CUMBIA

CUMBIA

Red                                                                                  

white

lace  

ribbons

colors

a candle

skirt hem

in hands

outstretched

to the stars

light

of bonfires

feet and hips

subtle moves

elegance

drums

maracas

flutes

a touch

of tropic

a slice

of rhythm

a shot

of rum

a pinch

of the sea

palm trees

a smile

pride

grace

ancestry

Native Indian

Criollo

& African

CUMBIA

By María T. Balogh: Published in Untamed Ink

CARIBBEAN DANCING

 Drums and millet flutes rule

the damp iodized evening spent

beneath palm trees & thatched awnings

Hips in sync with the murmur

of contagious hypnotic tunes     

turning quickly thunderous

Bodies coming together

in a frenzy of sensual jolts

tight sinuous embraces

Pairs of thighs merge indistinguishable

chests inseparable shoeless feet entangled

one candescent respiration & slippery perspiration

One mass of swim shorts and suits

One blend of fabric colors blues yellows

becoming greens over oscillating flesh

           

& when dawn begins to blink

            & the roosters awake in the distance

& the drums & the songs of flutes fade 

 

some depart

                 still strangers

others do not

Published by Bad Shoe

WOMAN ON THE SIDEWALK

Asleep at noon

on the sidewalk —

skin and bones in

baggy shorts

baggy t-shirt

and dirt

Under your head,

you clutch a bag

with your belongings —

a tin bowl, tooth-brush

perhaps another shirt

Your sheet, an old plastic sack

that someone used in the past

to carry yuca to the market

The rusted truck cabin,

you used as shelter before,                                     

collected by the city

in a futile effort

to gentrify the area

Exiled to the sidewalks,

you sleep when & where you can

your exhausted mornings

after a night of servicing

truckers at nearby filling stations

By María T. Balogh: published in Spanish by Grafemas

Will You Feel Safer

WILL YOU FEEL SAFER

If I don’t linger

in your bookstore aisles

flipping pages

or taking extra time

finding the correct

size or color in your

department store

if I don’t feel

the fabric texture

of the pants you sell

forcing you to pretend

to work nearby

neglecting your job

to keep an eye on me

Will you be at ease

if I don’t call your

business phone

and ask you in

accented tongue

to clean my house

to fix my washer

to mow my lawn

to work in my yard

to mend my shoes

Will you be surprised

if I reveal to you

my occupation

if I tell you

of my hobbies

if I am not pushing

a custodian’s cart

or holding a mop

broom or brush

and I am instead

about to lecture

at a science convention

By María T. Balogh --published in Bellerive 2007

Bus Peddlers

BUS PEDDLERS

They sell you candy

They sell you prayers

            They sell you their sisters

They sell you water in bags

They sell you pastries unwrapped

            They sell you their mothers

They sell you fruit

They sell you songs

They sell you themselves

They sell you anger

            They sell you guilt

They sell you their shame

By María T. Balogh (Spanish version published in Revista Bacanal)

 

Summer

SUNSHINE DAYDREAM (Delmar Loop, St. Louis MO)

I walk into the store

& wish I’d been born

            a decade earlier

SUMMER

Cat looks down

            at molehill

                        bent paw mid-air