Villas Poems | Examples

Two circular villas

Two circular villas perched on the bony roots
No coat, no paint, only the scent of the bare skin
Restive camera instinctively released its telelens. 
From nowhere, a tornado started wreaking havoc. 

              ________________________

                    7 September 2025

Sybarites

Ideal citizens, you.
Dreamed-of private individuals,
With villas and servants.
Feasts, travels, lavish meals,
And drugs at the disposal of life.
Bravery is tiring,
Easier is indulgence,
Though it does not fill the belly.
With luxury you melt in saunas,
With androgyne butterflies.
And then, in the mighty air-conditioned
halls of Sodom,
you offer your seed
to Sterfos,
the tunnelled demigod.

golden stacks

g o l d e n  s
                     t
                       a
                        c
                          k
                            s 
                               of hay 

dot rich countryside villas ~

        summer k i s s e d autumn

the end of security

the end safety

No modern weaponry can stop this brutal onslaught.
The Med is far from here, where the Atlantic breeze is cooling
we who do not travel watch the fire with awe
Further afield, people have too much water and drown and
become refugees trying to find a safe place.
Are there any safe places left?
Those who think their country is secure will not share
it with the driftwood coming to their shores.
California is burning villas made of timber as matchboxes
For the rich to feel the heat, does it make them kinder?
Of course, it has nothing to do with us who live 
where the breeze from the North Atlantic is cooling.
In this time of life, the pandemic is just the beginning
of a total breakdown of the world we knew, the day may
come when Outer Mongolia is a relatively safe place to go
as it has no flooding to speak of but has plenty of drugs
to pass the time while waiting for a fire to reach us.

ex presidents

Ex-presidents

There was a man, not very tall, selling
pornographic pictures at a corner of a 
street
Once he had all the power, one could 
dream of, as a military junta took his 
job, and since all he had was  grand
villas were in the name of the state and
Furthermore, he had neglected to pay 
anything to his retirement fund 
Hence, reduced selling of naughty 
picture of visiting statemen having sex 
in some sleazy hotel
when those who had bought the pictures
took a closer look, they realized they
had a goldmine
the man on the corner was smuggled
 to
Brussels got an offer he could not refuse
He lives in Rhyad and takes delight
counting all the rolling heads in Europe 
Nothing is new; it's  what politicians do
when losing power, he joined the TV circus and 
get interviewed telling the same sorry story
and the more fibs they tell, the more we 
enjoy gossip and slander.

small forest

small forest
The small forest or the woods by the white road
made of crushed sea-shells, was a place of enchantment 
Squirrels played here and had no fear of lone dreamers
stumbling over oak roots.
I used to walk there when cows had
 been milked, fed
and the mucking out was done,
 fresh strew strewn
in stalls, and the barn had contented animals
I could do so many things in the forest, be an Indian or
take out my pocket phonographic book, 
the milkmaid
gave me and masturbated.
especially drawn to pictures of cunnilingus women
seemed to enjoy this form of sex, I was horrified when 
told this was not a manly act, ye the pleasured faces 
stayed on my mind.
A year later,  I drove to the forest
 it was a private estate
high walls and posh villas, but the squirrels had gone
I laughed out laud
The  good people in the villas will never know my secrets
here, where I dedicated and trained for a hearty sex life to come.

An edited version of my book: The Collected Work, of
Poetry, Vignettes, Humor and Political Statements

sematary

A cemetery 

So, quiet here, yellowing grass
fallen leaf turning dark 
like the hands of a day laborer
Dignified rusty teared crosses
Names on headstones, a whisper 
of one who died in 1852
Did he die from a war wound?
A cat keeps an eye out for mice
like its ancestors did before 
the oak trees grew tall.
There is talk of removing
headstones and crosses, making
a garden with benched and
bright flowers, and no one will
know what is down in the soil
A French architect thinks it is
a precise place for posh villas 
As it is, no one asks the cats

Holiday Paradise

Holiday Paradise

is burning Rhodes is surrounded by invading fires and blue sea
no modern weaponry can stop this brutal onslaught.
The Med is far from here, where the Atlantic breeze is cooling
we who do not travel watch the fire with awe
Further afield, people have too much water the drown and
become refugees trying to find a safe place.
Are there any safe places left?
Those who think their country is secure will not share
it with the driftwood coming to their shores.
California is burning villas made of timber are matchboxes
For the rich to feel the heat, but does it make them kinder?
Of course, it has nothing to do with us, we who live in a place 
where the breeze from the North Atlantic is cooling.
In this time of life, the pandemic is just the beginning 
of a total breakdown of the world we knew, the day may 
come, when Outer Mongolia is a relatively safe place to go
as it has no flooding to speak of but has plenty of drugs
to pass the time while waiting for a fire to reach us.

The Lure of Sailing

Out at sea, serene and soothing,
on a sheet of lapis lazuli,
a graceful forward motion,
kissing the coast line,
sailing at high speed,
skimming over the salty waters,
the breeze caressing my face,
filling the taut sails with power.

A short distance away
sunlit vistas, rugged rocks,
and white washed villas.
Afar a dolphin jumps out of the water,
above gracious gulls glide
foraging for food, the tasty sardines,
turtles paddle close, a rare sight.
I veer to evade a close companion,
a masterly maneuver,
a sense of elation,
beauty, peace and joy.
Let me live here forever
or at least until summer lasts.

A Ghost Story

Sue and I had lost contact when we left school and the Dominican Convent,
Met up ten years later, admitted both of us foolish, each nodded consent,
Had coffee, agreed to meet often, lived in Cape Town, merely a suburb apart,
Both happy with our villas, loved our homes, the Cape so stylish and smart.

She invited me to her home for a braai with her family this coming Sunday,
The door was open, I went in, is that you Jenn, I’ve got to look good today,
Mother-in-law coming, do come up, but what took you so long coming upstairs,
I met an old man, we chatted a while, what a sweetie, said his name was Zairs
 
Who, she asked me in disbelief, Zairs, impossible, loved to play musical chairs, He told me, is it your dad, Sue,you look alike, spoke of you and how he cares,
But you’ve gone pale as if you’ve seen a ghost, why are you so terribly upset,
Jenn, dad died years ago, seems he got lost, confused, but glad you two met.

Contest entry:One in Five 2 Poetry Contest
A Ghost story
Sponsor: Joseph May
Dated; 26th July 2022

The Oil of Life

The oil of life

when one writes about minorities 
no one wants to know, the next page is about knitting, please.
We do not like to read about losers
and our responsibility for their failure.
A tsunami came rolled over the landscape, changed it
and the language, unstoppable misery for the people
who lived there, but it brought us the automobile. 
The Palestinians have lost most of their land and now
they are losing more, except their dignity.
We don´t want to know the next page about knitting, please.
Let us read about the super-rich and their yachts
and Rolls Royce, we like to see the pictures of them 
in magazines, their villas and life mode-
we dislike the truth, and it demands us to sit up straight 
and think about the world and the orangutan losing
their habitat to palm oil.

Let's Give Fire

Hey hey! let's give fire
to the palace, villas
hold the gunpowder to set 
to burn down the house, rouse
who are poor
slum houses to keep hot,  sought
to keep them warmth in winter, in dance & songs
yes we should set
on the principle hot.

A Blue Sapphire For a Black-Tie Gala

Diamonds can be of stunning glittering white,
I own one and it's a blue sapphire I admire;
it doesn't cost more than a Ferrari or a Rolex watch,
I bought it after drinking half bottle of scotch! 

I wore it once at a black tie gala and I got noticed many times;
are diamonds, villas, cars, and watches the primary wishes 
of wealthy men, but not of ordinary ones? Do they mean 
a lot to them: when they lay lustful eyes are on gorgeous women?

I envy that guy filtering with an elegant high society lady,
she gives him all the attention of an Emir totally ignoring me;
hey, I'm wearing a blue sapphire I bought yesterday at Tiffany...
to get the attention of Lena winking at Paul, but avoiding me!

Do I deserve this expensive stone? Is it fit for my posh status?
I don't own yachts, or villas on the Amalfi Coast, I am not a guru!
I keep talking and showing it off, nobody cares even green-eyed Sue!
And angrier than an ignored clown, I turn greener than a cactus!

If Not Burning

If not burned 

 Hellas is burning the Athens is surrounded by invading fires 
 no modern weaponry can stop this brutal onslaught.
 Greece is far from here, where the Atlantic breeze is cooling
it doesn’t concern us, should it?
Further afield, people have too much water the drown and
become refugees trying to find a safe place.
Are there any safe places left?
Those who think their country is secure will not share
it with the driftwood coming to their shores.
California is burning villas made of timber are matchboxes
for the rich to feels the heat, but does it make them kinder.
Of course, it has nothing to do with us, we who live in a place 
where the breeze from the north Atlantic is cooling.
In this time of life, the pandemic is just the beginning 
of a total breakdown of the world we knew, the day may 
Come when Afghanistan is a relatively safe place to go
as it has no flooding to speak of but has plenty of drugs
to pass the time while waiting for a fire to reach us.

- Tender Veins -

Her  body  my  fingertips  journey

As  climbs  the  walls  of  villas  shiny  ivy,

Fondling mysterious  green  paths

Like  those  painted  on  sweet  hyacinths,

Which  colour  her  niveous neck  and  cheeks  as  do grasses  on  a  bay.

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