"gaucho" poems
I remember when we would practice penmanship
along a clean dotted line
I remember when we were absent minds
with focus fixed
Yes, Ma’am. No, Sir.
Climbing atop monkey bars,
we were crafty criminals never discouraged by law
We didn’t know what we were doing
I remember when I was crushing hard on him
and little love notes
Barbies aren’t cool anymore
NSYNC versus The Backstreet Boys
No, Sam is my boyfriend now
Gaucho pants and platform sandals
We didn’t know what we were doing
I remember when I couldn’t pearl papers,
tapped out after one rip,
and thought roaches only existed
in the cracks of crumbling city apartments
But I was still “cool”
and destined to be a rockstar
so, whatever...
I didn’t know what I was doing
Now,
I am a spinning dreidel despite the cataclysmic storm
I am the drizzle of syrup on a Sunday morning omelette
I am the cherry blossom tree that blooms in late spring
A settled and centered soul,
I am a pen on the brink of a classic
And I don’t know what I am doing
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 2:01 AM UTC
¡Pradera, feliz día! Del regio Buenos Aires
quedaron allá lejos el fuego y el hervor;
hoy en tu verde triunfo tendrán mis sueños vida,
respiraré tu aliento, me bañaré en tu sol.Muy buenos días, huerto. Saludo la frescura
que brota de las ramas de tu durazno en flor;
formada de rosales, tu calle de Florida
mira pasar la Gloria, la Banca y el Sport.Un pájaro poeta rumia en su buche versos;
chismoso y petulante, charlando va un gorrión;
las plantas trepadoras conversan de política;
las rosas y los lirios del arte y del amor.Rigiendo su cuadriga de mágicas libélulas,
de sueños millonarios, pasa el travieso Puck;
y, espléndida sportwoman, en su celeste carro,
la emperatriz Titania seguida de Oberón.De noche, cuando muestra su medio anillo de oro
bajo el azul tranquilo, la amada de Pierrot,
es una fiesta pálida la que en el huerto reina,
toca en la lira el aire su do-re-mi-fa-sol.Curiosas las violetas a su balcón se asoman.
Y una suspira: «¡lástima que falte el ruiseñor!»
Los silfos acompasan la danza de las brisas
en un walpurgis vago de aromas y de visión.De pronto se oye el eco del grito de la pampa;
brilla como una puesta del argentino sol;
y un espectral jinete como una sombra cruza,
sobre su espalda un poncho; sobre su faz, dolor.-¿Quién eres, solitario viajero de la noche?
-Yo soy la Poesía que un tiempo aquí reinó:
Yo soy el primer gaucho que parte para siempre,
de nuestra vieja patria llevando el corazón.
944
Tengo olor de tierra.
Tengo sabor de café y miel en la lengua,
Tengo un saxofón, un acordeón y un par de teclas que caminan.
Que se mueven despacio,
que también saben violentarse, jadeándose entre pasos
al ritmo de un guaguancó.
Se liberan al ritmo de un son cubano,
Se rompen la espalda en una quebradita, pues soy chaparrita.
Un Merengue suavecito de mi adorada Quisqueya.
Mi patria bella, con sus mulatas, y azúcar en la cintura.
Llevo a Puerto Rico en una Salsa o una Bomba y Plena que espante la monotonía,
y en una Cumbia Colombiana, me conecto a todos mis paisas.
Llevo un gaucho argentino con un Mate, un Gardel y un buen Tango en el corazoncito.
Entre doble pasos va saliendo mi espíritu gitano.
Voy moviendo el piso al sonido de un Flamenco.
y si llegan a sentir una Zamba se transportan mis pies a Brasil
y bailo y hablo en portugués.
No, yo no tengo patria, llevo la música en el alma.
No, yo no soy bailarina.
Si, voy viajado el mundo en sonidos de artistas con sueños.
Yo soy negra y a puro orgullo,
fluye por mi cuerpo el sonido del pueblo,
Los tambores de África percutan por mis pies.
Yo soy del sonido que alegre mis pies.
Yo soy del país que me acoja en su ritmo.
Yo soy del mundo,
Yo soy música.
Yo soy los pies que bailan por la paz,
por la justicia,
por la igualdad.
Yo soy música y no más!
LeydisProse
6/9/2017
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse/
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 2:10 PM UTC
Sunlight, San Francisco, what a beautiful scene.
I was the talk of the town, I was awfully mean.
A time well before those new types sipping lean.
She was nineteen, but it was alright.
I took her out and had her all night.
When together, we were such a sight.
Everything went stale when the gaucho showed up.
His idiotic favors were just without a stop.
But it was alright, I loved you enough.
When you hung yourself, it was pretty tough.
Strangling that ***** was good for me though.
And after that, it all seemed so slow.
Drinking a forty with Travis and Denzel.
Skipping town so I don't stay in the cell.
Buying a ****** just to finally feel.
Took me two decades to finally heal.
But that's all so long ago now...
I thought to myself as I crossed that line.
I closed my eyes for a last time, entering the blue.
I opened them much later, in a white room.
She was standing over me, blue hair, red eyes.
The end of the world. My world.
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 3:16 PM UTC
Lone Cebador
Gaucho child
With weary boots of leather
Weary shirt, indian feather
He sat on pampa grass,
Beside the cracking fire
and the desert mass
With his thoughts wandering
Wild eyes gazing into the
evening sky
A bird of prey - thru the air he flew
The Lone Cebador with nothing
but his thoughts, and his sacred brew
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 10:27 AM UTC
Without warning, the house lights dim. Conversation stops mid-word, and instantly all eyes are on our orchestra, impeccably matching in black tuxedos and gaucho pants. I can no longer see my smiling friends in the crowd, just a sea of dark, empty faces staring back at me.
The yellowing, torn pages on my music stand read “Symphonie Fantastique -- 1st Bassoon” in bold lettering. “Watch!”, “Play out!”, and other enthusiastic reminders litter the margins. Behind me, the timpanist quietly tunes to D, preparing for the fourth movement, March to the Scaffold, containing one of the most well-known orchestral bassoon solos of all time. “Play it like a pompous king laughing as a criminal is led to the guillotine,” our short, Italian conductor insisted one day in rehearsal. Next to the fortieth measure marker, a doodle of a stick figure in a crown laughs.
I stare at the black scuff marks on the glossy stage floor as the orchestra swells around me. All too soon, the timpani rolls from underneath the angry violin pizzicato. My cue. I breathe in deeply.
first solo
heartbeat in time
with racing eighth notes
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 6:19 PM UTC
Senryu
I’m a cowboy
Herding in reluctant words
To make a poem
Argentina’s pampas
Where wild horses live
Poetry in motion
The gaucho
Is a free verse maker
On horseback
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
Dastardly diehard downs dark draft
Ardent adventurers admire affectionately
Solemnly sure something serious stirs
Here handling hunger and homesickness
Ideally in ignoble inns
Not noble nor negligible
Gently grinning ****** gaucho gotcha
Jul 10, 2019
Jul 10, 2019 at 6:53 AM UTC