What say you become the subject of my poems
and in detail of my mind hear its uncensored messages

There is no truer words than what you'll find here my Dulcinea
No door, no window, no passage of old
more accurate and real than these words on paper

Blankly I write for you
Letting my pen dance to the vibration of your universe
tapping with alien music that I failed to escape from
I know the consequence
I know the debts
Powerfully you have captured me
as if by attraction you forced the universe
to cast your spell
leaving me drunk with you in my thoughts
with places once fine on my own
now seeking the companionship you provide

My Dulcinea
If you would allow me to write for you
let these silent words of mine be known to you
let those same words enter you from the heart
before all places blessing me with your embrace

I will make the world envy you
provide you the romance women
from all works of life sought

Dance with you under the finite light of the stars above
singing the ballad of my soul
that it may cease to torment me in silence

We could build a castle in our dreams
On a peaceful beachside
No cyclones can blow it away
Dress up like a queen of my heart
You deserve the diamond tiara
We could walk ashore bare foot
Holding hands watching the sun set
Like a gold coin dipping in water
Hear the breeze singing memories
I would carry you in my arms
Back to our palace, lay you on the bed

For Alonso, the day was sinking into dusk
But for Dulcinea, her knight was rising.
Long his lance’s shadow stretched
And thus his stories, picaresque.

He flaunts his tale of espionage,
Purring silent and clandestine
“there I sprung from camouflage
and smote these vile leviathans!”

“Oh, please don’t stop,” the gypsy cries
draining doubt from starlit eyes
From behind her fan of elegant slips
She retracts the rivets to her lips.

Alonso mounts the moment of his concupiscence
to rescue the fair Dulcinea from her diffidence.
But the windmills turn for our quixotic man
Whose delusions are rescued by a chaste heroine.

Years later a man was overheard in Cordoba…
el estaba hablando con unas senoras
“Oye musas, puedo decirte,
he visto algunas cosas.”

“…mi vida se salvo una noche estrellada
por una mujer de gran belleza
que volvio a las tablas de la fortuna
aqui, en mi reino de Iberica…”

Quijote and Dulcinea
of fairy love dreams,
concealed brave heart,
unrevealed raving beauty,

I stare at my shadow
and I see you,
me, Dulcinea,
me, Quijote,

and I blame the ingenious
of this shadow play
for in the truthful sun light
we are naked and alone.

La Mancha y sus mujeres... Argamasilla, Infantes
Esquivias, Valdepeñas, La novia de Cervantes,
y del manchego heroico, el ama y la sobrina
(el patio, la alacena, la cueva y la cocina,
la rueca y la costura, la cuna y la pitanza),
la esposa de don Diego y la mujer de Panza,
la hija del ventero, y tantas como están
bajo la tierra, y tantas que son y que serán
encanto de manchegos y madres de españoles
por tierras de lagares, molinos y arreboles.   Es la mujer manchega garrida y bien plantada,
muy sobre sí doncella, perfecta de casada.   El sol de la caliente llanura vinariega
quemó su piel, mas guarda frescura de bodega
su corazón. Devota, sabe rezar con fe
para que Dios nos libre de cuanto no se ve.
Su obra es la casa -menos celada que en Sevilla,
más gineceo y menos castillo que en Castilla-.
Y es del hogar manchego la musa ordenadora;
alinea los vasares, los lienzos alcanfora;
las cuentas de la plaza anota en su diario,
cuenta garbanzos, cuenta las cuentas del rosario.   ¿Hay más?  Por estos campos hubo un amor de fuego,
dos ojos abrasaron un corazón manchego.   ¿No tuvo en esta Mancha su cuna Dulcinea?
¿No es el Toboso patria de la mujer idea
del corazón, engendro e imán de corazones,
a quien varón no impregna y aun parirá varones?   Por esta Mancha -prados, viñedos y molinos-
que so el igual del cielo iguala sus caminos,
de cepas arrugadas en el tostado suelo
y mustios pastos como raído terciopelo:
por este seco llano de sol y lejanía,
en donde el ojo alcanza su pleno mediodía
(un diminuto bando de pájaros puntea
el índigo del cielo sobre la blanca aldea,
y allá se yergue un soto de verdes alamillos,
tras leguas y más leguas de campos amarillos),
por esta tierra, lejos del mar y la montaña,
el ancho reverbero del claro sol de España,
anduvo un pobre hidalgo ciego de amor un día
-amor nublóle el juicio: su corazón veía-.   Y tú, la cerca y lejos, por el inmenso llano
eterna compañera y estrella de Quijano,
lozana labradora fincada en tus terrones
-oh madre de manchegos y numen de visiones-,
viviste, buena Aldonza, tu vida verdadera
cuando ta amante erguía su lanza justiciera,
y en tu casona blanca ahechando el rubio trigo.Aquel amor de fuego era por ti y contigo.     Mujeres de la Mancha con el sagrado mote
de Dulcinea, os salve la gloria de Quijote.

I think about it, *******,
And it leads me to this place.
Teeth all clenched and aching now,
From shouting in your face.

I told you, I ******* hate poetry.

But you poets listen, and then you don't.
You can't, you never will,
Touch me with your sentiments,
Dropped at my windowsill.

******* your muse,  her wells of eyes,
Just **** the ***** and be done.
Stiffen readers with the tale,
But don't count me as one.

Your Dulcinea's sweet and, well,
(She's better than the last…)
You're dying for a future now,
Not living in the past.

For sweet Art's sake, a nest of lies,
The poverty of self,
puts You up high and lost, in shadow,
and Pining, on the shelf.

So speak your mind now, if you must,
Aloud, to no avail.
Your nature blind of clever words,
Is always bound to fail.

idealistic,I smile to be deluded
by realism as the windmill slaps my ***
again, romantic chivalry my duty
saving damsels righting wrongs

In La Mancha in the archives my story
resides , and i have not been sleeping much,
reading causing my brain to dry , as a result
excuse my being quick to anger,

whenever I feel Dulcinea is in danger.

and, it has been many an innkeeper
who has knighted me
and many a beating I have taken
left in the gutter

as the priest decides which of my
books to burn in an effort to dull
my ardor, ferocious giants loom
disparaging my squire

calling him unintelligent
and greedy, to them I shall draw
my sword, to the death

To my squire's defense, I ride!!
Sancho will be governor, and my

Dulcinea is crying.

I see you out there
Though I don't see you
You have beautiful hair

      courage. endurance.

Get off the horse, Don Quixote, my knight!
Sad news I have for your ears tonight...
The image of dream blew away as a smoke.
Tired waiting for you keeping heart on the lock,
Dulci got married your friend - Don Juan.
Wind mills are many, but life - only one...

The Qualyxian Quest is Quixotic
So it ain't gonna work
But Dulcinea, Catteleya
World better for this

Science fiction movies
Reno goes berserk
Thailand, Land of the Free
Embers closing kiss

Chicago to Seattle
Soren Kierkegaard
Yann Martel in Spain
Troubled times like this

Toronto, Canada
For thee we stand on guard
Summer of 69
The American Abyss

         Pero: megaplottwist ..................

dreams of dishwater days never returning,
rescue by some knightly hand
fade into days duller than any ditch
you miss the courtyard, the stablemen

sancho is funny, he loves you
you get each other, he is a true love
yet a spark that kept your hot eyes
burning like bad pools of hate
might have been pleasure

now confusion is reigning
everything is muddy, ruined
all you are is really in one tin
reflection, of a barber bowl

lost grail of a bad girl who misses
knightly courtship, but lost her chance
now sancho is love, food, comfort
your song is gone

not even sad songs come
from the well you tend

bereft of quest

Like a famous man named Don Quixote
Early morning with words as a sword
I'm going right against the rightless crowd
Even Pansa is no longer here with his help
I ride Rosinante the indomitable mare
If only Dulcinea is on my side
Encourages me with her pretty smile
For the fight that i would surely win
These giant arms with stentor voices
Life is a long and every day fight
It's not time for the happy song
Here is a speech and madness for the morning fight
I do not want just to be right about the speech
Hey you giants without voice I challenge you
Today and every day until the end of the song
I am not any knight trust me i am a vigorous one
Even if I am a warrior with a sad figure
I have neither the time nor the leisure for joy
Take it easy as a morning fairless song
If you take my advise look for a jazz song
To make your day better then not to quarrel
For any useless reason at the end
I admit you have reason as a crowd
A crowd can **** any lion or a famous knight
Even the one named Don Quixotte !
The crowd has always the last argument!

Give me chariot with horses, bearing likeness of Pegasus,
I would soar on their wings, reaching top of mount Parnassus.
I would leave the Rocinante under care of Sancho Panza,
I'd forget of Dulcinea, drop romance unfinished stanza.

My poetic inspiration would uplift me over prose,
I would stretch my hands in trying to embrace the sinful Earth.
All the planet's mortal dwellers I would make cry, pray and curse.
May my art of playing lyre be Apollo's cheering worth.

As reward God gives to Poet magic gift of divine seer,
To foretell its own fortune to the readers and his peers.
But the poetry is powerless, can't protect the bard from death,
Will not shield from fateful ending, will not hide from cruel chase.

Pity is, but wings of glory can not change life's fatal bound.
Will not notice that dead rider dropped from saddle and fell down,
Horses will continue running with their cruel pace in keeping.
Only Muse, the Dulcinea, will shed tears in mournful weeping.

To My Beloved Dulcinea,

the very thought of your
beauty and wonder
let me cast aside perils
with but an image in my mind's eye
of your sweet face
gives me strength on lonely treks

In visions
I burn for you
I soar in your triumphs
and howl like a demon in your
tribulations.

when you smile
I swim in your joy
it is by you
that I may ignore defeat.

If I take to my drill and tin snips,
cut slits for my eyes in a bucket
of galvanized steel;

If I fashion from spent, inked
aluminum plates the newspaper
doesn't need anymore
a flimsy laminar armour;

If I stride donned in these and
perhaps with a blade of splintering
moulding left after the renovation
into the yard to hack at the vile
violet hyacinth blooms
laying siege to the aging tulip,
presuming to take the edge
gardens by attrition,

would you see as once you saw,
my sweet Dulcinea, the quixotic buffoon
so deep in delusion,
so madly in love with you.

From my childhood, I have been the child of
the sun. Without a sin, always livelihood. I
loved literature .. I mean I always read the
Amphisbaena
This was my tranquiliser, almost like an
anxiolytic Dulcinea.
I postulated it for depress,
Effusive as needed be I had to express.
Hilarious how at first it were words I used to
juxtapose..
Or I suppose I unintentionally juxtaposed both,
words and my books.. I can't recall exactly
how it all began. But I can tell how it looks. It
is a haphazard hazel-shelf, an acervunile.
This is a saga, but I will expatiate.
To escape from gloom I locked myself in the
room, and read books.
I had hallucinations, but I kept on reading
books. Full of hegemony imaginations, I forgot
how to tidy. Idyllic, I only knew how to study.
Slept with books in my bed, some were pillows
for my head. Acervunile was a name I gave to
my bedroom. I denied my friend into the
room, we loomed all the gossip over the
window pane
Gosh I did not need any imbroglio type of
scene
In the mornings I was always late for school,
some of my books were not seen.
They were not lost no, but hiding under my
acervunile bed.
I had books which are Ushers, they'd welcome
you the instant you entered the door,
Some are domates, you stamp on them before
you get on bed,
Some are stalkers, always peeping through the
window, it had seen that uncle who dated the
widow.
On my first collection I organised them A-Z,
but to my least expectation with lassitude I
sorted them into a mephitic Aevirtenal Zenith
Zoo
Even though these books untidy my bedroom,
it is because of them that I'm Xenodochial,
literacy-wise and intelligent! I love my
acervunile bedroom!!!
Siyanda

After a tortuous hour of
math (algebra to be exact)
I start dinner; Middle Eastern stew:
Cardamom, Coriander, and turmeric.
Cooking is a little like math, but
much more like art. My mind begins
to ease as Bach pumps out
one of his symphonies from
the CD player. The stew boils, and
I want to go outside and play,
chase windmills. Where's Sancho?
Dulcinea's here, frustrated by my inept
ability in the equation game.
I ******* despise algebra.
Where's the Bluebird, the Sunflower,
Bukowski or Eugene O'Neil?
I want to smell a six-week-old puppy,
taste Van Gogh yellow, **** until
I can't walk, and ease my
way into old age.
Vivaldi plays his victorious song.
And I know I'll conquer the
numbers game, but probably not
before it drives me crazy;
actually, it's a short putt.

She is my Dulcinea, my Erato:
My fantasy and my Muse.
I am the lighthouse in the storm:
the one to guide her safely home.

If your heart is open to walk this path
take my hand and I will tell you more....

I have an affinity for the language.
Some have called me a cunning linguist.
But I struggle to craft the next line,
Words to tell her exactly how I feel.
because....
"motorboat your hoo-ha" doesn't really flow.

I love you to depths unknown
where your fears have recessed.
When you close your eyes I want to set sail to the furthest corners of your soul.
With your breath setting us downwind.
As gentle as the nights sky
waves crash at your feet.

Etched upon my flesh,
Burned into my soul,
Until my bones become dust
You shall remain: my Dulcinea.

                Forever your Quixote,
                                         m.

Bas le masque
Dulcinea del Toboso !
Bas le masque
Aldonza Lorenzo !
Bas le masque
Idolâtres !

Aphrodites  de tout acabit
Dames de mes pensées
Invisibles Dulcinées
Dont j 'essuie les refus
Pour chacune de mes avances !

Mes feuilles, mes flammes, mes âmes !
Vénérées comme je n 'ai jamais été aimé !
Priées comme je n 'ai jamais été désiré !
Chantées comme je n 'ai jamais été embrassé !
Caressées comme jamais on ne m'a honoré !


Vos panoplies diverses et variées de Muse de chevalier errant
Ont pu jadis faire illusion auprès des fous errants
De triste figure et autres Rocinantes
Mais don Quijote de la Mancha
Est transi dans la place !

Fuyez Aphrodites vulgaires
Venez à moi Aphrodites célestes
Déployez en moi animus et anima
L 'énergie d'Eros.

Défiez-moi par vos énigmes
Questionnez-moi, jouons
A qui sera le moins sage
A qui saura lire entre les lignes
Des lèvres philosophes de l 'autre
Les chemins de traverse qui mènent au bonheur

Je suis Philon ! Soyez donc ma Sophie !
Je suis Salomon ! Soyez donc ma reine de Saba !
Vous êtes Désirée ?  Et muse si affinités ?
Adoubez-moi  Napoléon, prince consort !

He aquí el reverso del tapiz. La vida
tiene el mismo vellón en igual rueca.
Esta es la Mancha aquella, vasta y seca,
aunque hoy está de flamboyán vestida.

Sangra el ocaso por la misma herida.
Quema el cura -el chamán- mi biblioteca.
Hoy los gigantes son de piedra olmeca.
Ayer, de cal y de viento sin brida.

Ya no cabalgo sino en Clavileño.
Rocinante era real, y esto es un sueño
soñando en el fanal que el tiempo empaña.

Y aquí estoy, destiempado, en duermevela,
soñando con Malinche de canela,
mi Dulcinea de la Nueva España.

is true
I want what all men want
surely

a princess
pure
virginal

She my Queen
my lady
her cheeks roses.

Glory I ask
that I may
dedicate my life

To privilege
to but hold
her hand,

to defend
her honor bold,
without question,

or fears, to
be her Knight,
were I but worthy.

To my queen,
I look at you
as my
Dulcinea.

Might I always
wake to
such a vision.

Así, sire, en el aire de la Francia nos llega
la paloma de plata de Suecia y de Noruega,
que trae en vez de olivo una rosa de fuego.   Un búcaro latino, un noble vaso griego
recibirá el regalo del país de la nieve.
Que a los reinos boreales el patrio viento lleve
otra rosa de sangre y de luz españolas;
pues sobre la sublime hermandad de las olas,
al brotar tu palabra, un saludo le envía
al sol de media noche el sol de Mediodía.   Si Segismundo siente pesar, Hamlet se inquieta.
El Norte ama las palmas; y se junta el poeta
del fiord con el del carmen, porque el mismo oriflama
es de azur. Su divina cornucopia derrama
sobre el polo y el trópico la Paz; y el orbe gira
en un ritmo uniforme por una propia lira:
el Amor. Allá surge Sigurd que al Cid se aúna,
cerca de Dulcinea brilla el rayo de luna,
y la musa de Bécquer del ensueño es esclava
bajo un celeste palio de luz escandinava.   Sire de ojos azules, gracias: por los laureles
de cien bravos vestidos de honor; por los claveles
de la tierra andaluza y la Alhambra del moro;
por la sangre solar de una raza de oro;
por la arrnadura antigua y el yelmo de la gesta;
por las lanzas que fueron una vasta floresta
de gloria y que pasaron Pirineos y Andes;
por Lepanto y Otumba; por el Perú, por Flandes;
por Isabel que cree, por Cristóbal que sueña
y Velázquez que pinta y Cortés que domeña;
por el país sagrado en que Herakles afianza
sus macizas columnas de fuerza y esperanza,
mientras Pan trae el ritmo con la egregia siringa
que no hay trueno que apague ni tempestad que extinga;
por el león simbólico y la Cruz, gracias, sire.   ¡Mientras el mundo aliente, mientras la esfera gire,
mientras la onda cordial aliente un ensueño,
mientras haya una viva pasión, un noble empeño,
un buscado imposible, una imposible hazaña,
una América oculta que hallar, vivirá España!   ¡Y pues tras la tormenta vienes de peregrino
real, a la morada que entristeció el destino,
la morada que viste luto su puerta abra
al púrpureo y ardiente vibrar de tu palabra:
  y que sonría, oh rey Óscar, por un instante;
y tiemble en la flor áurea el más puro brillante
para quien sobre brillos de corona y de nombre,
con labios de monarca lanza un grito de hombre!

A bit  poetry

small fingers
handle a bit of beauty
a bohemian evening
a beautiful summer
to smell the sublime blue iodine !
O happy soul, do you feel?
the exquisite perfume of the wonderful kingdom
who dances a musette waltz
a fairy with a white rose complexion
inspires luminous grace
in a milky tooths smile
far back from another time
with green mother my eyes
to link the words with my gaiety
a little joy  the cheerfulness of heart
child love simply
the fine summer a beautiful novel
Italy in her fairy eyes
like a Magnani with  her eyes
oh my god my heart throbs
the big  fear is here
i see now his fatal black eyes
to love a divine lady the queen of charm
the beautiful case before the end of the drama
to love the inaccessible star
I Don Quixote a dulcinea
without Rossinante only the words
for an evening song!
the animalian love is
a metaphysical war game of  heart
a chemical secretion a balm of joy
for the  soul child  actor of the drama love
here are the words a little bit poem
oh my love like Cesare Pavese, I am
waiting for a beautiful Gloria " death will come "
and the rain  falls in the midsummer
a counter-time in the film,
the drama is always  black and white
to die in Rome a Lacrimosa Requiem
the Sublime voices ring the end  
the glamor of the divinity  in tears that charms
the end of the drama the film on the white of linen
with beautiful black words like his eyes!

Evil tends to triumph in this world
George W. Nixon Trump ****** Stalin Mao
Everybody dies
Nothingness forever

I took her to a dance
Pretty brown hair
Kissed her once or twice
Sacramento Heather

There is no Dulcinea
She's made of flame and air
San Francisco, California
Exploritorium

To each his Dulcinea
Before the Meek inherit
I've learned to hate myself
Maranatha. Come, Lord Jesus.

                   Come!

Why did you come here, complicated man?

The sun had not yet fallen when my name
came tumbling from spiced mouth.
You've never said it before,
You must have known what I am.
Allegoried Calypso and Cressida and Dulcinea,

How did you find me?
Know to send two syllable plea running over wired bridge,
straight into aching ears,
over chaotic revelry and muted sorrow
you let me drip from wrought iron balconies
drank me up straight.
You chose the city of tragic love to make
sweet girl hiccup her penitential prayers.

Perhaps I never learn,
to stop making gods out of men but you,
you make it abhorrently easy.

Twice you called out for honey girl and I screamed
alongside the brass to drown out the swell of cinnamon voice.
One more time and I would surely sink.

Do you sing so sweetly knowing nameless girl
was violently trying to put the mist back?
Because each careless wink and wolf grin
shorn down grey forest of poorly concealed intention
and weak resolve.

You called my bluff, licked coppery maw,
laughed at the familiar futitilty.
Many a sweet girl have tried to ride scorpions.

Only when I run from you do you wail from silvered moon, comefindme, donotloseme.
You know I am trapped by my own fate.

You become my darkness, abashed devil
and now I know you dream of drowning in me,
la fuente de la juventud, lion man.

I want you to fall for me and I never want to find you at my feet.