"merengue" poems
I am from VapoRub,
From Goya
And morisoñando.
I am from the traffic
And loud horns,
From the Caribbean heat,
And the city lights,
From the buildings
And the towers.
I am from the palm trees
And the coconut trees,
Dancing bachata
And merengue
In the beach,
From yaniqueque
Y plátano,
From tostones
And fish.
I am from Sunday gatherings
And loud family members,
From Jose, Maria, and Primos,
And the hardworking
Payamps clan.
I am from the
Madera’s baseball team,
From Canó, Sosa, y Ortiz,
From the long summer rides
To ***** Cana
And Samana’s beach.
From “work hard
Cause life is not easy”
And “family before friends.”
From Christianity
And Saturday morning sermons,
From God is good
And He brings joy.
I am from Santo Domingo
And Monción,
From Santiago
And Spanish ancestors,
From mangú con salami,
From rice and beans.
From the grandpa
Who owns the village
Surrounded by
Chickens, cows, and bulls,
From the business owner
And the well known uncles
In my hometown.
I am from the only flag
With a bible.
From the red, blue
And white.
From the most beautiful
Island in the Caribbean,
From Quisqueya y
Libertad.
I am from the
Dominican Republic,
The country that holds
The people I love and
Miss the most.
I am from the
Little Paris box
I keep next to my bed,
Filled with precious
Gifts and letters
That make me feel
A little closer
To them.
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
What is the versatile autobiography
of this bountiful of rice
boiling in my American kitchen?
This crop of microscopic slabs of grain
that was the one edible source
of preventing my ancestors' emaciation
One of such few things
connecting me
to my roots,
those things I can't help but bleach
in whitewashed and rebellious peroxide.
I will valiantly hang my head down low in shame
at the examples of my flesh and earth,
"those National Geographic cavemen,"
all the time being the zoo animal,
being blindfolded and caged by
these "secular, American liberals."
I love this food
that I consume like a vacuum,
this merengue and bachata
that I so happily shake my *** to;
but nowhere did I sign up
for these commandments
that I was appointed
based on the location
that I popped out onto.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:51 AM UTC
Haitian Divorce
in the warmth of the tropical sun
sipping zombies by the Caribbean Sea
Samuel and Daisy fell in love
dancing the merengue
they fell into each others arms
an affair to remember for all time
they decided to get married
there just wasn't any other way
the bliss lasted for many weeks
the kisses grew sweeter it seemed
but out of the blue a comment was made
and the sniping got heavier each day
he would shout she would bite
it went on like this every night
until the kisses completely stopped
they had nothing more to say
it was so much more than thought
they decided to end it well
a little trip to the islands once more
hurry now no more delay
they raised their glasses one last time
there would be no remorse
staring out at the churning sea
they celebrated their Haitian Divorce
Gomer Lepoet...
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
Concinnity of rapid motion in balance and proportion,
round the ballroom, like the synchronized frequency
of vibration in a crystal quartz. Whirling contortion
of bodies embraced in movement's revealing intimacy.
They are partners. They are dancers. They are lovers
wantonly stoking libido's hot glowing embers;
promenade affirming keen awareness to the vigors
of the steps, footfalls and technique of its pretenders.
Gown and tux attired, passionate accessories to the cult;
merengue, fox-trot, rhumba, abandonment's fertility rites
to gods and goddesses, danced with such elegant result,
they are immortalized in time --- divine service to the night.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 7:46 PM UTC
His first love should've been basketball and his second, girls
because his name was Juan and he represented the white, red
and blue bandera, *Dominicano puro cien porciento del capital
entiendes compai?* understand homie?
and that label meant that he threw empty beer bottles
at abandoned houses and smoked second hand ****
because he was too broke to buy from the good dealers
and he hollered at girls with wide hips and short skirts that walked by
(oye mama tu si eres linda ven aquí!)
they would giggle and roll their eyes at him but of course
because he was one of those light skinned boys, the type
with light eyes and smooth brown hair that every girl dreamed
about, they would holler at him back the very next day
//
His first love was basketball and his second, was not
girls, his second love was words; it was the craziest ******* thing
in the world, to be a boy and not be crazy over women is one
thing, but to be Dominican and not in love with every muchacha
en el Barrio es una cosa de los maricones! as his best friend
would say as he shook his head disappointedly, muthafucka had
the finest beauties the Caribbean had to offer swooning as he
spoke, and he was in love with palabras de los gringos? but it didn’t
matter, he loved words like the junkies loved drugs and like
his best friend loved women, and while every other sin verguenza
on his block would dance to the hypnotizing beat of merengue and
bachata, he would watch by on the roof of the abandoned building
nearby and he would write it all down: how the lights of the neighborhood
had never seen more alive and how old man Victor looked youthful
dancing next to the neighborhood ***** and how his mother
looked happier than she had in a long time, swaying her body to the
calming voice of the old music she hadn't head in a while and
yes he was still the boy that threw beer bottles at abandoned windows
and smoked second hand **** because he was too broke
to afford the real stuff and he still hollered at girls who wore
shirts too low but in the shadow of all the happiness up on the roof,
he was not Juan, best basketball player on the team,
Dominicano cien porciento y no te lo olvides,
repping the white, red and blue bandera
instead he was Juan, the light skinned boy who liked the
palabras de los gringos because of the way they rolled off his tongue
and he had decided that he liked it better that way
(h.l.)
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
Nothing like, a cat soiree
Dancing cats, it's their forte'
If you're ever in thoughtful doubt
Need to smile, but can only pout
Find the cats, at their hangout
As they sing and dance about
Doing jigs and Rumba ques
Square dancing, a happy view
Tapping out to follow thru
Catty moves, line dancing too
Here Merengue, there is jive
Frolicking free, fully alive
No better joy, of feline scenes
Kittens cavort, like dancing fiends
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 9:02 AM UTC
Responsibilty
I dance away from thee
Why can't you just let me be
Escape with some poetry
and voy age for free
A void created
my feet elated
As the A-Voy Dance
is celebrated
We all know this game
As we tango with shame
Find something to blame
Time went and now came
Tax day approaches
Conscience coaches
mind scatters like roaches
A Voy Dance encroaches
Merengue away my tasks
Sip from all of life's flasks
Eye's wide shut with masks
Sick again? your boss asks
Avoid dance, and die in a box
No Samba dancing underground
Alive I feel richer than fort Knox
Lost but now A Voy dance is found...
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 3:02 PM UTC
Music is my Muse
From the funky jazz tempo
To the sounds of salsa
From the classical rock
To the alternative basses
From the Opera Lady's bellow
To the Tenors solo
From the 80's slow jamz
To them 50's swinging bands,
To them country folk songs
To those old folks blues
Music is my Muse,
My inspiration,
Being Black&Puerto; Rican
I- A NuYorican,
I've heard the best tunes,
Bahchata's & Merengue,
Bailes La Cumbias,
Like Macr Anthony &
oh how he sang to me,
My wanting
to rock with you like
Micheal Jackson-
To Vanilla's
Ice Ice Baby,
It's yo thang do what you wanna do,
Candy coated Rain drops
By Soul For Real,
& When will I see you Again-
Babyface
Until I muse
in my amusement
When Tim McGraw
Sanged don't take the girl,
Reba "Asking Does
He love me like
he's been loving YOU",
To its my prerogative
Like Bobbi Brown said,
Let not for get
Johnny Cash,
Or what About them
O'Jays
Yeah my muse is musical-
Music and thinking artfully
coincides with one another,
with breathing and eating
Rhyme & Rhythm linguistics
even as we walk down the street
or cruising
while jamming in ya car,
LL Cool J said Cars drive
by with the booming Systems-
AH Push it was
My jam back in the day
R&B; Was mostly what I liked
But growing Up
I started listening to
Rock & Hip Hop,
Got drunk off those sweet
Monster Ballads
while Making love
to Sade,
Sung All Cried Out
at my graduation party,
Tony Toni Tone
Made Us-FEEL GOOD YEAH
at all them block parties
back in NYC,
Now
I listen to everything
going on 33
heard it through the grape vine
that YOU share
a likeness in this Musing?
Music is My Muse.
Always Me Ayeshah
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 5:02 PM UTC
From deep in my heart I cry.
I press myself why
I caused her love to say goodbye.
My merengue Empress
Used to be my Temptress.
When I was in distress
She became my Mistress.
Now all I have is sorrow.
My today and my tomorrow
Were stolen and not borrowed
And pain has followed.
From deep in my heart I died.
I choke on my pride,
But it can't be denied-
I stole and I lied.
And caused her heart to say goodbye.
Deep in my heart I sigh.
And I can't reply.
All of a sudden I'm shy,
But we both know why.
The clock wont go back
And change all the facts,
To put things in tack.
I guess that is that!
Feb 13, 2011
Feb 13, 2011 at 6:36 AM UTC
.
"I pull him
deeper in my
mouth so I can
feel him at the
back of my thro
at and then to
the front again.
My tongue swi
rls around the
end. He's my
very own Chris
tian Grey- flav
ored popsicle.
I **** harder
and harder . . .
. . . Hmmm . . .
my inner god
dess is doing
the merengue with some salsa
moves. " " You'r e so deliciously wet
god I want you I ' m going to **** you
now Ms. Steele hard . . . come
for me Ana."
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
If my ears had tastebuds
“I hate you” would taste like
Regurgitated ice-cream
Now frothy and foamy with stomach acid
If my ears had tastebuds
“I love you” would taste like
Spicy chocolate covered *** berries
If ears had tastebuds
“I miss you” would taste like
The dissolving inside of merengue cookies
If my ears had tastebuds
Laughter would rise and pop like
Effervescent bubbles of celebration
If my ears had tastebuds
I would never be able to use a pillow again
If my ears had tastebuds
They are probably tired of
The constant metallic taste that appeared
The day the giant post obliterated their friends
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 7:06 PM UTC
Kamau Brathwaite wrote
That "the hurricane doesn't roar in pentameters"
And I really believed it could be true
That Caribbean hurricanes had their own cadences, their own dances :
Ida was reggae, Allen was merengue Brigitte was gwoka
David was cha cha cha and Edith was kadans rampa and Dorian calypso
All dactyls hatched instead of iambic pentameters
Out of each island Zeus 's head
Until i met the still eye of Hurricane Muse.
Muse was her nickname
Her real name was Shar
Named after shark and share and shear
and sharon,
Named after a calypso rose
Fearless except for lizards, a rose of tiny thorns
With a taste of a stormy black coffee
Born to a dragon of Jade and a white *** tigress
In the midst of the 1961
hurricane season.
Shar has the S of Sébastien Sally Sam Shary Sean and Sara
The H of Humberto Hanna Henri Hermine Harold and Hélène
The A of Andrea Arthur Ana Alex Arlene and Alberto
And the R of Rebecca René Rose Richard Rina and Rafael
And she dances not only calypso
And quadrille and zouk
But a mix as well of Salsa Hustle Affranchi and Reggae
In iambic pentameters
While she gently paints fearless green lizards
Having her five iambs of coffee
First thing in the unstressed and stressed morning
Before she even opens the syllables of her still Muse eye.
Sep 7, 2019
Sep 7, 2019 at 3:23 AM UTC
I spend so much time staring at blank canvases
hoping beauty will appear before me instantly
that I forget how the right brain works.
I forget how art doesn't come, it simply is;
you either have it or you don't.
These are talents you don't learn, can't learn.
You're born with the instinct to string words into sonnets
and mix paints into masterpieces, and most of the time,
no one else is capable of understanding just how you got them
to be what they are; it's your own personal daydream
that you can choose to get lost in, or lose in the crevices
in the back of your mind. That's why I write until
my hands go numb and my mind is in shambles.
I figure the more I do it, the better it will become.
The brain is more than an ***** It's a muscle that requires
constant manipulation to keep it in tip-top shape
and I don't ever want to fall into the background.
I want to spend my life tip tapping on keyboards and
scratching at paper with fine tipped pens as if my life
depended on it. To write of things unknown to the
not-so-artsy types. Because I've come to find that
a math or science major isn't usually capable of creating
crescendos with wordplay, or letting syllables shimmy
and shake off the tongue like they're doing the merengue.
It's a song and dance that takes more than simple muscle-memory:
it takes heart and soul and usually a little bit of pain along the way.
Starving artists aren't sad because they're hungry,
no, it's usually because they've experienced life in a way
that no one really wishes to. They've felt emotions rip through them
like tidal waves and that's how they came to write so **** beautifully,
or paint with such depth. Now a day's with depression levels
shooting up like rockets, outlets are hard to come by
but if you can source that pain into something beautiful,
you must be doing something right.
It's come to a point in my life where I believe half of my blood
is infused with the ink I've used to label my hurt
and ease my pain.
It's all about what gets you by; it's become a lifeline.
If it keeps me breathing for another
second, another minute, another hour, another day,
then I might as well let it grow like wild fire. Let it blossom into something beautiful.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
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
Sweat rolls down my back in a hot white room.
A very large fan that blows nothing but more hot air.
My lights are off and into my t.v I stare.
i'm restless.
I cant sleep...
...I didn't eat...
....did some laundry...
why don't I feel clean....
I shower...
...the dirt on my head
...on my chest...
...on my arms...
...travel with the water to the trunks that be mine legs...
..naked...wet..
...free...
...content...
satisfied?
...I am.
I begin to sing...
...random words that a warm shower can bring.
my soap; My mic.
my shower head; My camera man.
my bathtub; My Stage
reluctant to turn the *** of my shower, I am.
but I do.
I step through the thick layer of steam,
that makes it slightly difficult to breath.
but I wanted to stay with my heat.
the heat of moisture and steam.
I sit on my toilet and enjoy the tropical atmosphere in my bathroom.
I begin to whistle an exotic tune.
I tap my feet to the rhythm of my hands.
now I've become a one man band playing for kicks amongst an island in the Caribbean.
salsa,
merengue,
bachata,
all of a sudden I noticed how warm and calm I was.
how happy and jolly I was.
how I felt so "irishy" and "springy"
I dress myself without drying my body and I stare into the mirror with a smile on my face.
I open the door, everything became dark again.
I put my dirt caked clothes inside my hamper.
my clothes felt damp.
I took off my shirt.
I turned off my lamp.
popped in a dvd.
and stared into the portal of entertainment intently.
Sweat rolls down my back in a hot white room.
A very large fan that blows nothing but more hot air.
My lights are off and into my t.v I stare.
i'm restless.
I cant sleep...
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
The Devil came to me
during the final merengue,
in the ***** shadows of the night,
While I’d been dancing with a man
whose face I did not know,
his eyes were the color
of his hair, his hair
the color of his skin,
he blended into the
white walls the way Mole seeps
into chicken. He looked hungry
like every other man I had
ever seen before,
but Madre did he know,
how to make me spin. Spun me so fast
I pierced holes into the sky,
the Sun cooked red hot inside
he let off steam, cursing the ***** cochina
for her hoofed feet and bouncing
pig tail hair. When I tried for innocence
the sun only saw white
anger when I tried to apologize,
the Devil tsked and shook his head,
shoved his fingers into my mouth,
my tongue became an ember
my words turned into clouds.
Oh Dios, el Sol fue muy enojado,
his stars burnt brighter than ever,
reflected el Diablo’s brilliant grin
his triumph was he always got
exactly what he wanted. My chest
grew tight with fear, knowing what
I’d done. With a smile,
the ***** dance,
that the Devil had given. Me
quiero nada más, I cried.
But he just laughed instead, and picked up
greater speed. With every spin, my world
grew hot, flames kissed my neck and feet,
“Mami,” he said, “we’re not through.”
Grabbing onto my hips to throw me
around la Lun’, beating her
silver skin, the craters came
to represent his twisted lullaby
cooing Ella recordará y tu tambien,
The night belonged to him.
Dec 12, 2017
Dec 12, 2017 at 12:54 PM UTC
If the world would only stop on cue
all promises made would return anew
The seasons would rearrange their order
and lines we’ve drawn—no longer borders
If the world would only dance on cue
and kick up its heels for me and you
Then what a show we all could make
to merengue together—with love our fate
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 11:45 AM UTC