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Best French Poems

Below are the all-time best French poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of French poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New French Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best French poems are below this new poems list.

Happy French Defeated Day by Brooks, David
French Invasion by Lindsay, David
I wish I could speak in French by Raynes, Lewis
The Glories of French Food by Rigoler, Maurice
A Stroll Through the French Quarter by Inman, James
French Lady Macbeth by mackay, reay
French Fry by Water, Diet
Empathy French by lanus, trish
Note from a Failed French Hornist by Anish, Matthew
Villanelle: French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe by Wignesan, T

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The Best French Poems

Details | French Poem | |

Leaves of the Dead

Leaves of the Dead

Les feuilles mortes 

They fall like dead soldiers
Dreams knifed in the dead of night
It is as yesterday
Once more
Where love was kissing my cheek
Where hopes had dreams
One could see the blossom of loves desires

Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates

Ah now I am holding a cane
I have all but forgotten yesterday
I have no lovers
My friends have all but gone
To their designated places in the ground
Piano keys in soft lit lounges
I remember the vodka stingers and sultry singers 
Telling me life was jolie oh so jolie
If only there was love…

Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates

At 3am, with burnt cigarette butts
If only there was love
When the metro finds it’s unwitting end
Reality and cubes make ugly paintings
There are only drunks
Dreamers and bums
Thief’s picking pockets of your final instructions

Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates

If you can sober up and face the poverty
Of your empty aspirations of hope
Come to the bois de Vincennes
Where Kings and Queens danced and dined
What better place
To splay the butter
So that the knife slides smooth
Whilst the sun fades kissing the seine
Autumn leaves will fall
Dead again

Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

Details | French Poem | |


Lusting the passions of a secret desire
Unwinding the mystery of my needs
Funerals are for the future
Internment I ask be deferred
Timeless is my youth
Useless is my request
At seeking eternity or at least eternal rest
End of times may seem long away
Beauty we know fades, it will happen some day

So I dream of youthful moments
Isle graveyards were far away

Holy wars and loveless scores
That a soldier must endure
A desire for peace escapes this generation and more
External forces and internal woes
Death dances at my door

Dedicated to Sara Bernhardt, who slept in her coffin amongst all her love letters.

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

Details | French Poem | |

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 | Year Posted 2015

Details | French Poem | |

Pray For Paris

I’m all shocked and confused
after watching the news
hostages, bombings and shoot-
ings, this is really too much
I can’t do much
so my mission
is to pray for all the victims
their families and the millions
of French people all over the world

Copyright © Elis Artis | Year Posted 2015

Details | French Poem | |

Pere Lachaise

Pere Lachaise

Five into the Twentieth

Death is not worth the doing
Life is not worth the living
So I am in-between two worlds
Rotting above the ground
Whilst the corpses laugh in their comfy warm beds
They sleep in peace
I walk upon their heads
Seeking solace where there is none
As the leaves fall the season will soon change
I shall remain as I am
Inebriated with ravens and fools
In cafes with strangers
Safely away from the human touch
Wine flowing through my veins
Wine caressing my very pains
The clouds float overhead
Raining on the dead and almost
Feigning hopes when there is none
Five and twenty blackbirds singing deaths song

They offer me a map at the graveyard entrance
How trite, a map to my very own hell
My journey though might be a hard sell

Tumble as I do upon so many stones
Black roses hidden where once they were shown
Bloody nights with both razor and thorn
When I arrived at the morgue
Surely I was scorned

Adélaïde Paillard de Villeneuve
You have no home, not even in death
So it’s with you I wish to hold hands 
You the first and I who will never last

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

Details | French Poem | |



Lest we forget
Words often mouthed
For the dead of bloody war
Forgot not those great ones
Whose battles were on the home front
Seeking only equality of voice

Ray Charles to you was a singer
Backwards and long ago he was a preacher
A brilliant man of forward thought
Who gifted the world with three wise women
The teacher
The poet
The Lawyer

Flo taught many with words
Long ago and yet here today
Those who teach both young and old
Hold the noblest of positions
Steering the generations
To a higher cause
With kindness, with heart
With head held up to the skies
Standing ground for those before
Abhorring those acting immature

1872 saw the first black lawyer
A sharp mind of determined heart
Argued to the Supremes
Beauty and brains
Leading the way towards freedom
For women of all races
For in 1872 she had the social graces

The revolution of sonnets
Black woman and prose
The poem and the black rose
In 1893 to be printed by a Little
Sure meant a lot
Henrietta fought the enemy
With languages and words
Her Wordsworth more than Haitian blood

The past, the present
Merging onto our futures dreams
Hope cares not the color, none at all
Hope comes from the rainbows
Where voices and angels whisper
When we part this early soil
Make us all into one

If I had a coloring book
In it I would put these three
Who colored the freedom of women
With education, articulation and harmony
The pen indeed defeated the sword
L'Overture gagne

* L'Overture gagne = The opening , won

In Actual fact the correct spelling of the French word, would be “L'Ouverture” So I was using a play on words with the Revolutionaries last name.

Notes: Not much of a poem, however this was inspired by an old photo I saw of Charlotte E. Ray. The first African American Lawyer in United States, and the first female lawyer in the district of Colombia. When I did some digging, I found she had also 2 sisters, one a poet, one a teacher. Their father was a preacher who firmly believed in education.

Her sister was one Henrietta Cordelia Ray, an American poet. Her poetry of  Sonnets was a short book of 12 sonnets on Milton, Shakespeare, Raphael, and Beethoven, among other subjects. Her sonnet on the Haitian revolutionary Toussaint L'Overture is notable for its belated engagement in black politics (absent from her earlier verse) and for its allusions to William Wordsworth's famous sonnet, "To Touissaint L'Overture”

Well now, the title makes more sense, n’est pas? However the last name also means in English “The Opening” and I thought how fitting that in the late 1800’s black women were beginning to open doors to the future. 

Also now the line “Her Wordsworth more than Haitian blood” should be self explanatory and no wordsworth was not a typo! (even I am famous for them)

Now another of my passions, is French poetry, history and culture, and yes Touissaint L'Overture stood up to Napoleon and although historically he lost, and was deported to France where he died, I think its safe to say that “L'Overture gagne” meaning he won, in that he too was the “Opening” for the changes that would come later. In fact its there is some irony that all the revolution for change is often lost in the short term, when education and the pen make gains that are very hard to revere.

Ray Charles to you was a singer
Backwards and long ago he was a preacher

This of course means if you take Ray Charles the singer’s name that I am sure most know and reverse the name, you get the name Charles Ray, the father of the three women.

Argued to the Supremes

Again, Charlotte E. Ray the lawyer did argue in the Supreme Court and so the play on words with “the Supremes” and one could infer many meanings in this line.

Now the third sister was a teacher and I haven’t found out much about her, her name was Florence and Flo for short, and as I jumped periods with Ray Charles and Charles Ray, when I was reading about these strong women, and one must remember the time at which they made their accomplishments was not as today, it made me thing of another Flo, and therefore, I intermixed by thoughts of her with that of which I imagined the teacher would be.

Little, refers to the publishing company who published Henrietta’s sonnets

Not all poems are meant to be great, some are just stories, and I love adding double meanings and innuendo, because when engaging people in discussion, there is nothing that better than relating events and people they may know with those of the past they may not. As sometimes with students, we discuss poems at a local coffee shop, this type of poem makes for great discussions. 

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

Details | French Poem | |

Passage du temps

I sit on a chair
The chair is by the table
The table is against the wall
On the wall is a clock
The clock goes tic toc
As surely as time passes
I, do not move
The chair does not move
The table does not move
The wall just stands there holding up the clock
A bookcase on the other side of life, there full of knowledge
Useless in the antiquity of stagnation
As we are all one, object and man
Not one of us moving
Except for the clock
Tic toc

Passage du temps
Le bruit du silence
Noyade dans la tranquillité
En solo
Parmi tous mes livres
Mort chante à mon oreille

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | French Poem | |


BBC News Alert

Somewhere in France
In the Countryside
A farmer has been arrested
For molesting an old cow
A drunken old hag was on all fours
Crawling around in his field
He, having had his wine and baguette
Thought he had forgotten one cow
Off he went to fondle and milk her tits
Turned out they were as dry as prunes
The cow in English barked; get your hands off of me
To which the pour farmer replied in absolute shock
Merde! Why you cow who barks, you speak English!
How can this be?
She replied I am not a cow you blind old farmer
I am a mooing poet of sorts
I dropped my dictionary in some cow dun here
Can’t seem to tell the difference between the two
I understand replied the farmer
Like me looking at you and a cow
Was very confusing indeed
Well I shall take me leave you old blind fart
The farmer snorted
Let me cut the fence open for you
She crawled back onto the road
Whereby the farmer was arrested
(Alsace has left wing laws it seems)
For letting his cow wander
Upon the intellectual property
Of France

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | French Poem | |


FAT BITCHES DIVINE! What is so exciting about life is that we only live once, And that once is a lifetime! Therefore, we must fulfill and enjoy our time here–on earth. Dance for the hell of it… Never condoning a flicker of insanity. Let your hair down and wipe all of the frowns to a clown face. Wouldn’t you rather become a ventriloquist instead? Shout to the stars and tell them who you are. Once is only a lifetime to enjoy. Living the hell out of life. Taking what is ours and not looking back. Singing our hearts bound because we are here to inspire. Warning ourselves that we must not deny life. Eating what we want. Watching our weight, of course. Body is our focus. We want meat on our bones. We have only once in a lifetime to explore. We are the Fat Bitches. Body delicious and pleasing the women. Brained as geniuses as life itself with meaningfulness. Masterminds of sexuality and high preference to the quality of our togetherness. We mate well. Therefore, we love who we are with. Heaven bound now. Profound mavens standing their ground. We can do that and never back down. We love our women unsound. This give us power in the world as connoisseurs. Laugh if you wanna, but we are the ones that will not be destroyed. Fat Bitches will move-on and all these skinny bitches (skinny men) [and] (skinny women) life will be bygone. This is when skinny better Slim Jim [as brothers] and Virginia Slim [as sisters]. Otherwise, divinity belongs to the Fat Bitches. _____________________________________________________________________| Written May 10, 2016!

Copyright © Verlena S. Walker | Year Posted 2016

Details | French Poem | |

The Little Ones

The Little People

Where do all the little people live?
Marine Le Pen lives in France
A rabbit, who has come out of her hole
Donald Trump lives in America the Great
Trump will soon enough make it a dump
Fernando Furtado
Starves all the Brazilian Indians
No rice for the dark lazy ones
What ever could the Amazon teach us?
Putin, is truly a littleput one
A puffy war chest for sure
He sits on old telephone books to seem tall
He may sit down for Turkey dinner with a smirk
Little ones soon realize when it’s too late
That Turkey will eat them.

I am sad
So many migrants in one boat
When if dreams came true
The Little people above
Should migrate to the sinking boats below

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | French Poem | |

I wish I could speak in French

I wish I could speak in French, 
Speak like I’m always in love. 
Just let the words fly. Fly out from my mouth. 
Fly out like a newly freed dove.

I’d say vous êtes la belle rivière dans mon rêve, 
You’re the beautiful river in my dream.
We could talk all day about nothing at all, 
I’d be the boat and you’d be my stream.

Even the numbers un, deux, trois, 
Would make learning maths sound mega sensual.
I bet the kids at school would learn every multiple, 
Learn them with each little decimal.

But the odd thing is that half of our language, to me, 
Seems already stolen from France.
Words like harmony, rhythm, surreal and portrait. 
Words like montage, cubism and dance.

So maybe it’s not the words themselves, 
That make for a delightful lovely chat.
But rather it’s how they're said, spoken, and woven, 
Sounding like music or just sounding flat.

So next time I meet my friends at a coffee shop, 
And talk about rivers, music and art.
I can keep it in mind that it’s not what is said, 
But that it is said from my heart.

Copyright © Lewis Raynes | Year Posted 2016

Details | French Poem | |

The Dance

( the Dance)
In her laxation of memory,
force induced with alternate joints
from the white boy 
and the sheik's son she wished she didn't know,
she remembered the feeling.

Too soon she realized it was no memory.
Paris was hot. Paris was dark.

As usual dancing was butt to butt
and there was no mistake.
It was the white boy,
he was dancing with some
la joie française rurale,

a too plump too sweet too easy
coquette from outer space.

But he was really dancing with her
and it was his hand, cool and sensitive,
hot and excited, bold and inquisitive,
but mostly slipping up her leg

and under the elastic of her Lingerie.
They couldn't have danced any closer
if they had been dancing together.
She exploded.

© Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2016

Details | French Poem | |

Cold Nights In Paris

There's never been another dark on earth
quite like the dark of Paris under snow
where love, it comes and goes, for what it's worth
and no demands are made, when time to go;

where lovers slip into the hiding night
oblivious to cold or freezing rain,
anticipating love, that surely might
warm up their lives so they forget their pain.

Their love's a little warmer, from the cold
it makes two hearts to join and keep a beat
and warms the lives of both the young and old
who find their love with-in their body heat.

   Though easy comes the love--they hold it dear,
   without it cold is something they would fear.

© Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2016

Details | French Poem | |

A Vacation Where History Was Made

My lifetime dream hasn't been realized yet;
I like to travel to Europe where History was made.
I will start with the glorious city of Rome
with its ancient monuments which still fascinate!

I like to see one of the gems of ancient architecture: 
the Colosseum, hear the roars of the gladiators
and the screams of the crowds applauding the winner;
I will stroll down Via Veneto find an uncrowded café,'
and sip a cappuccino in the tepid Roman sun!

My next step is to go to Paris and admire its wonders
by the Senna; I will sit and dream of long ago as Victor 
Hugo did at Notre-Dame, the gothic Cathedral of antiquity,
then on to Versailles where Napoleon Bonaparte resided.

London can't be missed on my travel list, this magnificent city
which was built two millennia ago, has its own English charm:
the imposing Tower Bridge overlooking the Thames River;
ah, Liverpool is a must: once home of the enigmatic Beatles!

Madrid is every artist's dream, a beautiful city built on water;
very impressive is the Almudena Cathedral with priceless art works,
it's the dynamic city of bullfighters, watch the matadors do magic;
at night, it's all music and splendor inside the wide Plaza Mayor!

Written on 2/19/ 2016

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2016

Details | French Poem | |

Circumstance of France

Circumstance of France

Global indifference
Uncaring bastards
For words and letters
Grammar and poetic letters
Stealing our roots, our tools
Our hats
Our very being
Taking us for fools
We shall overcome this injustice
As Rafael Padilla rose above his chains
So shall we restore our dignity

I fear if we left the kitchen
You'd steal our onions too
Have you no soul?
Do you know how cold the winter with no hat?

You say you are the Académie française
Yet you protect not the black letters on a page
Oh Chocolat! Oh Shame!
You care not for the revolution long ago
Nor do you care for the heart of Moliere
I of all
I am shocked
To be calling the language police
What comfort can you give a word with no hat to wear?
Have you no compassion, do you not care?

All my life I have dreaded that hat
Now that I have conquered my fear
You wish to behead the very essence of French
Have you no shame?

You wish to circumcise the grammar
Shorten the learning, make bad spelling no ones blame
I stand tall, atop the Eiffel tower
I shall protest you, flexing my circumference
Making you see the errors of your intolerance
To murder such a small hat
Of history
You only create misery
As I open yet another Bordeaux
The Circus died yet there is one clown left

Notes: This poem is about the removal of the ^ from certain letters in the French language, this was decided in 1990 but only has become “news” now. However like all great ideas I did intertwine others, if you care to guess, and the point of the poem is not to make a point but rather to stir a social discussion on the issues of today.

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

Details | French Poem | |

The Glories of French Food

The French eat foods most Americans 
will freak out on, and none are bargains.
Let’s start with the least freakish: rabbit,
said to taste like chicken a little bit.

Quail and pigeon shouldn’t kill your appetite
though it may your budget if you’re tight.
Next, and verging on the disgusting,
is cochon (pig) in all its parts, including

cheeks, ears, trotters, liver, and kidneys.
And don’t forget smoked ox tongue, please.
In the category of the unforgivable,
especially if you’re knowm to be gullible,

are the highly prized and touted  “sweetbreads”
(ris de voeux) – deliciously sounding when read
on the menu but in french it translate as
calf’s thymus gland or pancreas.

Another delicacy, grâce au cochon,
is Boudin noir, a black sausage and très bon,
made straight from the pig's fresh blood
but looking more fecal than edible food.

and by that description alone I bet
you're dashing to the nearest toilet! 
And now for our final dish, the piece
de resistance, to grastronomes at least:

A whole calf’s head (tête de voeux) proudly
presented on a platter slightly
camoflaged with petites legumes and garnishes
but nonetheless horribly nightmarish.

Copyright © Maurice Rigoler | Year Posted 2016

Details | French Poem | |

Cornelius Writes a Poem

Cornelius was a linguist, not a poet -
though his ego was much too large to know it.
After penning a traditional Japanese tanka,
regarding the policies of la casa blanca,
he realized his multicultural poetry - though raw
in meter and message - lacked a certain je ne sais quoi.

Inspired by the writings of our own Maurice Rigoler

*la casa blanca = the white house
*je ne sais quoi = a quality that cannot be named easily.

Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016

Details | French Poem | |

Parisienne Dream

MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE - Parisienne Dream
and suddenly you've fallen through the seams
from very life, to stroll here by the Seine,
dropped from reality into my dreams
where you've loved me forever now and then.

You taste the fragrance of Parisienne night
and hear the distant singing all too clear,
it's just a dying nymph, in her delight,
one of the dead who knows her death is here.

Be as it may, your love tries not to speak,
as we enjoy the streetlamps' shadowings,
I press you to the stone and kiss your cheek,
and you can feel the sorrow midnight brings;

you echo words that concertina's say
only at night when love has lost her way.

My searching leads to parting of your hair,
as gentle hands reveal a neck too white,
and you can feel the pain, it lingers where;
I've set my teeth, and then you feel the bite,

and there I nurse, your suckling tiny child,
of blood and life, the nourishment I crave;
that keeps me seeking you, but drives me wild;
and makes me civilized, but mis-behave.

In your surprise, from seeking mortal sin,
expecting sex; this is no mere foreplay;
you go beyond the limits of the Seine,
to yet another dream that will not stay.

Your struggle to reality is brief,
and you succomb into my time of grief.

The draining of your love into my own
is secondary to the love you take,
you'll fall from here, back to the life you've known
and that's the choice you have, it's yours to make;

you'll waken in the night and you'll forget;
safe in your bed, your pensione's gloom,
but on your neck, the trace of blood and sweat
leads you to feel each shadow of your room.

Remembering the locking of our eyes,
that made you cross the line into the dead,
will make you cry, but never realize,
that where you've been lies hidden in your head.

Perhaps you'll meet a boy I cannot be, 
but when he kisses you, you'll know it's me.

© Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet aka Ron Wilson

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2016

Details | French Poem | |

Death In France

Horrific evil captured world attention

Rationalization failed comprehension

Act of war ISIS terrorists

Long night of massacre and murder

Fear and realization of dreaded word

Hidden danger scariest

Reporters opined media replayed

Suspects apprehended within a day

Tales of bravery slowly told

World mourned for senseless tragedy in France

Information on suspects utmost importance

When or where next unknown

Written 12-16-2015
'Rime Couee - For France - Contest' By Debbie Guzzi
8th Place

Copyright © Susan Gentry | Year Posted 2015

Details | French Poem | |

Why France

France gave America the Statue of Liberty,
In 1865, from Edouard de Laboulaya, his act;
It begot Joan of Arc who insisted that,
Nationality bet religion as a matter of fact.

The Free French were renown in WW II, 
For an innate determination which alit,
The will of those sinking around them,
For the democratic heart that was split.

It produced Thomas Piketty with his book Capital,
Which called for a global tax of all richer states,
To redistribute income for egalitarianism,
For freedom and for the poverty liberation straits.
The death of Jihadi John set it all off,
As he was the symbol of the Islamic State,
Most definitely and without reservations,
He was the one with the credal slate. 

But France today has an interventionist policy,
In Syria, and is the most vocal nation of all,
Insisting that President Assad needs to go,
To enable free democracy to stand tall.

In 2010 Qatar, an Arab state with oil and gas,
Won the bid to host the 2022 FIFA World Cup;
When a UK government employee questioned this,
In November 2014, he caused a very real hiccup.

France was said to have validated Qatar,
To chief Sepp Blatter who was eventually removed;
I can’t dismiss that Qatar would have reciprocated,
With gifts of money for the French to be proved.

With some of Qatar’s money, flowing and free,
France would’ve strengthened its foreign policy,
Doubled its presence in Syria, or even tripled it,
With the USA and others following likewise - oui.

So the French people’s ability to fight ISIS,
Is important to Syrian Islamists who are fully aware,
That the size of an army determines its success,
Thus Qatar’s allegiances are ISILs concern to beware.

Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015

Details | French Poem | |


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 | Year Posted 2015

Details | French Poem | |

Candles Burn In Memory

~ With thoughts of those who died by the hands of evil ~

                      candles will burn bright

              when we feed their fragile flames

                      with God's healing fire

Copyright © Lin Lane | Year Posted 2015

Details | French Poem | |


Jude Kyrie

I remember the first time I met her
It was at the orphanage.
I was going through rehabilitation
after running away for what
turned out to be last of many times
I was a lifer.
Who wants to adopts fourteen
year old boys?
Apparently no one.

She was assigned as my counselor
I don't think I have
ever seen anyone as beautiful as her.
That lovely angelic face.
Oh! her smile,
it was like sunshine.
Unsure of how to address a Nun
I always called her Ma’am.
She did not seem to mind
Her heart was full of kindness
I was hooked.

I think that was when I realized
she was the only friend I had.
What I did not know was
I was falling in love with her.
That confusing rite of passage
from Boyhood to Manhood
left me dazed and confused.
Or perhaps I just needed
someone to love.

I have never seen
as much kindness
before or since.
It flowed from her
like honey.

She stopped me
from running away again,
and taught me
how to read books
great books
by important authors.

To learn poetry
and to talk about
its meaning.
At this point I knew
for sure I loved her.
She took me to
the mission where
the homeless lived
and we served
in the free kitchen.
I would have followed
her to the moon
or anywhere.

She was relocated
after a couple of years.
To a mission in Africa.
I was desolate
Begging to go with her.
I even asked her to marry me.
She smiled and said
if she was free
she would marry me
in a heartbeat.

But she explained gently
to my young heart
that she was already
married to her faith.
Showing me her gold ring.
She whispered see
I am a bride of Christ.

She died a few years later
her letters stopped coming
It was a bout of malaria
that took her.

Now when I feel
alone or sad.
I open an old shoe box
that I kept from
the orphanage
And I re-read her
stacks of letters.

one by one.
Always in the order
that she sent them to me.
And as usual
I feel warm and safe again.

Copyright © Jude Kyrie | Year Posted 2015

Details | French Poem | |

Villanelle: What do you do if the Culprit's the Country

Villanelle: What do you do if the Culprit’s the Country

What do you do if the Culprit’s the Country
Will the Head of State turn against the Police
Go hang yourself on the nearest pipal* tree

Which country faults on its own territory
When It cracks down citizens or migrant mice
What do you do if the Culprit’s the Country

Take the oath if it bolsters the Enemy
No pious paean will wash sins away, please
Go hang yourself on the nearest pipal tree

Your life’s not yours to take if not for Patrie*
Ribbons and medals on chest consecrate vice*
What do you do if the Culprit’s the Country

O! for the belles bells tolling the reverie
Look! My Country’s crown towers above cloud’s fleece
Go hang yourself on the nearest pipal tree

No country’s worth the life of one family
If the force that protects corrupts the Police
What do you do if the Culprit’s the Country
Go hang yourself on the nearest pipal tree

•	pipal: since the pipal tree has no prop roots, at least,
in death you can serve to prop it up

•	Patrie: French for Mother Country
•	vice: French pronunciation, please!

© T. Wignesan – Paris,  2015  

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2015

Details | French Poem | |

A Clock Face

a clock face of stone
and by it a Marianne -
worldly-wise, her eyes


1) There is such a clock
in the rue Rivals, 
Toulouse, France.

2) The Marianne
is the symbol of France.

Copyright © Julia Ward | Year Posted 2015