Very Clever and Fun

Borrowed from the blog lasesana.wordpress.com, a clever Spanglish seasonal poem by author unknown:

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the casa,

Not a creature was stirring – ¡Caramba! ¿Qué pasa?

Los niños were tucked away in their camas,

Some in long underwear, some in pijamas,

While hanging the stockings with mucho cuidado,

In hopes that old Santa would feel obligado,

To bring all children, both buenos and malos,

A nice batch of dulces and other regalos.

Outside in the yard there arose un gran grito,

and I jumped to my feet like a frightened cabrito.

I ran to the window and looked out afuera,

And who in the world do you think that it era?

Saint Nick in a sleigh and a big red sombrero,

Came dashing along like a loco bombero.

And pulling his sleigh instead of venados,

Were eight little burros approaching volando.

I watched as they came and this quaint little hombre,

Was shouting and whistling and calling by nombre:

“Ay Pancho, ay Pepe, ay Cuco, ay Beto,

ay Chato, ay Chopo, Maruco, y Nieto!”

Then standing erect with his hands on his pecho,

He flew to the top of our very own techo,

With his round little belly like a bowl of jalea,

He struggled to squeeze down our old chiminea.

Then huffing and puffing at last in our sala,

With soot smeared all over his red suit de gala,

He filled all the stockings with lively regalos,

None for the ninos that had been very malos.

Then chuckling aloud, seeming very contento,

He turned like a flash and was gone como el viento,

And I heard him exclaim, y ¡esto es verdad!

Merry Christmas to all, ¡y Feliz Navidad!

Kokomo Moonlight

Okay, so the setting of my short story inspired by the Beach Boy’s song “Kokomo” isn’t in the Florida Keys or in the Caribbean. Instead it is set in south Florida’s seaport Fort Lauderdale. It is a common overnight stop for boaters traveling on the Intercoastal Waterway. I hope you enjoy it.

Moonlight

by Fay Moore © 2012

The sailboat glides through a small channel from the Intercoastal  Waterway into Lake Sylvia. The gunkhole is a perfect overnight anchorage for the weary sailors aboard the small sailboat. It is quiet and protected from the winds.

The moon rises as the anchor drops off the bow into the water. The anchor light twinkles at the top of the mast, looking no brighter than a distant star. A small galley lamp lights the inside of the tiny cabin, but ebony blackness inhabits the deck.

On the shoreline are a few waterfront homes of some of Fort Lauderdale’s prosperous residents. Nightfall cloaks the mansions in darkness; the houses are merely silhouettes dappled by intermittent patches of moonlight filtering through palm fronds.

An occasional house window is illuminated. If the fatigued sailors wished it, they could peer into the lighted rectangles from afar and pry into the doings that transpire inside the glass. Instead they focus on chores.

The woman comments that she wants to clean herself from the salt spray accumulated during the day’s sail. She grabs a bucket and fills it with tepid water from the faucet. With a sloshing bucket, soap and wash cloth in hand, she calls to her partner that she is going up to bathe on deck under the starlight.

Once at the bow, where her movement is unencumbered by the boat’s contraptions, she sets down the bucket and begins to remove her clothing. It is a sultry night, so she works slowly at her task, peeling off one piece of clothing at a time. She makes a neat little pile that she sets atop a hatch cover several paces away from the bucket.

Her clothing secure from a soaking, she turns and dances toward the bowsprit. Standing in the pulpit, she slowly raises her arms toward the full moon and throws her head back, her long hair tickling its way down her spine. A messenger line is tied to the rail. She takes hold of it for balance as she leans back, lifting one toe above the rail and pointing it skyward, in a nymph ballet with her partner the moon. The heat makes her glisten, her moist skin reflecting moonlight.  If light were hands, then the moon holds her everywhere at once, highlighting her curves.

She starts bathing, making sponging a part of her dance routine. She is alone on her stage, watched by an adoring universe of stars.  And by one dirty old man with a pair of binoculars.

Quotes from Reader 400Daystil40

All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible. ~ T.E. Lawrence

At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us. ~ Albert Schweitzer

Great sentiments! I borrowed them from posts at http://400daystil40.wordpress.com/

BE A DAY DREAMER! BE A FIRE STARTER!