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French Sad Poems | French Poems About Sad

These French Sad poems are examples of French poems about Sad. These are the best examples of French Sad poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Etheree | |

Paris in Turmoil

held the
hand of a 
stranger lying 
face down with flying
bullets spraying the room, 
killing, striking so many
innocents frozen in terror.
As I fled I realized she was 
dead from terrorist's merciless melee.

© Connie Marcum Wong

Note: I wrote this about a recent story on the news that 
touched me deeply. I am praying for all those who are suffering.

Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong

Details | Free verse | |

I Do Not Speak French

pour it like the sun is dead.
but not
before shaking it well.

wat is je naam?
my father is half-Dutch.
stay with me, Martinique 
(that name tag is lovely)
I have not been happy.

little umbrellas tickle
my imagination -
Gibraltar or Ithaca
or Room 143 beside yours.

is this safe, Martinique?
fifteen proof is my ceiling
but I do not care.

your skin ring matches mine.
sorry -

Ik ben blij,
but I do not speak French.

Copyright © Arch Ilagan

Details | Epitaph | |

Long Live Peace

Another night, where we young live life
An act of war on the happiness we strive
The Paris streets again where blood is spilled of the innocent
An act of war against humanity and religion be their hide
Don't give us all your bullshit of the policies you hate
Don't give us all the bullshit of the Islamic State
You don't discriminate against any creed or fucking faith
You'll never bring us down for peace is where we play

Peace is where we still play
Peace is where we still stay
How many lives you take
You'll never see us break
Peace is where we still play

Long live France

Copyright © Si Villan

Details | Iambic Pentameter | |


All evening fog is settled from the ground,
not right in where it goes, nor where it's found;
the Seine makes distance to each barren tree
unmeasured from the mind to what should be,
and blended to the world that's all around.

And from the limestone walls, echos the tap
of femininity, in evening wrap;
she's hurried, lest the night finds her alone
and vulnerable to legends she has known;
yet she's desirous of what couldn't hap.

The corner street lamps lend their halo'd light
grotesque in their own way, as if they might
leap out of time and drag her by the throat
and cast her down into a timeless moat,
where she would die alone 'for ends this night.

She clutches to her breasts, where minds go mad,
as if it's all the love they've ever had,
but she will cry all night, when she's alone
into the pillow love has never known,
and that's what makes her tale so very sad.

Her plea's for love, that doesn't have to end,
like only dreamers deem to comprehend,
but all she finds are bodies falling on
what she has sold from evening to the dawn,
and not a one could be even a friend.
© Ron Wilson Arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa