Category Archives: Verse

The Last Chiringuito

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At a table by the shore

we watch the sea shimmering on pebbles.

A perfect balmy day.

A gaggle of jet skis race to the point.

I sip my café con leche,

dark and rich, frothed to the lip of the cup.

My wafer wrapper wafts away on a soft breeze.

A sparrow finds it, pecks at the paper

and consumes the crumbs.

No clouds to scud the skyline but

further down the beach

a lorry is loading with tables, chairs and a serving hut.

Men grapple with decking and chain it to a crane.

Next week it’s Mintt’s turn to be tucked up for winter

leaving melancholy sighs.

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Picture by augaben1 at http://www.deviantart.com

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Wine and Roses

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Food lovingly prepared promises pleasure

Smelling,  chewing,  savouring and swallowing.

Digested and incorporated, the food ceases to exist

It becomes one with our body, our earthly temple.

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Will this substance so sensual do us good ?

Have we become like the food or the food like us ?

Its vibration, its memories are they ours now ?

Shall we be assimilated and dedicated ?

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The wine is red, mature, full of aroma like the rose.

Innocent, silky and soft asking to be sipped.

Imbided, the liquid gives lightness of being,

the world is the same but warmed with pleasure.

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Another glass gives goodness and fragrance freely

Subtle and warm the wine drinks us.

Consumed we enter another dimension.

Giggly, dizzy and drunk.

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Posted for dVerse Impressionist Prompt.

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Haunted House

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Eighty years of emptiness echo in a house

untouched by time since that terrible conflict.

Incestuous hate and inhumanity to man,

families spilled blood brother against brother.

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A padlocked door, windows shuttered and barred.

Ghostly and grim stands the once beautiful baroque.

Smoke and blood still stain its walls within.

Without it cringes unnoticed in a busy square.

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Back then the church too was burned of its baroque.

The priests murdered until there was no one to bury the dead.

Even now no one can speak of the unspeakable.

Will it heal when there is no one left who remembers ?

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This is the true story of a real house that still stands empty in our town square.  Who knows what horrors went on inside during the Spanish Civil War.  The terrible past is etched into the tosca stone of the once beautiful building.  

The poster is from the Federation for (literally translated) Peasants, this meant the people who worked the land in this part of Spain in those days.  The fortunate of them wore shoes made of rope or hessian now called espadrills and made into fashion, but most of them had no shoes at all.

1936 – 1939

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Posted for dVerse History prompt.

http://dversepoets.com/

Pomegranate Juice

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Daydream of limitless light

sends the clouds scudding

leaving the glitter of sunshine

on a millpond of sea.

Orchards of pomegranates swell

and ripen their bitterish seeds.

First fruits of summer soon to pluck.

Balmy and comforting July days

like a welcome friend.

No rain to halt al fresco life

nor differ from the sun of Summer’s days.

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Written using the words in the picture for

http://bluebellbooks.blogspot.com.es/2012/07/short-story-slam-week-23.html

The Inner Plane Adepti

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Draw close and listen to the sky,

Hear the inner plane adepti.

Soft but strong on waves of sound

their wisdom  message will be found.

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Neophyte and chela young,

here the knowledge will be sprung.

Fill the void of innocence

with mind and will persistent.

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Take their lessons clear and bold

until the secret’s yours to hold.

Initiation breaks the bar

and lights the ladder to your star.

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