Life and Work

The village has two thousand folks;

The prison's full, with one.

The villagers tell carefree jokes,

But inmates? Much less fun.

I wake within my larger cell;

The prisoners sleep on bunks.

I rub my eyes, and hope all's well;

The prison's healing drunks

The air is fresh, the sky is blue,

A car drives slowly past.

Behind the bars, the time is true,
And days are made to last.

Sonnetta Pamplonese

Stoned sangria sunset, brazen bull breath
Baiting caballeros, crowding plazas.
Hidden fighters slink out to face a death,
As bulls stamp and snort at life's impasses.

Running from a dusted, deluged sunrise,
Pounding pain-wracked alleys, echoed crying,
Bouncing up from cobbles where blood draws flies.
Flee to safety: it's living or dying.

Running to the bull ring wherein all's clear.
A circle, a gate - buen Dia, an arm.
The Crimson sash is as blatant as fear,
When making the sprint, avoiding the harm.

Once more, the bulls and runners chase the page,
As I sit in my room and write... and age.