Thursday, June 21, 2012


By G. M. Brodhurst-Davis

She sat, eyes blazing
her limbs’ embers awakening
awaiting her matador

Impossible passion
a bubbling volcano
lancing through her door

Her thoughts blistering
trumpet inflaming
blood moon turns to the Moor

Her matador gleaming
in gold-trimmed vermillion
his modus operandi, an art

Eyes focused on triumph
cape rising, taunts piercing
the beast, on red plate…flailing

The hot crowd’s approbation
signals her aspiration
Yes!  My Maestro is borne!

Written for Every Day Poems/T.S. Poetry's "Red" theme; Featured at:

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