Short Cuban Poems

warm sandy beaches 
my cuban bread from publix 
the sound of palm trees...

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Marco Rubio
would show best perhaps in a Tussaud's studio
stiff waxen smile
the Cuban marionette attempting to beguile....

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As I walked down the streets of Laredo
I spied a Mexican hot potato
But better by far
A Cuban cigar
With a spicy Comanche tomato...

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let’s welcome the Cuban defector
suggesting he steer to our vector
we could send our own boat
learning Spanish by rote
then pray that he’s better than Hector....

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There once was a Cuban named Ella
She started out life as a fella
It’s not easy, it seems
In the castro regime
That’s no pepper, but who's gonna tella?
...

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That age-old question, “Is there life on Mars”
It will soon be answered, large creatures on all fours?
With very large beanos
And extra long jalapenos
Another big question, do they smoke Cuban cigars?...

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Because You said no
The tree went dry
The memories
The bars
The kisses
The stars
The nights
The wind
The whisperings
In my ears
And all 
Little things

Because You said no
I'm still
At this bar
Burning in silence
Like a cuban cigar......

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Seaming in a sewing room, earning his copper coins in twos. With patterns, tools, & spools, fast pace so hard to do. Rusty fans that are always frozen, feed dog staying broken with a boss who's constantly smoking fine Cuban cigars. Just another day at Sweat Shop Bazaar....

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Americans lifted their picket
When Cuba proved they can't lick it
The bureaucrats came
And went back home lame
The Yanks just can't tolerate cricket!*

*Research concluded American diplomats
were assaulted by Cuban crickets rather than a sonic
bombardment. ...

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There hasn't been
a fly, wasp, or mosquito 

For quite some time, now,
making it rather vexing 

To diss in rhyme 
about local pests, 

Though, at the very 
least-a, our Cuban anoles 

Are guests in Havana 
until after Easter. 

That's where they went 
to observe Lent....

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I’d love to sit on a big leather chair,
And smoke a fat Cuban cigar.
And own a Monet,
And a little chalet,
And drive a red hot Jaguar.

But, alas, here I sit on an old wooden bench,
Sucking a ciggy filled with tar.
And my art's on a doormat,
In a cheap council flat,
And I drive an old rusted car....

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Sweet, sweet, can't be beat
What a treat, love to eat
Veggie meat, cookie sheet
Oats and wheat down the street.

Take a seat off your feet
Here to greet friends from Crete
Cuban Pete in the sleet
Areet pleat, neat, petite.

The elite ocean fleet
No defeat, no retreat
Never cheat, just compete
I entreat my parakeet....

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By Craig J. Burt/Jimmy Boom Semtex
I'm drunk tonight
I'm swelling deep down inside
I'm ready to take on
The next big bang
Oh yes it makes me wanna sang...

There we go some more drink
And fine Cuban cigars
Amazulu on the decks
Time to get all Caribbean
Come and sit on my knee
Bring the rum and Redstripe
We’ve got all night long to smile...

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Sugar Cuba?
What's so normal about normalization?

We become a little more socialist
They become a little more capitalist

We all meet in the middle and hold hands… How sweet!

They give us Cuban cigars
We give them rap music
A form of torture

We can now visit Cuban hotels
Cubans can visit Disney World

My only question is
Does Cuba have toilet paper?...

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I do not drive a fancy car
Or chew on a Cuban cigar
I do not wear a silk cravat
Or attend the fancy balls
I do not own a designer cat
Or have the funds to gamble
I do not smell of Givenchy
Or even live in the 'burbs
I am nothing so hoidy-toidy
As gentlemen up the street
But I can tell you this, for sure
I'm the nicest guy you'll ever meet.

written June 16, 2021...

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A poet's reading another poet is like 
a smoking room at the airport: 
an enclosed space, 
happy non-smokers behind glass walls, 
the poet's thoughts, 
as strong as Cuban cigars, 
coming through 
bluish twists of the another poet's fantasy, 
as sweet as Virginia*,
a boarding announcement,  
a new tobacco smelling meeting 
in another airport’s smoking room.


* A tobacco's brand....

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Lucille (“Lucy”) Ball
Her desire for show biz fame is anything but small
Plays the wife of Ricky the Cuban drummer
How she goes about it could not be funnier.

Desi (“Ricky”) Arnaz
A full-time job reining in his kooky wife he has
Loves Lucy with all his heart
And his conniving Lucy is extremely smart!

FIRST PLACE WINNER
written September 29, 2021
especially for "Clerihew 2" poetry contest
sponsored by Joseph May...

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But Cuba does not have blue-eyed men, they have brown. 
Well he is lively and fun a drummer who knows how to get down.
Are you sure he is from Cuba? Oh, yes, and he just came to town.
I went to watch him on the bongos, wearing my favorite purple gown.

You have such a sparkle, a pizzazz, and a lovely sound!
He appreciated me. Said “Guess I’ll see you around.”
Such a gentleman in this town is rarely found.
And believe it or not, his band had a terrific sound!...

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His first poems
Were carved with a knife
On the tree trunks in the countryside
He wrote in prison
He wrote high up in the trees
In Havana`s parks where
He hid from the Cuban police
In his new island-jail
In his shabby apartment
Illuminated by Manhattan lights
Very tired, very ill
In a sea of paper
He wanted to die by the sea
And when the night fell
The death crawled
Together with pills and alcohol
His sadness as deep as the sea
Was burnt and ashes scattered at the sea...

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