"senor" poems
Over staffed and under fed
Spanish waiters
rush around with
waistcoats of wisdom
wearing black shoes
of sordid shift-work soles.
They greet and speak to every new
tourist, and regular, as if a
brother, sister, mother, second-cousin-twice-removed
stepmother, yet really they are:
the ephemeral fodder of the
cheap, low-cost-airline,
the flash and it’s gone spine of most cities
on the map,
the ‘Sorry, I left it in a Barcelona Café, could I get it back on insurance?’
baseball cap, that most sightseer marionettes wear, back to front,
the standing in line, waiting to complain,
tourists that know nothing of decorum.
So the Spanish waiter served me my coffee
and whispered in my ear,
‘Disfrutar de su día senor’,
that was,
'Enjoy your day Sir’.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
They say it takes a village
to raise a child
I’m skeptical.
After all,
humans are innately selfish.
And I can get all the love I need from my biological parents.
But Alex’s mother takes me home from school,
And Coach Rod gives me ten extra push-ups for talking during practice-
tough love, he says
Mrs. Nobil takes me Black Friday Shopping
(the one retail experience my mom refuses)
Senor Rolando, who lives next door
shows me his vinyl records
and teaches me Spanish in small snippets of conversation.
They say it takes a village
to raise a child,
and I agree.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 3:43 PM UTC
The old man said to me "son, timing is key"
I said, "old dude you look like a man who heard about rythym".
Old felines like you come a dime for a dozen, always poppin of yang about isms and schisms .
Naw fresh meat. This buds for you, If I really knew then what I thought that I knew
I wouldn't be grading your papers with exes and checks but I see in your eyes that your vision is short.
You think you hot **** but aint all that smart.
FYI pops I think that you reading me wrong.
You cant see my dimensions nor fade my intentions.
So you think they broke the mold. you have this thing down cold.
This has never been done before you.
Here ,wipe your nose.
Hey Senor senior if your so informed,then please pass along a few high value pearls.
How bout the one telling about what women want cause you really cleaned up in
the female department .
The old man just smiled and said "pearls before swine.
Just drop a few breadcrumbs to find your way back".
Off is the direction I want you to truck he said.
Don't forget Wonder is the best kind of bread he said
You must be slow or just light in the head he said.
Yeah, whatever.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 4:22 AM UTC
Lime green freezer pops
Swigs of senor Jack Daniels
My body gets hot.
-------------------------------
Jacky versus wine
Will fight to the death tonight
Victor gets a home
---------------------------------
Baby-making songs
(The world tastes like raspberry!)
Jazz flute Godzilla
-------------------------------
Little black cell phone
Glows modern techno at night
Rad leaks in my brain.
(I am now a spidercorn!)
---------------------------------
Idiotic cat
Sole bane of my living room
You should've been a dog
--------------------------------
Woman and man-thing
Flame haired goddess of cleavage
Mid-coitus phonecalls.
---------------------------------
Two shots of whiskey
One sibling revelation
Long night of country.
--------------------------------
Blood-baths, hair stylists
****** eye for the dead guy
Joanne: **** the man.
-------------------------------
A nice hairy man
Smirnoffs, beer pong victory.
Did I do a bad?
----------------------------------
I am drunk on you
And on you conversation
More than on the beer.
---------------------------------
Whiskey sours, full.
Half-nude swimming with strangers.
Attraction repressed.
----------------------------
Oh my pretty beer
You so inspire my mind
I can't stop giggling.
-----------------------------
Hank bones on the wall
A sad tale of pretending
Oh no! Demon feet.
Jun 2, 2010
Jun 2, 2010 at 7:13 PM UTC
A Massey Fergie tractor
An old VW beetle
A worn out pair of boots
Manuela the 3 legged dog, and Senora
In their humble tumble home
The small concession to modern life
Just a mobile phone
Nothing special here
No status or wealth is evident
I love you Senor Mujica!
You do not change your way of life
Just because you're President
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
weeding ‘n planting,
(ten rows of garlic, waiting to bite caressing hands)
<•>
unsurprisingly to me
garlic native to northeastern Iran,
so says the arbiter-know-it-all, Senor Wikipedia
did you know that,
amongst us,
a young woman whose back
is bent,
bent over,
weeding and weeping, while picking,
retrieving the fruit of the plain earths plane
spending days
retrieving spring-planted bulbs in the sun,
a mysterious poet residing among us
conjuring up poems and, **** even
plants questions
with granted permission
asks a strangers gasping queries
so simple she renders his
body from soul, makes him
disclose his crazy ill-at-ease
showing
his own
general roots,
slumbering deep in reddish brown soul’s earth
one whose only great escape
through the written poem
when his back is straight,
straight against the wall
backed up,
and ripe for the picking
in reparation
the favor will be returned
three inquiries will be fedex’d
if I ever learn her address
for now, in the throes of soil resting within,
my need knowings just nurturing
until the calendar declares time!
harvesting is now
when we ready shake hands
when you say
“here is the garlic tended,
and here are our hands,
bitten and caressed”
till such time I get
the answers from
the farmer herself,
I can patient wait
further research needs
original sources,
till such time,
make up tales
that will hold in abeyance
my half contented garlic dreams
for was it not written centuries ago:
Even After All this time The Sun never says to the Earth, "You owe me." Look What happens With a love like that, It lights the whole sky.
Ḥāfeẓ-e Shīrāzī
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 11:05 AM UTC
Bleak the rays shattered through broken panes
life, dust, dust, future and smoke
automobiles and gunshots solitary this hour
when screams rend the air, not my turn today -
no, not as yet. Mother, I want to rest my head
in your lap. Can I weep?
*Cactus in my soul, I ask, Can I, all that I am?
Lust is the death of man. Gouge your eye that lusts.
Broken void of my afterdays, that mourn
like the wind on the dunes*
Mother, I am well. There is love, there is hope, light
hidden like nuggets in piles of the dark.
Mother, I must be well.
It was the other night. Nightmare in loop.
Shamed, stripped beaten violated.
I am in a well, deep pit, drained
of all the essence of light
I can hear your voice echoing with the ray
shattered tumbling down the walls
*free, free I am the wind mourning in the dunes
can you tame the wind?*
In the depths, and in the deaths islanding life
mirage of oases, Mother, I have found him,
my Senor, to whom I give my ring
Violate me, visage of the abyss,
burn me, but can you find me?
beat me, chain me, but can you enslave me?
I am not here in these nerves and veins.
I am all of Augusta, America,
I fly in the Masts above the skies
*Sweet Lord, I see you have deemed heaven
for me, no purgatory but here.
I accept, I surrender, I submit. To thy will.*
Mother, do not negotiate. I am strong.
Where in my naked body have you found me?
here, in these bruises, have your embers soothed?
I am the Lamb that does not cower.
I haunt your soul as guilt.
In what little's left of it.
*He finds you in the catacombs where
I haunt the crypts that no vicar penetrates.
When all is lost, when death is certain at the sea,
there opens a way and I will walk out*
Mother, I am coming. Have faith, for faith maketh.
I hold you here in my ***** smouldering pain,
that gets me to wake every haunting day.
Every day that brings the sound of darkness home.
*I fly in the Masts above the skies.
Tame me, I am the wind breaking the dunes.
Ilohi, lema sebachtani sebachtani*
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
Who art thou actually to me?
That is certainly a difficult question;
to which I might have been able not
to giveth a precise answer.
Thou who were yesterday a friend;
and who conversed even so casually
with me back then;
now hath so dearly caught me
and captivated me
that I am not sure of who thou art;
and what room doth thou possess
within th' very kingdom of my heart.
Ah, and tonight, at this very rigorous,
and laborious night
Thou lured and tempted me into thy charms;
and embraced me within thy friendly realms.
Oh, querida, how I want thee too much-
simply too much!
Mi carino, mi amor;
and in fairy tales, as they are supposed to be
Thou would be my senor
And my maiden self thy senorita.
Mi amor de la príncipe!
If only thou knoweth-of how much I desire thee!
But I was sure not-it was but seemingly
unforgivable uncertainty;
whilst thou sat there and laughed beside me;
and I gazed into those patient eyes of thine.
I love thee tenderly, as thou doth emerge
within my silent dreams;
I love thee dearly, as thou didst, tonight,
craved and shaped the wit
and wise sweetness of my heart.
Thou art no-one else but my fiery dreams;
ah, thou art the one I love-
the only one I love indeed!
Thou, with the music of thy soul so sweet,
which captured my emotions so swiftly;
and entangled my passion so sweetly.
Ah, tonight-just tonight,
how thou endorsed my feelings,
and cured my daring longings!
As though in a wakeful dream,
no matter absurd it may seem;
this I declare with unbearable-
yet steady sureness:
I would love thee, surely and tranquilly,
and I hope just that thou would love me
Just like thou art already inside me;
and just how fate hath so fiercely placed
this very dear heart of mine, within thee.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
Buenos noches, Senor. I want you tonight. I'm all alone in my bed looking up at the moon. I hear a train whistle. Will you be here soon? Your face is a canvas painted in flashing laser light colors. Your voice is so soothing, whispering words of love in my ear. Oh dear God, I just want him here. It all seems so delicate, like fine threads in a web, weaving themselves in and out of our heads. Silk stockings and sweet gardenia candles flickering out a dim light. I cant stand it much longer. Please crawl in my window tonight. This whole thing feels awful because you're not free. Mi esperanza is just to have you. Confusion and pain are nothing new. Buenos noches, senor, I'm here, can't you see? I'm ready for you to come to me. I'll accept any term. What will be, will be.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
*she knows. I'm sure she knows.
every day of the week,
I'm there for her, so to speak.
my order consistent, my appearance reliably persistent.
her compatriots behind the counter
even made up a name for me and my order!
"senor dos cubanos, por favor,"
i wait till she is free, always, before ordering.
they all sly smile at the foolish old man,
who requires only a certain young lady from Cuba,
to make his daily shots, just so, so fussy he.
please! no sugar needed,
her demure mouth,
sweet plenty.
they know. i'm sure they all know.
the olive complexion,
the hair pulled back so tight,
beneath a ridiculous uniform hat,
the slender frame radiating pride
all of which she wears so well,
with a modest hint of self made pride.
working her way up in America.
two coffees, extra milk, in a plastic bag
to travel with me, back to my imprisoning day desk.
she hands me the bag oh so carefully.
our fingers touch. our fingers much touch,
with the oft, quick but sensitive precision
of a baton passing
in an Olympic relay race.
she smiles. always.
it's ridiculous. i'm ridiculous. who cares.
that one contactual second is a gift,
the thrill is not gone.*
and that is why he writes
only love poetry
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 11:02 PM UTC
The average person knows between 20,000 and 30,000 words.
~ and for Senor CG~
<>
*infinite then the multiplicity of combinations,
and yet we use so few,
and the comforting ones,
we repeat unconsciously
for they apparently applicable
to the boo/hoo/who in Who Me?*
*messing about in poetry,
an excuse to betray ourselves
to a greater audience with
hints and provenances,
secret’s subtle
could mean
trouble*
*I have revealed more than
I could believe ~
not the drabfactoids
but the insights*
*that flesh my self~sketches,
you could ask me anything,
my answer simple and
insane~same!*
*if you explicitly explain
there is no fun in that,
but the clues writ large,
answering questions you
didn’t know to ask*
plenty to hide, some too
well disguised
*but the hints are clear enough,
to make sure you’re
asking the correct ones*
so,
sorry apology
Senor Carlo
the doorknob to my spotlight clearly
visible
in the portrait of my preposterous
multi~nefarious words*
*no great reveal
no screaming squeal
for you to decrypt
still requires an
inning of
excavation digging,
for it’s in the over thousands of
psalms and prayers
and a few layabout
poems
who/hoo,
too*
(wink)
Dec 20, 2024
Dec 20, 2024 at 12:49 PM UTC
Can’t sleep as usual, mind full of racing thoughts
Scattered and unusable, but I must connect dots
Dreams are delusional, paralyzed stomach knots
Life is quite amusable, eternal electric Alan Watts
Searching for meaning in this forever fleeting
Deceiving the future and constantly competing
Passed last stop for gas running late for meeting
Presently stuck in a moment and it’s so defeating
So what do you do?
Well… I change my tone to match the question and try and avoid the slightest detection of my macro case of dereliction by trying to fit into this new unnatural selection. How about you?
Oh me…. I’m an administrative associate’s assistant advisor to the senor executive director of advanced growth and analytics but….
In my free time I also dabble as a life coach consultant and a freelance enthusiast, who doubles as a self loathing soothsayer who’s also exultant towards psychic’s and any genie’s wish and I pose as a ****** analyst just to credibly prognosticate the general gist of horror scopes…I know it all sounds pretty… prophetic, but I always act humble and keep it 100 % copacetic
So if you’re making a list, wondering where all your time went, or just one of my many haters
Go ahead and get ****** later, because I’m also the president of the meetup group for ……Procrastinators.
Apr 22, 2024
Apr 22, 2024 at 3:55 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Decorating for Christmas – “What Can I Do?”
A little girl tugged at my arm and asked
“But what can I do?”
I sent her to Senora Anil because I didn’t know
She came to me again and sadly asked
“But what can I do?”
I sent her to Miz Bev because I didn’t know
She came to me once again and sadly asked
“But what can I do?”
I sent her to Senor Nicho because I didn’t know
Some sturdy young teens brought in the Creche
And there the little girl knelt and placed the straw
And then each figure in turn; she talked to them
And cautioned them all to keep Baby Jesus warm
And that’s what a little girl can do
Dec 20, 2021
Dec 20, 2021 at 7:38 AM UTC