"basque" poems
Spirits may come spirits may go.
The only talk to those they know.
Those who have a lending ear and listen to the others here.
Usually grey haired old bags with 20 cats and 40 ****
But Anna isn't quite the same she's not what visitors expect.
She greets each one with a smile.
But their eyes can't see they miss by miles!
Instead the look upon her chest, for what a smashing pair of *******
I even think the spooks just come to take a peak at her ***
Imagine that a ghost on top with an enormous supernatural ****
Slid between her silky legs until she screams and begs and begs.
A medium she thought it was, in fact it was an XL ****
A frenzy in the reading room as more arrive to see her moan.
It's like a wiken **** now, at 44 she's in her prime.
I wonder who will "come" next time.
The psychic circle all a gasp, are playing with their mortal tackle.
Who would have thought she wore a basque, underneath a witches tac.
Now its like a wanking club, spooks and mortals all a tug.
finally she howls with delight.
Another soul has seen the light!
So remember when you see her pass check her **** and little *** imagine she's on top of you in stockings basque and heels to.
Though one thing you should bare in mind...
Unless your dead forget it mate!
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 4:20 PM UTC
Sprang forth with no branches or leaves. Small roots.
Bore mangoes, papayas,guava and bananas. Hybrid, mid limb grafting.
The trunk is a figment but it stands non less. You see
my family tree never was and always will be.
A roadside shade with low hanging fruit.
Was never planted.It was a deposit from the bowels of an exotic bird
of the jungles that sampled at leisure the offerings of the rain forests.
The Hardtack and marmalade came on ships with the kings business
Mixed with the Nigerian Fu-Fu ,the Aztec maize the Mayan legumes.
and all points of the compass.
Old Joe Denegri, The Blancaneaux , The Cattouse, The Melado, The Pinks
The Flowers,The Orozco and more. And boundless from the ***** of opportunity.
Piecemeal and untethered. But it is the tree that I must cling to.
However rough the bark.
The sap runs heavy and slow in the humid Belizean heat.To meet the earth.
Cool breezes blow a haunting disharmony. A sweet unity in chaos.
The soil is rich,pungent and forgiving. Soon, A bell tolls in the distance.
The Sea mists my dreams.
A stairway of coconut fronds to azure skies.
Nighttime smells like creation.
The still slackened pace.
The small rat race.
Tempest in a teapot.
Urban-rural.
Coolie gal.
Creole boy.
New Chinese.
Old African.
Ubiquitous Espania.
Garinagu. Mosquito coast.
Children of Mennon.
Old Basque faces.
Things we call races left with small traces
of what?
My tree, her tree, histree.
I am you and you are me.
I see me in your face and you see me.
We are and will continue to be.
Blended.
a hybrid. An orchid wild.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 5:02 AM UTC
Sunlight peeks In between silk curtains,
Sparking my whole being into motion.
Today starts.
11:00am -
I roll out of bed
And wake up to a sweet goodmorning
From you.
I keep this huge smile
While my morning shower washes away
The sins of yesterday's memories.
While I make bacon and eggs,
You make your way to my door.
Your knock is like the alarm clock
For the butterflies in my stomach
Scrambling all over.
3:00pm -
Our moans fade into a sweet ambience;
Your bare skin on mine feels like
I'm lounging in the clouds above our heads.
We basque in the amazing energy
Our seeds of love bloomed into.
Please stay. Pretty please?
7:00pm -
Our nap comes to an end.
We hope our goodbye kisses
Are merely just holding us over til tomorrow.
You might be going back to your house, but
*You and I both know
Your home is where my heart is.*
1:00am -
I've been in bed for three hours,
Restlessly tumbling from side to side in bed
Trying to get to sleep.
With you in my life,
No dream compares
To another breath I share with you.
I love you. So much.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 9:17 PM UTC
I didn’t toss the ball
With Pop at six
I didn’t hunt or fish
At green sixteen
I didn’t learn
To fix my car
At twenty
I didn’t grow up
Knowing how to fight
I taught my father
How to shoot a basketball
I taught him
What a balk is
From a walk
I showed him
Greenwich Village
And to fight without fighting
And the chili that makes
The loudest ****
And he taught me whiskey
And the best tobacco
How to shave
My face
And not appear so young
He showed me Spain,
Bullfighting,
And Picasso,
And the cheapest food
In Mexico
We shared our pride
Our books
And being always stubborn
About the things
We cared
The most about
We shared a car
Sometimes
And all our music
And the way we hoard things
That we buy
We fought
And fiercely
Over his prejudice;
His hurting mom;
My attitude;
The way he always worshipped
Reagan
And whether Olga
Was an ugly name.
Sometimes I’d write things
And he wouldn’t get them
Sometimes I’d write things
That he didn’t like
And then he’d tell me
They were ok, but
On his face was anguish
At what I had done
My father taught me
How to be a real man
He showed me laughter,
How to be a friend;
He made me realize
How to mold my values
From the things I learned
And not the things
He said
My father told me
When I was a baby
To call him Aita
Because he was Basque
And to this day
That’s still his name
To me
My sisters
And my dad
Now, Aita’s sick
Sometimes
Sometimes he’s wrong
Sometimes he’s flawed
A child—
One more of Mom’s
But every day
We spend
Together
I am more proud
To be
His son.
Jun 20, 2010
Jun 20, 2010 at 2:08 PM UTC
Orange 4 squared room,
Purring of Cat
a Dripping White Spoon
Is this a Yellowing Moon
Floating Upon oceans
With it's Glowing Swoon
Dashing Ones Palette
with Grape Fruit Juice
Bitterly sweet
Like raptures beneath Moon
forcing ones cerebral Ecstasy
To begin begging for
Beginners Tune
The ocean Now a Purring white satin
Basque in beauty
Rotating its symmetrical fashion.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
Daisy, Daisy give me your answer do........
boy! That Cadillac was one hell of a piece of engineering.
Burned a long time, like it enjoyed the pain of the flames.
He smiled at the thought.
Handmade by union men the way it should always be.
Not those ******* up ***** like Jimmy Hoffa either.
That ******* probably a ****** like hoover.
The image of him in a basque stuck.
Made him angry, but he soon reined it in.
Lecter was never angry. Not in the books.
He prefered the books, no change-the -ending for the mass appeal.
******* movies.
He was cautious now, the fake i.d. for the rental would fool most.
He was pushing things, her blood in the trunk even burnt black worried him. Next time will be better.
In Daisy's book was a circled name with hearts drawn around it.
Louisa. Her address as well. Nice and easy. 200 miles to go.
Make like Rutger in The Hitcher, move west....
The VW Rabbit was a ****** car after the Caddy.
The two kid's didn't want to give it up easy, but they did in the end.
They looked so silly, tied back-to-back in the rear seat, legs broke to squeeze them in.
Made him smile all through the night.
No blood this time, not yet anyway. Playing Slipknot to **** him off, little *****
Well write a song for these two, clown boy.
He had looked on their lap-top at the poetry site.
Saw the latest post from the pub landlord. He was a little confused, this poem didn't seem to be telling him his next move.
He dragged them out into a ditch before dawn, stood on their necks to **** them, like the coyote trappers did, cruel ********
No blood, just **** all over each other as they died.
Maybe he'd get a reward poem for doing it, in the meantime finding Louisa would keep him occupied.
The vw had a cheap sat nav, hope she's home.....
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 3:20 PM UTC
bawling ballads, blankly bask
basque baroque bent blessed be
beats bleed burn black bombastic babylon
bury berry's bandulu bashment
brake bodderations balking bahamut
blend borders
beckon bredren
banter balladry
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
I allow myself the luxury, to stare unabashedly
Your eyes tantalise me, not crudely, but bewitchingly
Were I able to touch, the texture would be burnished brown velvet
Oh to explore this rapturous richness, warmth in abundance
Evermore curious I basque in the golden, autumnal flecks
Shimmering depths cast new dyes of invigoration
Beguiled, I thank you for a moment of beauty
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC
Dear Santa
I’m writing early this year
Especially after the debacle of last year
You delivered the **** underwear and the two day hotel break to my wife
What the hell were you thinking
Does my wife look like she can get into a size ten
You useless fat *******
Two days I had to suffer the wife parading herself
It was psychological torture
Swear to god, if I could’ve got my hands on you
Still swithering on sueing your fat ***
This year I’m going to lay it on the line
Deliver it to the wrong address
Your ** ** ** will be Oh oh oh
Do I make myself clear
Now listen up
Facepack and support tights
They go to the wife
Basque and french knickers, hotel included
Too the lover
Don’t make me go back to that hotel with the wife
Or I swear, you’ll be wearing that reindeer
Do you need a reminder
Have you got it now
Oh, and merry Christmas.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 2:03 PM UTC
Why is it that you have become less and less like me,
When happiness was what we used to glean.
Why is it that you like to live a routine,
When all we dreamed was The Paradise green.
Why is it that the child that yearns is suppressed in,
When living with him was like being a King.
Why is it that the-fear-of-unknown rooted deep within,
When exploring wilderness was the best thing.
Why is it that naughtiness, A relic of the past,
When dripping with it was our only task.
Why is it that other’s verdict your stand-fast,
When gripping criticism was like hearing Basque.
Why is it that time has become such a precious thing,
When passing it with me was the only dream.
Why is it that future has become an important thing,
When living in our present was our only theme.
Why is it that you need to take out time for fun,
When joying was the only thing we began.
Why is it that you have started to plan a run,
When planing a thing was considered a pun.
I am waiting here for you to call,
A chance perhaps to live it all.
The Paradise we made is still serene,
When you feel like it, just give me a ring.
I will always be here for you to call
With a hope that you will break the-grownup-fall.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 9:56 AM UTC
Let not yesterday torment tomorrow
Promise pulped
Vision prescribed
Voice strangled
Hearing echoed in fallen leaves
Opportunity thwarted before dawn breaks
Let yesterday slip gently
Loosen the weave of tangled mesh
Let today inform, not dictate, tomorrow
Basque in absent inhibition
Don’t look back
Your choice, your will
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 5:36 AM UTC
On the road
Through many a town
Resting our heads
Laying down
Touring the world
Trotting the globe
Getting there via transport
Be it any mode.
Slow through the mountains
Fast past the fields
Trundling along country lanes
Winding round hills
Kicking up rubble
Spitting out fumes
Burning up rubber
From sea to sand dunes
Sights to be seen
Sounds to be heard
Places to be visited
Languages to be learned
Culture to be drowned in
History in which to basque
Food to be tasted
Wines to be quaffed
Seas you can swim in
Churches in which to pray
Beaches where it's possible to spend all of your day
Sweat it out in the Sahara
Freeze to death in the Arctic
Get bitten to high heaven but you can get past it.
On the trip of discovery
The experience shall last
Till the end of forever
Until your last gasp.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
A poetess can find plenty to do,
with a Japanese Style written Haiku.
she can spin a web of nature round and round,
with vicarious, vivacious adornments that abound.
She can place all of her creatures
within or without of a local Zoo.
She can simply state blue is a hue.
For, there is plenty to do,
with a Japanese Style written Haiku.
She can post of planting stylish seeds,
and post of picking the wildest weeds.
or she can simply skip through a meadow;
while frightening her readers with a shadow;
or she can basque in the sun and just have fun.
For, there is plenty to do,
with a Japanese Style written Haiku.
Words of syllables with 5,7,5,
rush to leap before her eyes;
so she can write a deep mini poem
that's poised to win a prize!
For, there is plenty to do,
with a Japanese Style written Haiku!
Nov 26, 2010
Nov 26, 2010 at 1:12 PM UTC
Sometimes I fear
I have become too good at
being alone.
I basque in the hours
spent locked by my
lonesome in the confines
of my apartment,
surrounded by nothing but
brick and cement and the sounds
of the television or my iPod speaker.
Tranquility seeping in through my
isolation,
I yearn for the moments I am
privileged to spend without
the duty to perpetuate conversations
or offer advice to someone I consider
merely an acquaintance.
Sometimes I worry I am
too comfortable with solitude.
I get a thrill off of
being needed without needing,
being sought out without seeking.
I let others let me in
without having to give a shred of
myself in return,
for people love to go on
about themselves
without inquiring about
the person to whom they
narrate their autobiographies.
Sometimes I am scared of
the ease with which I can
let someone go.
So often have people come and gone
that now I comprehend, perhaps
too deeply,
that nothing in life is guaranteed
and most people are meant to be
lessons rather than
permanent.
There was a time where I wept
with sordid frequency for the people
I was forced relinquish,
clinging tightly to the empty void,
wallowing in a glass half full of
skewed memories.
Sometimes I am terrified that
I only really know how to
be alone.
It is almost impossible for me
to recall a love not
unrequited.
I stare up at screens and strangers
all screaming that love exists,
and there I am fighting
insane laughter because I just
can't see it,
as if my eyes have become colorblind,
for it is black and white that
all I've ever had is
gray.
Sometimes
I am afraid
that this is
Always
how it will be.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
Writing and taking pictures.
Those are the only two things I do for myself.
I feel like I can finally breathe.
It's amusing how unleashing inner creativity
can make you feel whole.
Like a child, learning to color their world for the first time.
Out of the womb, taking your first breaths.
Or taking your first breaths,
after feeling like you've been suffocated for months.
As an "adult"
being cast inside a 'box'
I've learned to fall in love with the beauty
of others art.
And basque in the comfort of my own.
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 12:47 AM UTC
'tween the writhing
desiring and feeling staying
in this realm I see
your body next to mine
and feel
like going totally emphatically
wild
its only love
doing its thing singing from
true nature promoting her desires
turn the heats up
as a new flame erupts
your smile turns me upside down
inside out
pheromones fill this scene
scents
burn like incense on winds
of Basque romance basking in darkness
wild and wrong its so right
reflecting in the shadows
beauty within us as we look
in this mirror
see if you know me
I am Aquarian.
you are Desamor.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 2:14 AM UTC
Be unorthodox,
Basque in non-convention,
pursue dangerous adventure,
and maybe, with time,
savor your uniqueness.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 3:00 PM UTC
To awaken asleep
In a sedation so deep
No relation to a reality so obscure
No elation to basque in thats pure
Just lost in the system you have lost yourself in.
Frost bitten and bitter by the cold awful truth.
Your youth was sapped away and monetized
So you could be indoctrinated by thier lies.
Stand up straight,
pledge your heart,
tuck in your shirt,
forget about art,
shake hands,
make money,
make plans,
play your part,
nod and agree,
this won't hurt,
bend over and take it while the upper eshelons make it.
You're stuck in the dirt.
breed hate,
make war,
but wait theres more.
Be sheep,
eat garbage,
ignore the carnage on the screen,
open your eyes,
shut up,
listen to this party music pop,
be seen in these clothes,
drive these cars,
live in these suburbs,
Hang out at these bars
kiss the fat plastic ***** of these reality stars.
Get drunk,
get high,
get ******
get by,
Work, dont stop.
why do we try to survive?
Why is the society we live in one where desparity thrives,
taught to covet a shiny rock,
Then told it is not for us to hold,
So we dig our own graves until we get old.
Hoping to find a nugget of gold.
a concept favored by the elite classes,
a smart lazy man with a shiny rock tricked the masses into believing that he possessed value with no skills,
we still believe
so we try to achieve the thrills that come with obtaining the shiny rock,
we will do so until the world stops.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
Everyday, it is there
Next to him, in him,
A presence he does not dare
To look straight in the eyes.
From early in the morning
Till late in the evening,
It gives him no chance,
To escape anywhere.
Sometimes it is stronger,
In his head it sounds like
The waves on the Basque coast,
Going backwards,
Coming back
Stronger than
he can sometimes bear.
His vision it sometimes alters,
Shaping black clouds around.
The lady in white
Told him not to worry
So he obeys.
But the lady in black
With the long scythe,
Standing behind,
Invisible in the dark,
Silently giggles,
Patiently waiting
for this new client,
To enlarge her circles.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
i just want to sleep and drink my red wine with coca cola like a Basque, pretending to be eating a wiśnia rather than a czereśnia; and i'm tired i'm just tired, so tired i can't weep for the reasons i could make into ten commandments.
what true dicta are there,
in all honesty,
other than the ones
said but never thought?
what but the unchallenged
that keep challenging
to a consistent cry of defeat
easily quenched?
all i apparently said was
neither yes, nor no,
but i said i, and that was enough
for either yes or no to take the
toll as vaguely wearisome of me,
if anything at all.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 1:40 AM UTC
Elle s’appelait Cléopâtre,
Elle était amoureuse,
Son amour l’a laissée rêveuse.
Son animal favori était la panthère,
Marc laissait la belle prospère,
Elle était alanguie sur un divan, allongée
Sans jamais trop être dérangée.
Belle, belle comme une libellule
Elle aimait se lever au crépuscule
Jolie, jolie comme un papillon de nuit
Elle luisait dans un soleil, éblouie.
Elle aimait aussi les chats,
C’étaient des animaux dédiés à Râ,
Mais un jour, la reine se fit piquer par un serpent,
Et donna un dernier adieu à son amant.
27 Mai 2004
Hélette, Pays-Basque, premier poème.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 6:40 AM UTC
Come, come, sweet slumber of mine
Wash me away with your calm tides
So that I may bathe upon blissful tides
And basque in glorious light
Make haste your arrival, long awaited
No need to pause behind closed door
Your invitation to my company is open as always
And your presence is sorely yearned
Bring nothing with you, nothing at all
No need to pack peaceful dreams
All I ask for are your soft waters
To wash upon this awakened being
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
Come with me to the boardwalk and wander down to the turbulent blue sea.
Come with me to the fire and let the shadows of the flames dance across your face.
Take me back to the sandy white shore with the cool waves lapping at my feet.
Take me back to the yellow sun high in the sky, warming my face.
Follow me down the rough path and feel the cool stones on your feet.
Follow me up the steep hill and stare at the moon’s inviting face.
Get in the car and leave the lonely world in the rear view mirror.
Get to the top of the mountain and watch your fear hide its face.
Bring your best and your worst and we will explore it all together.
Bring me to the first place you felt truly alive and we will basque in its face.
Let us get lost in the inky night sky, and never find home.
Let us get lost in the abyss of each others eyes, forever staying face to face.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 8:36 AM UTC
April 1 prompt a day Secret poem
Was the bookworm introvert type at school
Became a language nerd Basque Latin Greek German
Never, in the flesh, loved a woman
A friend passed away and with him our first caress
Will always be refreshed by the ocean’s recess
A newborn baby battle incubator but before dad a fool.
Get drunk while traveling on the beauty of miles
But never once got plastered in a bar
Consigned all my secrets to various files
With words my passport, I walked alone and far
Left a piece of my smile on Californian soil
I follow the track of friends squirrels, my foil.
Long lost sea poet always hoping new sun
Never depressed or repressed yet not blessed
Clearly narcissistic but fight to survive, run
Helping people on my way but they know best
Learned to stand the pain, turned it into power
A scorpion at heart, yet afraid of fire.
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 5:23 AM UTC