"flamenco" poems
Flamingo high,
flamingo low,
when flamingo stretchy-leggy, then flamingo grow.
Cheeky beaking, shifty sifting, lifting up a flipper;
notty neck and naughty pecks,
while dancing with a kipper.
Flaming heck and flaming Oh!
Flaming flamingularonimo!
I tango and flamenco
and I imitate a swan,
but this winking pink flamingo's
blinking going going gone.
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 11:28 AM UTC
This poem is composed by: a Nonet, a Kyrielle Sonnet, a Free verse part, a Terzanelle and another Free verse part:
In a juerga there’s nothing around
But voices, flamenco guitars ,
Dancing bodies in moonlight,
Vibrant gypsy dresses,
Passion, obsessions,
Bullfighter’s blades,
Silk shawls,
Dancers,
Capes.
Old men have faces scorched and cracked,
Flamenco women to attract,
Like barks of olive trees in night.
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Girls have boot heels and huge roses,
Men clench their teeth , step opposes,
Hands clap and shout in a dance fight,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Guitars are beaten at high speeds,
Castanets scratch the music’s seeds,
Rhythmic fingers snap air to bite,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Old men have faces scorched and cracked,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Hands becoming wings
In their shadows on the wall,
Red becoming black and
Black becoming white,
Motion vibrating the guitar's string,
Cubic movements of colors,
In their dance ,
Shadowy wings becoming scarfs,
Flamenco woman arching her body,
Showing her passion…
From the soul to dissolve
The dancing sounds detach
From the soul to dissolve
When the movement they catch,
They may change all around,
The dancing sounds detach.
Drums and tambourines’ sound,
Exotic wrists and swirls,
They may change all around.
The weightless grace makes girls
Steal treasures from the air,
Exotic wrists and swirls.
With beautiful black hair,
Rise like birds , fall like leaves.
Steal treasures from the air,
Having tricks up their sleeves,
From the soul to dissolve,
Rise like birds ,fall like leaves
From the soul to dissolve.
Spicy slippery steps
Waiting for a clue,
Picking up portions of pink
Of hyper-femininity ,
Overflowing screwy sounds
In heavy red chromesthesia,
Morphing themselves into glamorous ,
Red feminine movements,
Men looking like marble statues being alive,
Seemingly cracking.
Slowly diminishing their dancing rhythm,
Steps sickling sweet sounds
To hear the horn of some lost happiness.
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 4:36 PM UTC
I wanna dance the mambo,the cubin cuba mambo,
I wanna dance the cha cha,hips movement with the cha cha!
or maybe try the salsa, deep ,sensual, is the salsa.
I wanna dance the samba,the fun brazilian samba,
or maybe the lambada,brazilian hot lambada!
My favourite s' the tango,intense ****** tango,
Lost in the flamenco,ardent spanish flamenco.
May even try the polka,high energy in polka,
the Czech bohemian polka!
I wanna go and party,good time ,dancing the rumba,
latino americano,cubano, africano.
I wanna do the hip hop,hip hop,hip hop,don't stop.
Dance reign in the ballroom,
as I dance the Ball Room,under and above,
With you ,I dance my last dance,the classic dance of love.
Are you ready partner ?
Nov 9, 2010
Nov 9, 2010 at 2:54 AM UTC
flat at
flake lake
flame lame
flamenco cool
flamingo goof
flapped lapped
flayed layed
flavor vortex
flannel electricity
flag lag
flash lash
flaxen axen
flab lab
flail ail
flattering ring
flaw law
flair air
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC
She never made it
To Morocco
Rode ’cross the desert
With her Bedouin lover
Shopped for bargains
In the Souks of Rabat
Sipped mint tea
From a frosted glass.
She never went sailing
In a catamaran
And on a moonlit beach
Made love in the sand
Or drank espresso
In a café in Lima
Or danced the flamenco
In Puerto Rico.
She married a man
Cause no one else offered
Had three kids
And moved to the suburbs
Wrapped up her dreams
In brown butcher paper
Tied them with twine
And shelved them for later .
She never made it
To Morocco
Her life was four walls
Plastered in stucco
And she sighed as she thought
Of the things that she lost
The dreams that she wrapped
And shelved in the past.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 9:32 PM UTC
red tile roof ...
whitewash balcony in romanesque cemicircle ,
fridge full 'f
1 litro bottles Alhambra cerveza --
clawfoot tub, coldwater (couture)
$1000/week:
(i could live on that)
lucky strike spirals in spanish summer,
bare feet on the railing upturned to sun beaming on pearly albayzin of granada.
afternoon mojitos with a new woman ev'ry week. (reading magazines)
spend
75 drunk nights ( reading , smoking , swilling gin )
&
typewriter whirring out pages (underwood airbus laissez-faire)
flamenco on a record player back in the house
one of those spanish girls slipping off a white dress (which falls like a soft breath of cloud down to the ground and sits there
still as death)
as she gets into the jacuzzi.
&
spend
75 high days throwing change into fountains, hand
up skirt of my carmen-du-jour.
climb drydust hills with guinness tallcans in plastic borsa
drinking dark beauties as golden orb hung in clouds keeps on grinning heatwaves.
(feelin' like maybe perhaps possibly i be free)
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 3:44 PM UTC
Scandinavian movies
Bring a lot of fog in my life.
My life is so foggy
My dreams are groggy..
Elvira Madigan looks at him
While he is shaving…
Scandinavian movies
I like to watch them.
They stop this crazy Flamenco
That my heart dances
They bring the coldness of
Fjords in it.
Doctor Glas reads the verdict:
“This is a chronic disease
Underneath her soul is sinful grease
Darkness blackness, the lack of light
She is so tired to fight
So tired to fight.
She loves
There is no cure
yet
She is a liar
Her love is not pure
Her life is dirt, distilled sin
She is so tired to fight
She won’t ever win.”
Elvira Madigan kisses her lover
I am imagining I am kissing you
Elvira Madigan leans forward, kisses him
He still has a blade in his hand,
He unclamps the vessel with his desires,
He unclamps his hand
The blade falls off
This is so dangerous
Like …..Love.
Scandinavian movies
I like to watch them.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
A juerga with flamenco guitars,
With fires blooming like red flowers,
Corpses dancing in moonlight
The dance of wounded souls,
Vibrant red dresses
White shirts like birds,
Falling shawls,
Dancers,
Sky,
Claps,
Cubic
Movements of
Color, music's
Seeds, hands being wings
In shadows on the wall,
From soul detaching passion's
Lights, motion vibrating the string,
Resonance for a new dimension.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 8:11 PM UTC
While My Guitar Gently Sleeps
boogie woogie is on my mind
my toe tapping a thousand times
slapping snare and top hat crash
back to sleep dreamy night fade away
is it a festival of jazz marching by
raz-ma-taz New Orleans style
clarinet and trumpet and tuba blow
blind melon singing do-dah do-dah-day
Latin fever makes me thrash
trying to remember the tricky steps
the cha-cha of the island girls
watching how the shapely hips sway
Spanish marimba mambo twist
taps clacking as the flamenco flies
big box acoustic cat gut strings
fingers twitching wanting to play
square dance cowgirls and dudes strut
thumbs in their pockets stomping boots
fiddles and steel race through my heart
gonna do it all do it all someday
roll over and change the world another day
dreamy night fade away once again
screaming guitars in triple tones
while my guitar gently sleeps away
Gomer LePoet...
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 3:45 PM UTC
Lady of dance so eloquent, Flamenco born from her wombs' true intent,
Castanets clatter, as tambourine rattles,
with excitement, accrued within whirls,
she prances and dances within circles, all flashing,
to reach her prince charming, was truly so dashing, her hair rolled up in a tight fitting bun,
As she swirled up to reach her finale, twas said,
she was here no longer, she was truly dead,
she deceased many years, hence past,
For every so often her vengeance she cast,
Prince so vain, found another sweet lover,
left her alone with her pain,
left her mark on the spot,
where her true love stopped,
Gave her no attention,
well too little to mention,
took her life with such a harsh knot,
when the moon is bright, on one sorrowful night,
She'd appear to dance for the crowds,
The watchers looked on, not terrified, by the sight of the tragic flamenco bride!
Copywrite, Olivia Kent 24/03/2013.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
I remember when you donned
-your polka-dot dress
And danced the flamenco
Such pretty and delicate hands
-the men who play guitar
Who played flamenco
You are suddenly young again
-the older boys gather
And you dance flamenco
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
Her quickly flicking
heels and hands
Her fan it flutters--
Dancing.
A silk-swift turn,
with graceful place
Of foot, and wrist,
and hand, to face.
With movements slow,
then sudden dip
An open fan
with subtle flick.
Her eyes, alone,
hot glittering pits.
One glance enough
to sear your wits.
Fast stop, twist-turn
for flicked-up skirt,
Her movements close--
Coquettish.
Arms thrown aloft,
hard-panting sigh.
Thrown roses then--
she's finished.
Oct 6, 2010
Oct 6, 2010 at 1:09 PM UTC
You are the fragrance of dark coffee.
You're slow jazz and flamenco guitar -- depending on the weather.
You're the sweet smell that happens after it rains; and the soft pitter-patter of the rain that sings me to sleep --
You're that too.
And the caffeine and the lost jazz musician and the cold rain hitting his face as he walks home to the song of a memory and the smell of rain on brick -- almost sounds romantic, doesn't it?
You make my world romantic.
And not in the lovey-dovey sense of the word, not just that.
Romance as in the knight who seeks great treasure,
Mark Twain in his steamboat down the Mississippi,
The old sailor who sails the seas just for the constant surprise of just how beautiful the world is --
Romance as in adventure.
And you make me feel like the best kind of music,
And you make my heart beat faster than caffeine,
And you make me feel as beautiful as when the moonlight shimmer against the dark clouds and it looks more exquisite than anything Van Gogh did.
And you --
You're more handsome than a starry night,
Better than the smell of good coffee,
more than any prior fabrication I'd ever had of "perfect--"
And I love you.
More than the smell of rain on brick.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 3:10 PM UTC
You are the pure soul of 5 year old girl
awed by the infinity of the starry sky.
You are the poetry that I humbly try to translate into words.
The scent of your neck intoxicating my senses,
The bad girl tempting one to sin the sweetest sin of all.
The magic number of our passion, old Chinese symbol that finally
reveals its truth.
Sweet flirt and ***** thoughts,
Eyes and eyelashes,
The fear of my fears.
A forest baby doe scared and confused
in the jungle noise of animal screams,
The idol in my dreams
My thoughts are like butterflies landing on your ******* your neck, your back, fluttering up and settling on the bottom of your tattoo, crawling below…
the texture of your soft skin and the hairs on your legs standing on their end.
You are the Flamenco music that I can’t listen to anymore, the guttural songs linking us to our primal ancestors, drums and clapping like the whole world applauding for you and me.
The love chart that tells it all.
The day you held my hand, in front of fifteen hundred people,
And the most beautiful scene,
alone in the cinema stall, touching an irresistible image imprinted in your mind.
Transparent lies that make me smile,
temptations away, the love that we seek where we can’t find it – sweet irony of life.
You are the punishment you beg for being a bad girl,
Your risks, masochistic game that makes you feel alive,
a life feeling like running fingers through hot coals.
Your unrestrained dialogue with your sub-conscious,
painful and rich,
open window into your soul for the magician to read it.
The power outside me and you that has connected loose threads of our hearts, the Yin and Yang clashing and meshing like two birds becoming one.
You, wild beast unafraid to devour yourself and your pray at the same time, fearless, insane, addictive.
The dream of holding hands.
February 2, 2013
Aug 26, 2023
Aug 26, 2023 at 11:15 AM UTC
I am
the red ripe apple of the sinful tree
the honey suckle of the bumble bee
the pink blushed rose of the secret garden
the stubborn spoilt lass never in pardon
the youngest daughter of the shining sun
the castle dream girl in sands of fun
the jealous lover of the crescent moon
the blowing wind in a strong monsoon
the first white swan in the silver lake
the seizmic tremor of a hot earthquake
the scarlet love bird on each window pane
the falling tear drop of clear crystal rain
the candle's flicker of each passionate flame
the mystery madam,mademoiselle or dame?
the copper butterfly in each serene meadow
the Sunday's church girl in snow flake's shadow
the brown eyed maiden of the deep blue seas
the pretty woman of ripe strawberries
the old fashioned girl in sweet proposal
the gold stringed harp in music's motion
the colored smile on a rainbow's face
the flamenco dancer covered with lace
the little mermaid in pirates'streams
the wafting wave in glittered dreams
the twinkling star of black silk skies
the little lantern light of fire-flies
the Cindirella in glass slippers
the happy verse of each romance
the soft wind's voice in a whispered breeze
the wood wind chime in sweet melodies
the Wishing feather of a free white dove
the veiled young lady in the power of love.
Nov 8, 2010
Nov 8, 2010 at 3:26 AM UTC
She was eighteen,
He was Twenty-three,
With an old brown Ford
And a smile in the trees.
And with his smile came light,
The kind that appears in early Spring,
In the morning, and only when
You’re Twenty-three.
She wore this black Flamenco dress,
Everyday, and, if I remember correctly,
That was some dress…
Tight from blade to knee,
And billowing from the back,
Begging for every young man to see.
It’s skirt, when she twirled, could cover a camera,
Mute the sound,
Get attention from all over town.
But what she saw was, in all her spinning beauty,
His tree-tall grin,
And it took her in,
To that desperately sought-out end of a quest,
Where mothers held their daughters against their *******
It was love, perhaps too young,
But it was love,
It was,
It was.
He’s a good man!, she’d always fight,
Left home, one time, in the middle of the night.
Seventeen, too handsome for his own daring good,
That dark-eyed boy and his Redwood-smile
Hopped a south-bound train,
And he looked back, like in some old movie:
Cue the Angry sky, the loneliness, the pouring rain.
He needed to move along, and he had a feeling,
In every sense, that he would;
You know, chalk it up to that daring good.
Well, child?
Well, what?
*Well, is that enough?
What happens when he’s twenty-four?
Is it you, for which he’ll walk the floor,
Or leave home, one time, in the middle of the night?
For seventeen, still handsome, still free,
Is not so different, child, from twenty-three…*
But it was love, perhaps too young,
But it was love,
It was,
It was.
And Mama, he can dance,
Please remember that!
What was it that drew you,
Like some artist’s red line,
All those years ago,
To some twenty-something,
With hair like a wheat field and eyes like the sun-
In your prime, and also in his,
It wasn’t sin, but something drew you to him.
His hard work, his humor, his wit-
Mama said, and stopped.
And the way his leather soles spoke,
In circles and crooked lines-
When the light began to shine,
They’d whirl and sway,
Every time some guitar played.
Whenever the word “no” she’d been told,
Mama rushed for him to hold.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 4:53 PM UTC
My living disposition leads me to assert that I am not dead!
Yet, my silence screams ancient transcriptions across geographical contour lines which are considered to be far removed from the metaphorical grid of contemporary societal norms, where the seductions of the vampyre and her haunting dynamics cast their eerie spells within this captivating fishbowl of galloping horses.
The Prince of Wallachia is able to explain.
Let us converse with The Count.
Whenever there is emphasis upon specific detail in this age of certain vanity, I find that, in 1456, I am truly bereft of valedictorian and flamenco odours, because this royal prince of acoustic arrangement has generated a harmonious expression which humbly corrects my intrapersonal assumptions across the mountainous regions of Transylvania.
Conflict resolution is therefore a mere figment of sociological and anthropological constructs, which fornicate with the façade of egocentrism and fabricates vain attempts to maintain social elitism within a blanket of darkness.
How do we find ourselves in the position of being so diametrically opposed to reality?
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
I was born for Nebraska
I was born for the Massif Central
I was born for the mountain top shrine
with nothing but the music of nature
to distract me
I was born for the weekly news
on some sleepy island in the Pacific
I was born for Covent Garden
The Pangea of Culture
New Orleans trumpets;
the flamenco player
twisting lime into his drink
I was born for the cotton fields
I was born for the salt marsh
for the tug-boat all out of fresh water
I was born for the Ganges
I was born in the shadow of the Hajj
I was born for the G-dless land
of Death Valley
the streets of Harlem
I was born into the spirit
of old Afghanistan
I was born on the false strings
of liberated women-
I was born on a stage of puppets
a backdrop of Glaswegian tenements
or of fjords unvisited
beside Scandinavian seas
I was born for Rugby Cement
I was born to be fixed in place
This wandering mind
These restless legs
I was born with a travelling soul
in a town where I can barely walk
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 8:52 PM UTC
The first wind calls a coolness
to wait around the tips of ears, tickling
and teasing away like zephyr in the air with child-like wisps.
The second wind is married
with specs of dust like ants in a pool of honey.
Jealous clouds follow like a thick coat holding warmth from us.
The third wind brings a bleak—
ness. A flamenco show in the air now is
performed by specs of sickness—twirling—vomit—coughing—death.
The fourth wind is a mistress
caught less tepid; throwing trees; swinging
tall buildings like spiked morningstars and taking away the song.
The fifth wind shivers hard
against the glass air; howls, then shakes,
then breaks the sky into momentary cracks of white fire.
The sixth wind sheds misery
from between the dirt and the celestial
shroud into little vials, then freezes them for a short while.
The seventh wind showers the earth
in a shifting of silence and still sympathy and
Within the storm a small hummingbird twists with the sky.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
The skin at the bed of her nails shone, tight.
Forever healing, windows that rattle
With the changing of her moods.
Love was a locket, an heirloom
That insisted its presence
Upon her bedside table.
She could turn out every light
And it would still be there.
Steady metronome,
Lifeless thud,
Invasive thought.
The carpet gathered artefacts from late night walks.
Bad habits clung to the walls.
No pillow talk, only muffled strings,
Failed symphonies,
Conversations three years old:
Memories that play Chinese whispers
Across the faces in the ceiling.
Irregularity of breath,
Sleep comes, clothed in Zopiclone;
A mind that never rests.
Narcosis in the morning,
Nausea over dried toast,
Sweet flamenco on the radio,
But there is nothing to calm her bones.
The red wine cast last night’s shadow,
Hollow in the eyes, first hit of daylight,
First hit of nicotine
To prove she is still alive.
Anxiety: the ball and chain,
Always dragging her behind.
Living as a ghost,
The people at the bus-stop stare,
The traffic, the signs, the passers-by,
The doldrums in the headlines,
The rain upon her window;
The heart attack and vine.
Prescription pills in the afternoon
To get her through the day,
Until she can get her fix,
Have her fill,
And finally hide away.
The high-street parade comes alive after dark,
Lanterns on the lake, the fish-bowl
Of a small town, familiar tongues that roll;
Memorised anecdotes across the ashtray,
The lipstick on her teeth.
Clumsy in victory, each stumble confined
To look as if she has walked through life
Without ever missing a stride.
There is nowhere to breathe
But in the solitude of her insanity.
She paints the walls
To the colours of her moods:
Grey in the long, long winter,
Blue in the onset of June.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
*Intricately laid by a master mason centuries ago,
the cobbles have become shiny and worn through use.
If we listen closely at the echoes contained within,
what would we hear? The din of old, the clatter of hooves,
the patois of tradesmen, the fisher wives bellows?
Or, just life as it was, moving along at a pace we today find slow?
The sun beats down on the Spanish stone, firing them hot and
languid, pace has slowed, need has slowed, greed has slowed.
Dusty cobbles leading to cool houses, siesta has called and all obey.
The midday sun beats down, only tourists looking for quaint shops
remain, decrying the heat, ready to swoon.
Sweat drips onto the dusty cobbles, and is soon boiled away.
Blood has dripped on these cobbles, human and beasts.
Only to be scrubbed by the crow black crones that sit and watch the day.
Afternoon lull, boats bobbing slowly up and down,
babies rocked by a quiet lullaby.
The sun lowers bathing the cobbles in a pink, orange glow,
quiet now, Spain is sleeping, forgetting her past, the Moors are long gone,
the Armada been and gone, bullfights are frowned upon,
their Kings and Dictator laid to rest, only foolish tourists throng the
dusty cobbles, oblivious to their history, looking for that awful gift.
Spain's pain is echoed in her cobbles, few hear it, but know this,
if you listen you'll hear the heat, the pain, civil war,
pride and flamenco feet*.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
People wobbling in the heat haze like a real time hall of mirrors
Street performers sing & flamenco & mime
The snap of digital cameras & excited chatter outside the cathedral
Sangria cold & fruity as it slides down easily
The tram glides past the beggars & hawkers
Gypsies’ curses in coarse andalucian as rosemary favours are repelled
Excited Asians watching every move Large Americans loudly exclaiming their delight as the light fades into dusk
Now the Feria comes alive all lights & ferris wheels & music so much music
Men on horseback women ride sidesaddle all in traditional dress
A throwback to a time before bailouts & austerity
Sing & Dance & Eat & laugh & joke
As dusk becomes evening the ottoman turrets light up
The cooler night air seems to remove inhibitions as people from different worlds celebrate humanity with cheers & smiles
Muchos Gracias & Bueno & Buena Noches in various accents fill the night as the spell is broken
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 10:05 AM UTC
The grace in the way things move feels
like the fibers of a mantilla veil until
the wind blows and turns
grace to something
worthy of fear.
I've got everything going
and they're all wondering if I'm coming
along but all I want is to keep
going my own way
even when I'm a little lost
in deciding what really is my own.
I've got the veil
I've always had
happy to know I had much more
beneath than beyond
but I think he proved me wrong.
The trouble with going
and still going strong
is that I do it best when he's gone.
I know what I want isn't
the best thing but
I want it just the same
nobody could blame me either way.
Now the wind's blowing
and blowing embers
burning my veil
clean away.
I'm finding all I hid
was worth something
to someone besides me and now
that I'm happy to be
alone they all want a piece.
Content beneath my mantilla watching
the best and the worst inch by
I had no Holy Week
and kept no days holy but my own.
Burnt to the scalp
I'm learning to dance without
the skirts and shawls that made holy
what I thought it had to be.
Fear driving my fingers to Flamenco
twists and my feet to wind-blown flames
I've got nothing to lose because the worst
is mine to claim and the best
isn't coming but going
my own way.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
I fell down in the pit
And somebody stomped on my glasses.
People nowadays have no manners or compassion I swear.
All this pushing and shoving for material gain. Just sat right there on the floor and cried so.rude.
I just wanted a nice night out you know a good meal with a glass of wine and a little dancing.
Guess I'm going to call it a night.
Mosh Pit phobia for life.
Who knew.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 1:03 AM UTC