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I sailed on a catamaran, and let the wind guide it
I didn’t push against the current but let destiny choose it
I let it choose its people, I let it choose its place
I let it choose its timing, I let it choose its race

First thing I know, we jump off the boat
We swim under sun set and let our bodies float
We put clay on our faces, now looking all white
We laugh about it and talk for a while

The sun is down, so we start heading back
All the sudden, thousands of stars are out
We jump off again, time goes in slow-mo
Water to the hips, I was given a mango

A mango so tender and sweet
It almost swept me off my feet
While sharing laughter and lifelong conversations
These travellers became my constellations

I sailed on a catamaran, and let the wind guide it
It left me with amazing friends and joy wrapped around it
This excruciating happiness was like an oracle
And little did I know, it was my mango miracle
This is set in Mexico, Bacalar, a "seven shades of blue" lagoon.
This poem describes the happiest I've felt, ever. The kind of happiness you feel to the core. It taught me that when you let go of the control you might impose on your life, it can take you such unexpected places where you get to explore new feelings. I call it my mango miracle because that day has, for so many reasons, made me more spiritual, more connected to nature and more in balance with myself.
I was
**** happy
and doted
to her
my grave
that splinter
her trace
with two
me and
you an
ancient love
of fiesta
now in
Maya this
ram of
fire in
lorry's spin
an ancient time of love
Laura P Apr 2020
I just want to be on the cliff at Tintagel
Looking to the castle, & Merlin's cave.
Or Bigbury beach, on the sea tractor.
Or hanging off a rock at Peak District
Or hanging off a tree in Holborough

Maybe further afield than England,
Coffee with her at Montmartre
Or hiking in the regions of Inca
And bathing in coves of Costa Rica
Or climbing pyramids of Cancun

A list of things to do once lockdown ends
Marco Feb 2020
San Francisco, 1977
I sat by my window and listened
to the crying of Carlos Santana and the wind
His guitar told stories
of home in México and how he yearned for it
and the wind kept howling along
as if it tried to bring him back
and I wished for Carlos to be home
and I wished for the wind to carry him there
and I wished for myself to be somewhere else
where the city isn't as big
and the people aren't as greedy
and the love comes naturally, not for fifty bucks a night

So I sat by my window
and listened to the sound of Santana's guitar
and the wind crying
and I understood
as I wept along.
Sammie Garibay Nov 2019
Nov.18.19

Take me somewhere
far from everything
where nothing can be trace
back to you and i

Take me somewhere
where there's a tall building
that glows at night
where we can fall in love

Take me somewhere
where there's a beach ,
swimming with you
while you hold me
as we face each other

Take me somewhere
where we can dance
all night ,
walk around town
that has every spice to try
Mark Toney Oct 2019
2014 / 2015 World Cup

Jürgen and Jill went up the hill
To fetch a World Cup Title
Jürgen fell down
Without the crown-
There reigned Jill
At the top of the hill. . .

2018 / 2019 World Cup (Gold Cup)

Jürgen didn't qualify to go up the hill
All he could do was waive at Jill
On the same day
Jill won her second in a row
(USMNT lost to Mexico)

Coach Jill Ellis is smart like a fox
Her US Women's National Team rocks!
7/11/2019 - Poetry form:  Rhyme - Jürgen Klinsmann was the coach when the USMNT lost in the 2014 World Cup and also when the men failed to qualify for the 2018 World Cup.  Their current coach is Gregg Berghalter. -
Sandoval Oct 2019
Poor little
Mexican
girl;
in love
with the all
American
boy..


-Sandoval
We never stood a chance..
ah Mimi
a Maio
'n' thier
Mazatlán post
card but
a Zapatista
de Chippas
si hombre
a pilgrim
this river
has crossed
in the
arms of
Creole but
women in
Porte Inglés
still swim
Horace Silver -Cape Verdin Blues
We chose Ixtapa for our honeymoon
because it was not yet commercialized,
as so many other places in Mexico
had become. We spent a lot of time
in Zihuatanejo; We burned bay leaves
in static pots of delicacy, ignoring the fruit flies
as we drank mezcal.
You swallowed the maguey worm,
and hallucinated its life as a moth
before it's capture from the agave.
It hit you like the Gulf that
May of 1986; beautifully
and cold.
You looked like a watercolor
entangled in the rope hammock.
Wide-mouthed and muscular,
in the reflection
of my sterling cuff bracelet.
While I examined my jewelry,
our feet were buried in the sand
by the dust we swallowed during our upbringing.
Bred and raised for fighting, we made love
like a bull kissing capote;
Taunting one another in
a masculine ring, performing
in foreign terrain.
You were so delicate
with your hands around my throat.
You helped me forget
by pulling apart the wings of my droning youth
that week.
from "Evenings in Jackson Heights"
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