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Mark Toney Oct 2019
A well-groomed matador José
Liked to moisturize with Oil of Olay
His hands lost their grip
The cape it did slip
He was gored as he cried out "¡Olé!"
6/12/2018 - Poetry form: Limerick - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2018
Jamie Riley Apr 2018
They look out from the terrace.

At the borders of sight
live rocky hills behind brown
and golden and olive crop
under a cloudless sky.


An artificial cloud.

“Mira,” she points, “Venga!”

They fly down stairs,
diving like sparrows
into the street.

Boys sprint across pavements and climb;
men vault over fences in time
for news to reach ears.

"¡Ya vienen!"

Excitement and fear.

The rattling of cow bells
and galloping nears.

Men bait and dodge horns
and escape through doors
and up and over
red wooden bars.

Sticks beat on the concrete ground
and closer, louder, gallops sound.

Seconds away –
until the last,
he side steps into a house;

he runs through the foyer
and up the stairs
around a corner
with long strides
too fast to follow.
She chooses left and
sings soprano
when doors won't budge
                                ­       in.

She turns and the fear is paralysing.


He hurdles the stairs
and explodes
but it rams her
to and fro,
thrashing her head
against the wall
where horns
sin and gore
cement and brick.

He clasps the tail
and heaves its hide from
side to side as
hooves smash
crates of wine -
they slip and slide
in fractured glass;
he finds a horn
and yanks the head!
He's yanked instead
near dead before the men
arrive down stairs
to punch and kick it;
strike and stick it
smack and hit it;
'til it
fits and quits
and flees the foyer,
fast and frantic,
flying flustered
by the frenzy,
finally finding

"¿Que ha pasado?
  ¿Quien ha sido?
  ¡El Balbotin
  y la Chicha!
  ¡Que una vaca
  les ha pillado!"

"¿Estas bien?"

Dizzy she's there
with searching hands
and scolding.

"Podria haber sido peor"
This poem is about an incident which happened to my Grandparents, Fermin Yanguas Ochoa and Raimunda Ramos Frias.

It was during a bull run in their village (Fitero) in Navarra, Northern Spain. 1972
Jack Ritter Jun 2018
Last night I didn't have the backbone
to turn the flat screen off.

The lump in my throat is wimpy.

Act I - Morning Regret.
I am attacked by regret for things
I can't remember.

She helped me with these states of mind
all that summer.
Then she walked out.
That part I remember.

I can't take much more of my eyes.
They're like the button eyes of a doll,
pre-drilled watch pocket spares,
back-breakingly vague and see-through.

I just finished my latest
first half of a self help book.
It promised I could be free
if I were willing to work the 19 steps.

You know the town is dead
when doll eyes go unnoticed.

Act II - Afternoon Regret.
I miss her so much, I could -
I definitely could -
I forget what.

Definition of "depression:"
That familiar, back-of-the-skull,
chock-full-of-neck-muscles all screaming :
"We've got to get out of here-
It's this town, this century, this jacket"

That summer I needed to believe
that we were jointly crazy.
Now I can't recall what she had.

I told her about my obsession
with that stiff knot of muscle
between the shoulders of a bull.
The choice cut that the picadors go for.

She said,
"Maybe you're not as depressed as you think.
Maybe you just have bull shoulders."

Our friends called me "bull shoulders" all summer.
It was so funny!
Actually, they were her friends.

Now I watch CSI,
with such precision eyes,
wasted on all that flatness.

Act III - Family input, and take-away.

Sibling Chorus:
"We're such a loving family,
yet you didn't call Mother AGAIN.
So how's the shoulder bull thing going?"

"Bull shoulders.
And we said we weren't gonna talk about it."

Sibling Chorus:
"Ok, so did you get the book we sent:
Beat Depression in Minutes while you Sleep?"

"She PROMISED she was crazy."
I've worked on this one many many hours, over many years.
Mystic Ink Plus Feb 2018
10 to 5, Job
Of a prediction game
Always a half way to goal
Uncertain market
Let’s bet over Green and Red
A thin balance,
Tracking ups and downs
With a colour change,
Every complexion turns, dull or bright
A calculated ****** expression
Almost ready to express
With some losses, some gains.

Rumors airs,
A political unrest,
Sign of regressing opaque sense
Digital formulas,
Almost rests in vain
There is,
Tug of war, between
Supply and demand
A growling Bears Vs.
A grunting Bulls.
Shared from my Anthology, Canvas: Echoes and Reflections, 2018.
rest of title...Parkland, Fla.,February 14, 2018

One more senseless mass homicide
   twas the sole arbitrary aim
as a former student nonchalantly
   sauntered empty hallways
   seconds preceding blame
brazenly intent to maximize total killed

   matter of factly telling police
   (his incomprehensible)
   (ill) logic he did explain
when cornered, he willingly,
   unflinchingly, reticently admitted guilt

Nikolas Cruz rocketed
   to instantaneous infamous fame
   pulling a fire alarm
   ("FAKE") emergency,

   then going leisurely ambling
   along his killing spree
total of seventeen slain (comprising 3 faculty
   and 14 students)
   mercilessly gunned down
   as if they were wild game

when handcuffed, an innocuous
   19 year old did readily admit
emptying one firearm after another
   at a fairly rapid clip

then at some predestined
   or spurious moment didst dip
and dive out amidst
   the chaotic madding crowd
   before reality flopped then did flip
as lower teeth he nervously bit upper lip

made feeble getaway
   at a nearby eatery casually flirted
   with cashier and made no move to flit
upon his seizure as cornered prey

   subsequently large tract
   massively cordoned off
   strong arm of the law
slightly halting in speech
   detailed his gambit

deliberately staking
   a stance to maximize hit
and once again afflicted parents lit
up with rancor and rage pit

toughly battling sorrow
   which will not quit
til death doth bring peaceful rest
   sans, those grieving family visit.
No rush of the bulls
filled these narrow cobbled streets
where tradition and
songs sounded over pinxos,
and stories of San-Fermin.
Stanley Wilkin Feb 2017
The curious activity of men/women

makes me wonder precisely when

both will learn how to conjoin

with rabbits, geese, bull and lion.

Talking incessantly like birds,

roaring like lions. However absurd!

snapping like crocodiles

or habitually waiting in human files,

torturing like cats

water-boarding rats,

rolling like logs

snarling like dogs.

snorting like pigs

gobbling up figs

In everyone an animal lurks

whether saints or jerks!
We all wish we could skip our chores like we skip cut-scenes in a video game
Or songs on our internet radio
Trust me, the Bulls wish they could skip the rodeo.
I wish i could skip the pauses in the stereo.
Juan Cahue May 2014
We're from a city where we hear sirens when we're in bed sleeping. Where some go to sleep happy while others go to sleep weeping. Home to the nicest people, and the worst criminals. Where we get messages, both clear and subliminal. The city of wind even on a warm summer day. Where it randomly rains or it snows, but after all it's okay. The town where people leave and promise to return. Where roads lead to success and everything we have is earned. A place so beautiful we wouldn't trade it for the world. A location of joy, for all boys and girls. The home of the Bulls, Cubs, Sox, Bears and Hawks. The city where no one crosses at lights, they just jaywalk. Where we hop on our bikes and ride to lake shore. And as the time passes, we wish we had more. Where we've made memories and friends for a lifetime. Where we can go back and trace every event on our timeline. Where we feel free as a bird often, and then trapped as if we were in a dome. A city named Chicago is what we call home.
Chicago, where else?

— The End —