El Mestre Feble

by

Plo

Chopin et Sand shut in monastic casket,
besieged by botanical triumph manifestations

and grave of ‘poet’ Graves
with manual inscription
on cement...

Gangs of burning girls set out to hunt
in the evening.

Escorted by fishes
I saturate the green, watery ink
with bubbles.

The waves of frothy champagne
tear our swimsuits
off
at northern bay.

‘Tapas of the House’
in the narrow, port street.
There is only lack of pirates and sailors.
Two elderly women gossip
using musical language,
nearby, under the sphinx, homeless
are asleep silent.

Flashing spear points graze
combing
underwater grass.

The young pine wants
to jump
from the cliff -

coloured sister of green lemon.

Joan Miro fortress of liberty...

Valldemossa, Deia, S’Arenal,
Porto Petro, Cala Mesquida,
Palma de Mallorca,
Porto Petro, Cap Blanc,
Cala Mayor...

Ernest,
‘tu hijo de la gran p***’,

you’re weak language teacher...
There are more sunny words.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Trust
by: Wallace Kyle Woodard
from: Spokane, WA, US

To visit all of Plo's poems, click HERE

Check out these deals at Amazon.com

...the best independent ISP in the Twin Cities

To write us about this page,
contact willy@dreamagic.com (Willy Chaplin)