the sea
sipping prosecco
warm words in a breeze
minds tickling time
stopping for a world to see
I in front of you
You in front of me
unlocking secrets
that were meant to be
a native american
mother mixed with
african knowing old
ways embracing new
knew she was something
when in childhood she told
me about the running of the
bull after school the simplest
path was straight from a to b
but the fence means it's
containing something
so maybe best to
walk around but she would
never listen to this even if
she heard they were only
words and pecan pie was
on the other side so why
waste time going all the
way round when it was
simple to see the end
of a straight line so over
the fence and run but
this wasn't Pamplona
but South Carolina
so there were no bulls
but one and an angry
one that saw red all
of the time but she
believed in her feet
and left the past
behind but always
brought enough to
keep in mind what
was learned from
the last time so
she could define
the that this time
live and learn
Pamplona - full fight - 'El Toro Bravo'
Who's got more balls the matador or the bull
Nature or nurture the survival is skewed
The stage is set culture maintained and the
Fiesta bound to unravel in wild screams and suspense
Paloma however sports a pacifist's creed
Prefers a siesta with Paco's gentle sword
Sheathed in passion smooth motions of Peace
Bow to freedom and compassionate love
Pony and stallion dance al fresco in white sheets
When the night settles and they glow in the dusk
The arena nearby is empty bar blood in the sand
But Paloma and Paco rest unblemished after the
wondrous rapture and a clear conscience in kind
I looked for comfort in nostalgia
Like water in a wishing well
Looked for solace in the moment
Like a new friend in a prison cell
I looked for things I didn’t know
And things I guess I do
O, Baby
I looked for you
I looked for absinthe in a dark room
Like Van Gogh in his cafe
I looked for romance in Pamplona
Like a suicidal Hemingway
I looked in my imagination
But that was all used up and through
O, sweet Baby
I looked for you
I looked for prostitutes in Bedlam
And those Babylonian whores
For their magnanimous redemption
As they flogged me down onto all fours
I looked for women that I didn’t know
The forlorn and the few
O, Baby
Then I looked for you
I looked for you
I traced the clues
Misled once in awhile
Tricked by the occasional ruse
I looked for beatific evidence
In the collected works of Christ
From the Ark of the Repentant
To the great sanctimonious device
I looked for a face on the woven shroud
Played the Immaculate Peek-a-boo
O Jesus, I looked for you.
2010
The running of the bulls in Pamplona
Is part of the San Fermin Festival
What excitement awaits the mayor’s call
To win accolades is “muy bona”
Escaping bull’s piercing horns is daring
Runners like the danger they are sharing
They seek prize, adulations “corona”.
BLOOD OF PAMPLONA
We dined where Papa shined his cutlery
to rid the spots before a lunchtime fare
she dressed in red, her cloak no bull could see
and bound so tight so men could see her there.
Her mounds of flesh and cleavage turned each head
they didn't know to dine her she was theirs
and easy came her love--she made her bed
with matadors who had the proper stares.
And then she raced the bulls in drunken dance
down cobblestones and dared each one of them
til she was gored and blood was circumstance
and trampled in the dung and dusty grim.
She realized her dream to her last breath
and praised the bull who brought her to her death.
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
On bovine hooves death thunders near
Along Pamplona cobblestones:
Fleet, snorting brutes with thrashing horns
Enrich my life through coursing fear.
My frantic sprint lends throbbing heart
As death stampedes on bovine hooves;
One slip, a fall, could spell my doom—
True love for life does dread impart!
December 6, 2016
Flirt Poetry Contest
Lewis Raynes, Sponsor
"EARS OF FURY"
“I'm done,” she said
and she got out of her
car grabbing
her kid
from the backseat.
“You're not my father,”
she said,
walking away
without lessons from
a father.
then she was
out of my sight,
angry like
a bull running without
direction in Pamplona.
By: Chicano Eddie
7-17-2016
What Might They Find There
If someone was to look there
deep into my soul
They would find a bucket list that looks like an ancient scroll
The list of things of my heart's desires
1. To see the amazing Effie tower
Number two would be so grand
2. Camp on Seven Mile Beach toes deep in the sand
Three would make me a little insane
3. Run with the bulls in Pamplona, Spain
Four is a long life fantasy indeed
4. Take a selfie at the Leaning Tower of Pisa, Italy
Five is for certain
5. I'd love to Ride a camel in Petra, Jordan
Six would be some what of a hassle
6. Learn to fly fish at Inverlochy Castle
Seven should be on a high demand
7. Sip coffee at Nishinomaru Garden in Japan
Eight would light up my aura
8. Get a massage in Bora Bora
Nine Is a Beauty that not many know
9. To go deep in Naica mine in Mexico
Ten sends my soul a fantastic chill
10. To See Christ the Redeemer (statue) – Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
9-16-2016
GIRL OF PAMPLONA
We dined where Papa shined his cutlery
to rid the spots before a lunchtime fare
she dressed in red, her cloak no bull could see
and bound so tight so men could see her there.
Her mounds of flesh and cleavage turned each head
they didn't know to dine her she was theirs
and easy came her love--she made her bed
with matadors who had the proper stares.
And then she raced the bulls in drunken dance
down cobblestones and dared each one of them
til she was gored and blood was circumstance
and trampled in the dung and dusty grim.
She realized her dream to her last breath
and praised the bull who brought her to her death.
© Ron Wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
In Pamplona at the Running of the Bulls folks will cheer,
stampeding through the Spanish city as fast as they go.
The great kick some people get running with bulls in the rear
may be a matador’s dream, but it’s one I’ll forego.
In nightmares I’m racing, feeling the pinch of their horns,
I break into night sweats because I fear being trampled
and then I awake feeling like my butt’s stung by thorns.
(It’s not an experience you’d choose to repeat once sampled.)
Few of us have mastered the skills a matador has honed;
many injuries and even deaths have been reported,
so my trip to Spain once planned has now been postponed.
Instead to a Caribbean villa I’ll be transported.
As I lie on a beach holding a pina colada,
I’m sure I’ll catch 40 winks and the dream will repeat.
And I’ll ponder how Spain invaded with their armada
when this centuries old race left some trampled on the street.
*Written February 8, 2012 for Paula’s “Trample” contest
Its 3 o’clock.
And the walls are telling me to sleep
But no luck
As my brain throbs like the bulls of Pamplona
Giving way to
Pretty, vacant wanderings through empty fields
To clear my head
Then the caffeine buzz at half six
And the bittersweet sting
Of revealing rays on my face
As the gloominess evaporates
And in the window my eyes shine blood red
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