"villas" poems
Color of lemon, mango, peach,
These storybook villas
Still dream behind
Shutters, thier balconies
Fine as hand-
Made lace, or a leaf-and-flower pen-sketch.
Tilting with the winds,
On arrowy stems,
Pineapple-barked,
A green crescent of palms
Sends up its forked
Firework of fronds.
A quartz-clear dawn
Inch by bright inch
Gilds all our Avenue,
And out of the blue drench
Of Angels' Bay
Rises the round red watermelon sun.
9.9k
I remember a dog with matted fur lounging in the shade
of a collapsed arch, staring in a way that animals sometime
stare that makes me wonder if the beliefs of Kantianism are
nothing more than old wives’ tales spun from smoke and cinder.
I remember the faint smell of sulfur mixed with seawater
in the shadow of the volcano that poured out its wrath
by the bowlful, the golden urns of the gods spilling
fire and magma from the very cradle of hell.
I remember the empty bathhouses, the villas with
half-painted frescoes, the expensive red paints made from
crushed beetle shells, the overturned tables and chairs,
the uneven stone streets carved by horse-drawn cart wheels.
I remember the skeletons huddled in boathouses,
unearthed from their ash-spun graves for prying eyes,
for the rapid shutter of camera lenses, for the proof
of their existence, as if to leer at the living and say,
“We are all nothing but carbon and bone.”
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC
I was asking for something specific and perfect for my city,
Whereupon, lo! upsprang the aboriginal name!
Now I see what there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane, unruly, musical, self-sufficient;
I see that the word of my city is that word up there,
Because I see that word nested in nests of water-bays, superb, with tall and wonderful spires,
Rich, hemm’d thick all around with sailships and steamships—an island sixteen miles long, solid-founded,
Numberless crowded streets—high growths of iron, slender, strong, light, splendidly uprising toward clear skies;
Tide swift and ample, well-loved by me, toward sundown,
The flowing sea-currents, the little islands, larger adjoining islands, the heights, the villas,
The countless masts, the white shore-steamers, the lighters, the ferry-boats, the black sea-steamers well-model’d;
The down-town streets, the jobbers’ houses of business—the houses of business of the ship-merchants, and money-brokers—the river-streets;
Immigrants arriving, fifteen or twenty thousand in a week;
The carts hauling goods—the manly race of drivers of horses—the brown-faced sailors;
The summer air, the bright sun shining, and the sailing clouds aloft;
The winter snows, the sleigh-bells—the broken ice in the river, passing along, up or down, with the flood tide or ebb-tide;
The mechanics of the city, the masters, well-form’d, beautiful-faced, looking you straight in the eyes;
Trottoirs throng’d—vehicles—Broadway—the women—the shops and shows,
The parades, processions, bugles playing, flags flying, drums beating;
A million people—manners free and superb—open voices—hospitality—the most courageous and friendly young men;
The free city! no slaves! no owners of slaves!
The beautiful city, the city of hurried and sparkling waters! the city of spires and masts!
The city nested in bays! my city!
The city of such women, I am mad to be with them! I will return after death to be with them!
The city of such young men, I swear I cannot live happy, without I often go talk, walk, eat, drink, sleep, with them!
4.2k
Always____**
Days
Months
Up to our loved ones
necks
Getting callbacks
and lookbacks
Will I be
most likely rejected?
Until dusk to Dawn
The full moon turned
What will be expected?
Shoved mouth to mouth
brewed into the
Starbucks
With any luck
It's hard to make
a buck $
The Dawn Lightning
Striking again wetter
Ridiculous remarks
and kicks
in the pants
He shoved
me into a romance
But we never
ended up where
I wanted to go
France
The editorial the
Mediterranean
Slim chance rainbow diet
The villas of the exotic
flowers riot
Vacationer in vineyards
Grassy bear
Mr. Griswald
Vacation despair
Party pushovers
The sour cherries OOh!
La Wee Vacation,
The push and shove
What's up
Doc_____*
The jilted Jump always
a stump
What-what
about the
President
Trump
Shoved me right
into
this poem
sonnet
Documents of
Vacations places
of memories
The Jack ***
Surrounded by
screwdriver
Or meeting the
screwballs_______
Or goofballs
Sesame Street parade
Big bird feast
His face climbed
Mount Everest
Dry mouth lips
((Frenchie Vermouth))
He's the
right fielder
The field Mr. Costner
on her left dreams
The toast all shoved
around the town
chauffeur
Don't shove me
inside
your world
vacation
Big problems not
like ordering
the best pizza
in Brooklyn
Memorial day
shoved into a soiree'
Unbelievable traffic
American Major
problem leagues
Upscale love signs
and graphics
To resolve this
Vacation big shots
The London
Hotshots
Society
At the worst time,
I had to do
Political speech
Don't shove
me or leave me
If you're not
going to please me
And not your
payroll to
tease me
He's next on the move
pushed to be shoved
I rose
I suppose
He shoved me
He gazed upon me
Like another ticket
to his vacation
He dazed with
his eyes
not to be loved
But all yummy
To take a bite
Apple strudel
pie
But dark ends
of petal
flowered bright
The last word
struggling to
feel shot
My payroll got me a raise
My own vacation
to myself big praise
to love me
Not to be pushed to
love someone
A vacation is to be
with someone that
treats you
on a pedestal
Don't shove me this
is my portal
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 2:44 PM UTC
(Plaster cast at Pompeii)
[THE TOUR GUIDE]
*“Ladies and gentlemen, here we are at Pompeii's
fabled Thermal Baths where heated water was
passed through duct work in the walls. One can
imagine Nero himself stopping here on one of
his visits.”*
[BONITO]
Bonito stepped out of the bathhouse and looked up.
Vesuvius rumbled - shaking ash and fire skyward.
Breaking into a run he sought the south road,
glancing back anxiously at the
vast dark cloud billowing down the mountain.
*"The principal city roads were recessed
and wagons were required to have standardized
wheelbases and clearances to fit in channels cut
into the stone. Follow me please to the residential
area.”*
He gained the road and his feet
pounded the stones of the “via stabiana.”
The cloud multiplied and fell on the city.
Ever deepening layers of ash clogged Benito’s path.
Heart pounding in his chest he lengthened his strides.
*“Leaving the opulent villas with their spacious
atria, we now enter the market area where we
shall see a display of remarkable interest. During
excavations, empty spaces were discovered in
the ash deposits.”*
The rising ash captured his left leg.
Bonito inhaled the fiery air and ******
forward into a burst of falling soot
but was unable to finish his stride.
*“Archaeologists poured plaster into the voids
revealing the outlined bodies of Pompeiins
trapped in their final moments. Take, for example,
this man caught in mid-step with no time
to escape the life choking dust.”*
June, 2006
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 1:32 PM UTC
Nearly four decades ago, nearly half a century
I walked Freedom Boulevard from
a lonely bus stop and as I drove there
the other day I saw a girl standing at one who could have been
me, in memory -- frozen
Would it still be there? One of my treasured childhood memories
Still living, not someone's brand new home, or a bunch of Villas in a gated community, lost
The land bleeds in California, but has started to scar over and forget the apple orchards
across the street from The Barn, where I used to ride, and now the houses are at least
covered in trees as nature tries to overtake the foreign, like in Cherenobyl
The big red barn sitting atop a small hill, crammed with horse paddocks now that
the little barns turned to condos. But it is still there. Like magic, frozen in time.
The red barn, I walk in, it looks smaller than I remember
but the ***** brown cobwebs still cover the cieling and I am
nine years old again
Before I knew the boundaries of my gender
When I felt powerful, if neglected, strong and in charge
Before I knew the bindings of my ***
The limitations
I felt strong, and as I stand here,
I may as well be nine again, a single digit
And my fear melts away, and the lessons learned about my place
in the world evaporate
I stand, and look around at the barn nearly unchanged
and reclaim myself
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 10:52 PM UTC
It's a simple poem represented in a conversation between a stranger and an ordinary man .
The stranger went to the man's house ...
Ting, tong, ting, tong
Man : who's there ?
Str : sorry for interruption
One of the people is here !
Man : what do u need, sir ?
Str : I'm carrying you a message
an experience from the life I want to share
--Tik, Tok
Man : here u are ..
Str : thanks
Man : so, tell me more ..
Str : oh! That planet out there ..
Looks beautiful from here !
Man : yes, it's marvellous
Based on what I hear
Filling of cozy atmosphere
Full of happiness and relaxation
Besides, it's a place where there is no fear
Str : hahahahaha , u made me laugh
What else did u hear ?
Man : Um.. I heard it's a place
where dreams can be real
And the people there, have machines
That drive them anywhere
Only what they have to do is
To say : drive me there !
Str : fine but ..
I was waiting a question like " where " ?
Where did I come from before getting to here ?
Man : Whoa whoa whoa , who r u ?
Str : just calm down !
I'm one of the people who lived in that planet, sir !
Your speech was rather meaningful !
But that planet there isn't that wonderful !
If u want to go there,
Don't spend a lot of time to think
All u need is just to abandon couple of things !
First , ur heart and humanity
And just about any thing makes u feel
To end up exactly like a beast
Vanging all the meal
Then, seek for things that appeal
Villas, cars , wives and fame !
--- giggling for few seconds ---
-----Remembering that shame ----
Do u know what thing I blame ?
Letting my conscience to be killed
to be like an animal needs to be tamed !
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
Oh this tenderness
The beauty of you amazes me
As I undress in the sun
Shining through the window
Curtains fluttering in the breeze
This Spanish villas part of me
Your eyes as slender
As an irresistible lover
Watching the silk fall from my hips
Taking me in your arms as this
Is bliss
Years we have waited
To meet once more
Thousands of hours
Hundreds of days
A million thoughts have kept you alive
In my head
Turning over all that was said
Tiny snippets of memory kept me in this eternity
Needing you back with me
Now the dream is reality
Undress in front of me
Lay upon my body
This warm familiarity
Heavenly
I have acted this out in my mind
A million times
Lightening flashes inside of me
Then hush
If only I knew before
Life after death was
As this
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
A troll sits open-mouthed, awaiting the spoon
that stirred the porridge; this ritual has been
ingrained in its brain – a sloshy, lifeless fossil
that stores villas of pain and ineptitude.
There is no water under its bridge, and all wrongs become
manifest as an attention-seeking wart on his soiled skin;
he wishes he could shed it, as this losing game of
snakes and ladders is beginning to wear thin.
Day by day he rolls the dice, but can’t take his move,
confined by an undying dread of slipping and sliding
on the loose gravely ground that he dreams of climbing;
and whispers of chiding.
Neither a sanctuary nor a prison, his home is a waiting room
on the Styx; from it he hears the echo and call of spring lambs
as they cross to taste the apples on the other side,
which a child impetuously picks.
Searching aimlessly for his reflection in the stone wall –
grey and every type of cold - proves futile;
he turns to his shadow asking his name,
shoulders slouched and mouth wide open all the while.
Seeing only darkness in the silence, control is lost -
he pictures tearing down that wall, but is unsure;
Self-muttering eases the certain fragility, and calming down
he tries counting to five - he can only count to four.
Nov 10, 2010
Nov 10, 2010 at 2:47 PM UTC
The language of Love
They finished a dinner by candle light the darkness just beyond the candle light created the
Elusive hard to capture romantic mood this gave expression to longing and from it emerges an antique
Glass plate image of a passenger car from yesteryear all else about the train was shrouded in the dark
But how the car beamed and gleamed the invitation was like a magic wand with golden glittering light
First through eyes then grazing the heart then the explosion that occurred in the soul the two of them
Stepped onto the steps and entered a different time and different world elegance flowed the length
Of the interior of the car from rich leather to the finest cloth from the carpeted floor to the delicate
Chandeliered lights that hung from the ceiling at points where the sky view windows temporarily
Stopped their customary flow that brought the day and night heavens within your power to touch
Race along in the moonlight see the arching trees breaking with this glorious light is it not to as if you are
Flying on the night wind the eyes have been caught up in a dream then the hearing stereophonic
Romantic violin drifts within this cube that pulses did you leave the American river you were following
As it curved and flowed in this mountain valley but now it seems you have jumped the track and are
Now speeding through French Tuscany how the vineyards create a plausible bow that carries you back
Even further when these villas were new and the youthful lovers were young they seem to press and
Feed your own romanticism drink deeply from this post card from abroad as the train stops leave it
Momentarily hand in hand stroll down a darkened path the stillness only enraptures and you bask in the
Wonder night creates and love grows ever stronger through the hand you hold well cupid or the
Conductor shouts all aboard continue to enjoy your privileged ride it is the promise and the fulfillment
of being in love
Feb 7, 2012
Feb 7, 2012 at 12:43 PM UTC
I killed Abraham Lincoln
and John F Kennedy.
I am a confederate soldier,
a United States marine,
a supremacist fugitive.
I killed Martin Luther King
and Robert F Kennedy.
I am a Palestinian immigrant.
Last Monday I went to the market
to buy fresh fruit,
ripe mangoes and bananas
you could smell from tables away.
Grapes red purple green
and I squished one between
my thumb and forefinger,
grape flesh the color of farm villas.
Melons pears peaches plums.
I am a fruit connoisseur.
I am a customer.
I am Mark David Chapman.
I killed John Lennon.
I killed your mother's brother
and a homeless woman.
I am Edgar Allen Poe's inspiration
for the Tell-Tale Heart.
I killed the old man
the young man -
any man.
I am anyone
anywhere
and I am armed.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:06 PM UTC
For everything fake -
Let me feel it one last time
Kismet sweet,
Villas bleak
Marble sticky -
Granite meat
Let me **** the vein of glitter streets
Surf the sadness,
Salt rose glass rush
Teddies haunted with softness beyond us
A ****** blue boldness that begged you to crop love -
Titan arum-sea saint
With your blood like rain,
Inhaling all the darkness
Freshly cut grass cane blade;
Remain in light, an amber blaze...
Curtain wall shatter all skies for our pleonectic pace
Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 7:13 PM UTC
Ronald McDonald sold his business
To his rival hungry jacks
Got alot of money from them
All his staff got the sack.
He drove to the country
And brought a nice farm
With a big house
Villas, animals and barns.
Grimace was feeding the pigs
Birdie is in a nest
Hamburglar is chasing cows
And being a ****** pest.
Ronald came out with a whip
And yelled at the striped fool
Got his whip ready
With a mouthful of drool.
He then chased after Hamburglar
And the ******** thought it was a game
Making ****** like noises
Skipping, and being insane.
No more burgers for you
Ronald yelled out loud
I think You may have Mad Cows Disease
And you are as high as a cloud.
Grimace runs over
And blocked Hamburglars way
He smashes into Grimace
Knocking him out for the rest of the day.
When he woke up
All his friends were there
Hamburglar said, what the **** happened?
Ronald replied, you were sick, and gave us a scare.
But, don't worry now
You have been cured from this disease
So, can I ask you?
To stop stealing my home made burgers please.
Hamburglar agreed
With his fingers crossed behind his back
Thinking, **** off clown!
Your burgers are better than Hungry Jacks!!
Tommy K - 12/02/2014
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 10:19 AM UTC
Las huestes de don Rodrigo desmayaban y huían
cuando en la octava batalla sus enemigos vencían.
Rodrigo deja sus tiendas y del real se salía,
solo va el desventurado, sin ninguna compañía;
el caballo de cansado ya moverse no podía,
camina por donde quiera sin que él le estorbe la vía.
El rey va tan desmayado que sentido no tenía;
muerto va de sed y hambre, de velle era gran mancilla;
iba tan tinto de sangre que una brasa parecía.
Las armas lleva abolladas, que eran de gran pedrería;
la espada lleva hecha sierra de los golpes que tenía;
el almete de abollado en la cabeza se hundía;
la cara llevaba hinchada del trabajo que sufría.
Subióse encima de un cerro, el más alto que veía;
desde allí mira su gente cómo iba de vencida;
de allí mira sus banderas y estandartes que tenía,
cómo están todos pisados que la tierra los cubría;
mira por los capitanes, que ninguno parescía;
mira el campo tinto en sangre, la cual arroyos corría.
Él, triste de ver aquesto, gran mancilla en sí tenía,
llorando de los sus ojos desta manera decía:
«Ayer era rey de España, hoy no lo soy de una villa;
ayer villas y castillos, hoy ninguno poseía;
ayer tenía criados y gente que me servía,
hoy no tengo ni una almena, que pueda decir que es mía.
¡Desdichada fue la hora, desdichado fue aquel día
en que nací y heredé la tan grande señoría,
pues lo había de perder todo junto y en un día!
¡Oh muerte!, ¿por qué no vienes y llevas esta alma mía
de aqueste cuerpo mezquino, pues se te agradecería?»
1.3k
Once a month the doctor visits.
She makes her trip inland, driving from
her coastal town to our village
hidden in the hills.
Here, people rarely get sick.
They say whatever's carried in the wind
stops them getting dizzy in the heat.
They believe in the hills,
gifted with sweet smelling herbs
waiting for the miracle of alchemy
to transform them into oils, infusions,
syrups and decoctions-
feverfew for headaches, fennel for digestion,
lavender for dreaming.
The doctor's young,so has an open mind.
Never critical, she's always willing to listen.
Most days, she's woken by the ocean
on its way to demolish the dunes.
Dragged back by an invisible force,
it roars in frustration, straining
like a tethered beast demanding
to do what it pleases.
But Earth won't allow it just yet
and the ocean knows who's in charge,
the rules will change only when She decides.
The doctor's irritated.
She can't see the ocean any more,
her view's obscured by unfinished business-
silent carcasses of half-built villas.
She can taste the salt.
Feeling trapped, she would like to find shelter
in another skin.
But today, her cure is in the hills.
At her door, she waits for the mist to lift.
It whispers there are other choices.
To unlock another door while she still has time.
***
In each on of us there survives an intuitive preference
for all things natural. The great continuum of life that
contains and sustains us.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2014
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
I wonder what this world is coming to
When we have to overcomplicate everything
All I hear on the TV of late
Is ‘bare craic’ as my northern Irish friend would say –
“I can’t understand this credit crunch,” she said
Poignantly, (neither could I) “I think I’ll take
A dander down to the shops.” And so she did
We were out of milk
And living off salami
I picked up the paper
And I realise nothing is without a price
Or a fate
They are the two certainties
So is death
And the price is not so hard to see either.
The American bigwigs sit round a table
Complaining what is to be done about the financial crisis?
Each eating a $16 dollar muffin with their $8.48 coffee
Wondering where oh where can money be saved?
And they’ll get back in their private limos
Drive past their second addresses
Back down to Bel-air
Lock themselves in their villas
Count their bonuses
And sleep happy
After doing jack ****
While Greece is going down the crapper.
I can see the solution
Can you?
Or is it just me?
Or can you see it to?
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 3:06 PM UTC
Column by column the legions' feet
march disciplined down Watling Street,
followed by rumbling carts and grumbling
stragglers leaving villas crumbling.
To Rome to save the imperial home,
making Britain an enterprise zone
for Saxons, Vikings, Celts and Angles,
savage battles and local wrangles.
Weeds weave tapestry around a tomb.
Dust encrusts a silent Roman room.
Mosaics stare at the rotted roof.
Painted plaster falls, jigsaw proof.
Perhaps when shopping centres fail,
and motor cars no more prevail,
when wattle homes are reinvented,
then thinking time will be augmented.
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
Up the hills, past villas, small groves and arbors. And by the Duomo, which, I swear, moved into our path no matter where we went. The fifteenth century refuses to yield.
That giant rival, Milan, now resembles Hartford: large and gaunt. Rome, thief of the renaissance, remembers Mussolini and Berlusconi more than Leo X, who yet lives in Florence, returned to his Medici home.
Florence is the butter of civilization’s milk; nourishment of the flesh churned by hand. The art, the food, the social structure, even the soccer sated in turned, sweet cream.
Fresh oil, fresh wine. Old recipes. The bread remains salt free. The tripe looks ancient. The streets forever too narrow.
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 7:37 AM UTC
En santa Águeda de Burgos, do juran los hijosdalgo,
le toman jura a Alfonso por la muerte de su hermano;
tomábasela el buen Cid, ese buen Cid castellano,
sobre un cerrojo de hierro y una ballesta de palo
y con unos evangelios y un crucifijo en la mano.
Las palabras son tan fuertes que al buen rey ponen espanto;
-Villanos te maten, Alonso, villanos, que no hidalgos,
de las Asturias de Oviedo, que no sean castellanos;
mátente con aguijadas, no con lanzas ni con dardos;
con cuchillos cachicuernos, no con puñales dorados;
abarcas traigan calzadas, que no zapatos con lazo;
capas traigan aguaderas, no de contray ni frisado;
con camisones de estopa, no de holanda ni labrados;
caballeros vengan en burras, que no en mulas ni en caballos;
frenos traigan de cordel, que no cueros fogueados.
Mátente por las aradas, que no en villas ni en poblado,
sáquente el corazón por el siniestro costado;
si no dijeres la verdad de lo que te fuere preguntando,
si fuiste, o consentiste en la muerte de tu hermano.
Las juras eran tan fuertes que el rey no las ha otorgado.
Allí habló un caballero que del rey es más privado:
-Haced la jura, buen rey, no tengáis de eso cuidado,
que nunca fue rey traidor, ni papa descomulgado.
Jurado había el rey que en tal nunca se ha hallado;
pero allí hablara el rey malamente y enojado:
-Muy mal me conjuras, Cid, Cid, muy mal me has conjurado,
mas hoy me tomas la jura, mañana me besarás la mano.
-Por besar mano de rey no me tengo por honrado,
porque la besó mi padre me tengo por afrentado.
-Vete de mis tierras, Cid, mal caballero probado,
y no vengas más a ellas dende este día en un año.
-Pláceme, dijo el buen Cid, pláceme, dijo, de grado,
por ser la primera cosa que mandas en tu reinado.
Tú me destierras por uno, yo me destierro por cuatro.
Ya se parte el buen Cid, sin al rey besar la mano,
con trescientos caballeros, todos eran hijosdalgo;
todos son hombres mancebos, ninguno no había cano;
todos llevan lanza en puño y el hierro acicalado,
y llevan sendas adargas con borlas de colorado.
Mas no le faltó al buen Cid adonde asentar su campo.
1.1k
Once mingled,
free-floating piano tunes
and
sun-harshed highway
could be a match.
The Light Rail
took its time on the causeway,
I am a passenger,
safely guarded from the
unapologetic summerness
like tourists from the safari park.
I am a outrageous punk,
perching onto handrails
lost in his romantic dream of an
impossible summer. Romeo and Juliet in my hand.
Vehicle garages rusting
along palm trees lined
railway.
This is Yuen Long. This is the outskirts
with gated dogs with feral barks,
this is a compromise between bungalows and nature.
Piano symphonies morphed into
eighties tunes
in the Call Me By Your Name soundtrack album,
and the eighties synths
draws the archived mystics,
out from avenues
that leads to villas similar to those I have sojourned.
And the world as I see it, it is beautiful.
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC
Haute Chaleur sur Toulouse.
Cet été que nous avions
Tant attendu, tant espéré,
Pestant contre les giboulées
Qui éternisaient le printemps.
Ces pluies continuelles,
Donnant du vert aux jardins et balcons,
Et tant d'humidité sournoise,
Mais peu propices aux joies des places et des rues.
Et puis soudain, le si lourde chaleur
S'est installé sans crier garde
Avec ses manières de «sirocco»,
Comme un grand coup de poing
Qui terrasse les êtres.
L'air est devenu rare et l'ambiance des terrasses plombée.
Ma chienne s'est réfugiée sous les lits.
Et nos corps ont du mal à s'adapter
A ces flamboiements de chaleur
A ce fond de l'air qui crépite sans cigale.
A cette lourdeur du temps qui ´nous assomme.
A ce manque d'air qui nous fait désirer
La fraîcheur vivifiante,
Des montagnes et du bord de mer.
Les tuiles semblent remises au four
Et les tuiles se fendent sous la chaleur.
C'est un temps de sabbats de sorcières,
Et de chaudrons bouillants.
Et l'on s'en veut d'avoir tant appelé
A la venue de cet assommoir de l'été,
Qui tient désormais Toulouse.
Prisonnière dans ses serres,
Chacune Murmurant et gémissant,
A la venue l'orage qui nous trempera d'eaux,
Versées à grosse gouttes.
L'irruption de l'été a Toulouse
Se fait d'un coup et impose sa force
Les habitants qui le peuvent, fuient
Dans les Pyrénées,
Ou vers les bords de mer.
Cette période est dure aux personnes âgées et aux malades.
Sauf pour les "Happy Few" qui possèdent,
Villas, jardins touffus et piscines.
L'été Toulousain est un maître impérieux
Qui impose ses tempos et ses rythmes.
Paul Arrighi
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 5:05 AM UTC
-Buen conde Fernán González, el rey envía por vos,
que vayades a las cortes que se hacen en ***
que si vos allá vais, conde, daros han buen galardón:
daros han a Palenzuela y a Palencia la mayor,
daros han las nueve villas, con ellas a Carrión;
daros han a Torquemada, la torre de Mormojón;
buen conde, si allá no ides, daros hían por traidor.
Allí respondiera el conde y dijera esta razón:
-Mensajero eres, amigo; no mereces culpa, no;
que yo no he miedo al rey, ni a cuantos con él son;
Villas y castillos tengo, todos a mi mandar son:
de ellos me dejó mi padre, de ellos me ganara yo;
las que me dejó el mi padre poblélas de ricos hombres,
las que me ganara yo poblélas de labradores;
quien no tenía más que un buey, dábale otro, que eran dos;
al que casaba su hija doile yo muy rico don;
cada día que amanece por mí hacen oración,
no la hacían por el rey, que no lo merece, no,
él les puso muchos pechos y quitáraselos yo.
809
She had a pyrrhic victory
Against the ********** masterminds
Who had her children’s lives by the tips of their fingers
And blew air of fear and dependency into their lungs.
A mother of many;
She has children of vast kinds
Segregated from all corners
By dissimilar cultures and tongues.
From the meat-loving Ovaherero in the center, northwest and east,
To the vaCaprivi, vaKavango and Ovambo in the north and northeast with their villas
To the Khoikhoi in the south with their unique communication,
She mothers them all with equal loving.
She is beloved for her beautiful contrast;
Rivers, mountains, flat plains and savannahs
Not to overlook the merging of the desert and ocean.
She truly is wonderful, beautiful and compelling.
Her name is Namibia.
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 10:17 AM UTC
It was in that night /
The night we lied in that vacant parking lot a few miles away from town
Just you and I, and the half-a-moon and glistening stars above us
Everything still, so still
Everything rapid, never-resting
Just you and I, arm length to arm length,
You and I, two straight lines in a crooked world
I wondered aloud:
What do stars think of us whenever they glance down?
And you replied, lovely and ever desolately:
They wonder what we think of them whenever we glance up
It was in that night /
I sought you
I knew you
You burnt through
The college-ruled lines of my delicate paper skin
I was so young then
I could have known better
I could have a lot of things
You could have been a boy
Do I miss you?
It could be
I’m too ******** to process thoughts thoroughly
People fall in-love much too easily
The look in your eyes is all too promising
There was a place and time of
Beckoned curiosity, loss of dignity
Tainted sanity, your fingers inside of me
In and out, out and in
The pale of my limbs
Past the garden and villas of my soul
Through the thick of my skull
In and out, out and in
The beating of my lukewarm heart
There was a night when
We let love in
For the first time
From that moment on
We could never be the same
For your fault, I’d take the blame
You’d soon despise me all the same
The presence of your memory
Abandoned in my mind
It was in that night.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 6:43 PM UTC