"rosita" poems
Hey. Yea you. You with the short brown hair and those big beautiful eyes.
Yes I’m talking about you.
I miss your smile, the way your eyes light up like the stars when you see me, those six dimples when you laugh.
I miss your touch, the way your small hand would grab mine when we walked together.
I miss your energy around me, you were and still are my most prized possession.
It hurts to know your so far from me but yet so close to me.
I cry ... I cry a lot about you and I think you don’t know how much I really miss you.
I miss seeing you put food in your hair because you thought it was okay to play with it.
I miss knowing that whenever you were near me you would be calm.
I miss the sound of your voice and being able to see you every weekend. You leaving my side as been soo hard for me and I’ve been hiding it so well
I love you so much I hope to see you soon.
I love you mi rosita my beautiful little rose.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 11:57 PM UTC
The Voyage
The big seagull sat on the bow of my rowing boat
on my way to Argentina and Rosita,
which I never met she had married guitar player-
had unfriendly eyes ready to peck my eyes out.
I regretted my heroism.
I wanted to go to Argentina because of its pampas
Beautiful horses and also to be famous for the voyage
I was picked up by a merchant ship
it was actually going the wrong way docked in Antwerp
Free beer for the, would be the hero.
I got a job on an old steamer bound for Argentina.
Buenos Aires,
A City with so many beautiful women it took a long
before I got my stead looking for the tree of wisdom.
I found it burning in the night
the Gauchos were feeling cold and set fire to the tree.
What matters is the journey which is a fine sentence to cover for absolute failure.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 5:29 AM UTC
A Youthful Texas Sojourn
At a feeding barn near Houston Texas, we drank lone star beer
and ate giant size hamburgers and king sized hot dogs
Perhaps it is the Stetson hats, but Texans appear bigger than normal,
but they were engagingly civil towards us and to other patrons,
armed people tend to be polite.
As beer bottle after bottle were sunk into
prominent stomachs that wearers thought
of as chests, there was this mechanical bull to ride
….3 seconds I lasted on that blood bull.
An enormous woman with a hat big as
a life- boat, took a shine to me and
dragged me into the dancefloor, whispered promises of a lustful nature
something about she riding me till dawn,
am I a horse?
The lady had to go and powder her nose; she said that
That was the change for me to get out, take a taxi; she had a gun in her purse
not a lady to let down.
Somehow I ended up in Mexican neighbourhood and had great fun
till the rangers came, bulky men oozing of authority light grey suits and
the ubiquitous hats were checking papers.
A woman of short stature and big heart named Rosita took care of me
we made love on her mother's sofa in the living room.
She drove me on board when the air was still dawn chilly and I polite as
ever promised to marry her, she kissed me gently and didn't
believe a word of what I said
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 4:55 AM UTC
I married Rosita back in the Spring
As a new world budded with everything,
She sprang from an ancient family
Its heart in the vineyards of Tuscany.
Her skin was dark and her hair blue-black
From the blood of her father’s, way, way back,
Her family tree lay in mystery
So I thought I’d uncover their history.
Down in the damp of the cells, there lay
A mound of their documents, rotting away,
Down where the Monks had toiled below
In the crypt of the Church of De Angelo.
There I would work, and day by day
Would learn of plots where the skeletons lay,
The grinning skulls kept the plans alight
They had once conspired in the dead of night.
I asked Rosita to join me there
Way down below, at the foot of the stair,
And she came gliding, all dressed in white
Like some grim ghost with her girdle tight.
‘Why do you stir these shades,’ she said,
‘When for hundreds of years they’ve lain here dead,
It’s better we leave their old intrigues
Scattered like bones, and Autumn leaves.’
‘This is your line,’ I then replied,
‘Who lived and schemed, and who loved and died,
As one day soon you may bear a son
Who’ll need to know where he’s coming from.’
And sure enough in the month of June
There were signs that he would be coming soon,
Her forehead burned and the glass she sipped
When she came alone to the darkened crypt.
Then shadows moved in the ancient cells
Where the Monks had worked on their evil spells,
And she began to shiver and glow
In the crypt of the Church of De Angelo.
I said what I should have spoken yet
That all I had was a deep regret,
That ever I asked her to get up and go
To the crypt that lay in the church below.
But still she went on that long descent
She seemed obsessed and would not relent,
Till late one night and a baby cried
Delivered on a cold slab, and died.
I keep Rosita so close to me,
And far from her family history,
Something is creeping, evil and slow
In the crypt of the church of De Angelo.
David Lewis Paget
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
I.
Ce petit bonhomme bleu
Qu'un souffle apporte et remporte,
Qui, dès que tu dors un peu,
Gratte de l'ongle à ta porte,
C'est mon rêve. Plein d'effroi,
Jusqu'à ton seuil il se glisse.
Il voudrait entrer chez toi
En qualité de caprice.
Si tu désires avoir
Un caprice aimable, leste,
Et prenant un air céleste
Sous les étoiles du soir,
Mon rêve, ô belle des belles,
Te convient ; arrangeons-nous.
Il a ton nom sur ses ailes
Et mon nom sur ses genoux.
Il est doux, *** point morose,
Tendre, frais, d'azur baigné.
Quant à son ongle, il est rose,
Et j'en suis égratigné.
II.
Prends-le donc à ton service.
C'est un pauvre rêve fou ;
Mais pauvreté n'est pas vice.
Nul coeur ne ferme au verrou ;
Ton coeur, pas plus que mon âme,
N'est clos et barricadé.
Ouvre donc, ouvrez, madame,
A mon doux songe évadé.
Les heures pour moi sont lentes,
Car je souffre éperdument ;
Il vient sur ton front charmant
Poser ses ailes tremblantes.
T'obéir sera son voeu ;
Il dorlotera ton âme ;
Il fera chez toi du feu,
Et, s'il le peut, de la flamme.
Il fera ce qui te plaît ;
Prompt à voir tes désirs naître ;
Belle, il sera ton valet,
Jusqu'à ce qu'il soit ton maître.
491
Nunca quiero estar
Sola en el espacio
Ojos cerrados o abiertos
Mitad viva o muerto
No se lo que quiero
Quitama la vida
Tapame la boca
Manos sobre mi corazon
Aprieta mas fuerte
No tengas miedo del presente
Cierta te las manos
No te quiero lastimar
Unas me estan cortando
Poco a poco sagrando
Piel rosita a blanco
Haciendo me en nada
Flotando en la galaxia
Cuerpo esta helado
Piel desbarantandose
Ojos no estan brillando
Mi curpo muerto
Convertiendo en cometo
Me exploto en tiempo
© Sofia Villagrana 2018
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC