Sunday word hunter: poetry and nonsense
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Poema número no me acuerdo
Impúdica, Le miro el trasero.¿Que otra cosa puedo?De espaldas.Con traje azul acero recién planchado a horas de oficina.Y los calzones por encima,Canelos.Allá.Al menos a 7 metros por el suelo y unos 3 hacia el cielo.Tengo que torcer el cuello.Porque sus piernitas con mallas negras,Se aferran a una rama.No me ve.Son mis pisadas,Las que provocan vuelo.
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My spring time
The polished gem of sky,Attached to the again gold, dried earth.On the forged ring,The green emerald pine a stranger from the past.The jewel dropping it's green stones away.A land where trees say bye.Evergreens chewed into dust...( Misunderstand and add termite)The rest thirsty and mush.My spring waits for rain.
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Out if season
Shine and bling,Din din,A rain drop pirouetting down,Its luster absorbed.Communicated through phone.The one below of mycelium, of course.Refreshened the tree leaves,Washed the skies.Even the dying grass, greener to mind.And light!What to utter about the sun left behind?Wonders!Waves and particles the right time,Blues to sing life,Maroons to golden revived.The darkness upon,A gift to rejoice.
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Masquerade
I move a little, they change,Scurrying aside.Hey hey,Dance.Un, deux, trois...The orchestra crunches.A step back, go forth.Masks on hands.And the sun beams,They dapple as they hop and glide.My hand above,A sun eclipse.
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Ejecución
Seda fruncida,Puntilla y bordado.¿Qué hacen las mujeres que aún no ha acabado?La novia con una boca de cólera.Mientras ellas alrededor,Enhebran con sus deseos,Las agujas bordando una flor.Ellas con risas en las mejillas,Miradas de azúcar,Y el banquete previsto en la lengua.¿Por qué ellas y no el primor?¿Qué sucede?¿Por qué su risa no es un color?¿Por qué la rosa no abre su corazón?¿Espera un jilguero que se perdió?¿Es esto una ejecución?
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You haven’t written
In one step I've been denied.My spirit intact remains,No matter how much they try to have it marred.I can still fly in words.An unstoppable flow of thought.
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What to feed?
What can I use?The not native pine tree against the sky? The mottled light dancing a masquerade?Or the sheep ruining a sprout menaced by ferocious teeth?Perhaps the quietness without dog bark?Possibilities, spins and time.Who knows what to write?Who knows what poetry feeds with?A swarm of worms moving the lizard's belly on ground?The account of round, dejections on the fence's stone?A cat's yellow bile after green grass?Only the beauty?However life?Maybe Death comes and whistles a tune's worth.Who knows what to write about?
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Meeeown
Meow,Meow,The meoown.Straightly round.A fluffy shiny one.Bright up there,Waiting to be pet.Doing their best,To house keep your rest.Against the black spider,Hidden in the closet.Against nightmare.Warming your feet,Giving you cramps,Hunching your back.Love ain't easy, is it?It never was,Since it takes two minds.
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Gold and blue
Naked and oblivious,They go above my worries.Impressive and thunderous,They go beyond my loneliness.Bathed in light,Surmounted by divine.Not the one of order,The one of a moment.It's a matter of regard,Time and sight towards the sky.
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Lagartija
El sol ilumina una mancha.Un trozo de corteza,Una raíz.Las sombras de las hojas se mecen.Atentas.Una cabeza,La mancha tiene patas.Salta.Entre los huecos,Y la cola es el último pedacito visible.El sol iluminaba una mancha.
