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New French Poems

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

French bistros by Salzano, Julieta
Incident at the French Open by bauer, ilene
French Fries by Ellison, Jack
French Fry With An Attitude by Jones, Cynthia
The Challenge Of Eating French Onion Soup by Hinshaw, Robert L.
Every Time I Speak French by Lanier, Bo
The French by hansen, jan oskar
It's too early in the gray sky - from french by Chabriere, rene
Black fruits - in french - by Chabriere, rene
I WISH I HAD LEARNED TO SPEAK FRENCH - THAT'S LIFE by ALLISON, JAN

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The Best French Poems

Details | French Poem | |

I Think Of You - Upon Reflection - 3


A reflection of the coloured pencil drawn sky
skates on the glass smooth surface below it.
While a rebellious group of shades take their positions 
on a glorious stage to express themselves artistically and
I...

i think of you

Wisps of clouds shaped like a palm leaf
fan the winds that stoke the fire
of a randomly sketched sunset.
I...

i think of you

The cool of an ocean breeze 
travels the shadows of this low lit evening.
Caresses my skin like the essence of romance.
Enthralled by the allure of a candle lit sky,
I...

i think of you...

Our French Bakery early mornings.
Café au lait and croissants.
Our freesia soaked baths.
Your mink soft body.
Its milk and honey scent.

As I fall off 
the edge of the world,
I...

i think of you.




March 19 2015
Armand




Copyright © Maurice Yvonne

More great poems below...


Details | French Poem | |

Starbright

As I gaze into indigo skies,
Stars are brighter tonight,
Twinkling in the darkness 
Of a new moon.
Orion's belt enchants 
My impassioned heart
As my thoughts of you soar
In a dimension devoid 
Of Time's constraints.
Let me feel the warmth of your
Strong arms wrapped 'round me 
As we breathe in the scent 
Of night blooming jasmine.
You are my summer nights—
In my dreams of us 
On cool cotton sheets
While Bach serenades us in 
Rainbows of ribbons~
In a symphony of sounds~
Your skin glistens,
And I am lost in love.  

© Connie Marcum Wong


(French translation)
Starbright

Comme j'ai regarder dans le ciel indigo,
Les étoiles sont plus lumineux, ce soir,
Scintillant dans l'obscurité
D'une nouvelle lune.
Ceinture d'Orion enchante
Mon coeur passionné
Comme mes pensées de vous atteindre
Dans une dimension dépourvue
Des contraintes de temps.
Je voudrais sentir la chaleur de votre
Bras forts enveloppés "autour de moi
Que nous respirons le parfum
Fleur Jasmin de nuit.
Vous êtes mes nuits d'été--
Dans mes rêves de nous
Sur des draps en coton cool
Bien que Bach sérénades nous dans un
Arc en ciel de rubans ~
Dans une symphonie de sons ~
Votre peau scintille,
Et je suis perdu dans l'amour.

© Connie Marcum Wong

Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong


Details | French Poem | |

Best Man

It has been 9 months since your sudden disappearance.

That Hallowed night when your 5’11” nerd aura
Handed me my early birthday gift
A cold shoulder wrapped in a velvet bow
Made in Sri Lanka, sold exclusively at the Dollar Store

That was your appraised value.

But, today, revival’s whisper enters my gently waxed earlobes.

Candy coated revelations
For my allergic blood

“I said yes!”, as she flashed Cracker Jack ring
Filled with Monopoly dollar signs and “Go directly to Jail” Chance cards

I almost applauded, my hands sarcastically never connected
While my eyeballs rolled in epileptic banter

We scream in misguided nerd joy 
As if we witnessed Monty Python & Darth Vader having a make-out session

Sudden urges to watch movies about Traveling Pants & Sisterhood
And PSing my I Love You
While we eat Dark Chocolate Klondike bars and Chipwich Ice Cream Cookies
My ovaries were bursting with INSANITY’S JOY!

But, WAIT, I quickly realized I didn’t have such parts!

It was then, reality crashed
As if Spider Man ran out of web during mid-air leap

My essence now halts at crossroads’ throat.

To my left, “celebration”
To my right, “other”

I chose to be a human this night.

Current time- 9:15pm
Current location- Reception Hall

A 5 course meal,
Including dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets
Smiley face French fries
And 3 glasses of Tang
Surrounded my space on the dinner table

Heavenly echoes of forks & glass,
Ringing in ignorant unison,
Give birth to Tinnitus in my drums

In their 9 months of togetherness,
They kiss with forcible ease,
Frogs refusing to show their true form

It is then, ignoring listless stares from guests,
I stood up holding my half-empty Tang glass
Which MIGHT have contained a smidge of Grey Goose

At the TOP of my LUNGS,
I whispered.

“Friend, I should be so proud of you. I would. I could. You never responded to my open-hearted palm. You left my vulnerabilities dangling at half-mast, as if I lost our final game of Hang Man. But, TONIGHT, it is I & this delicious Dinosaur nugget that will HAVE a final say! You are impeccably flawed, like I. But, I still wanted you to be a part of my tomorrows. Yet, you turned me into a muted yesterday. So, I will wish congratulations on your new slav…um, husband, Pouring this glass of yummy Tang onto this stapled dance floor in a straight line Each drop will be a symbol of how many tears he will shed, before that line is crossed.”
As silence slapped each other in its face Across candle flame blanketed, marble dance hall, With children pointing & laughing hysterically, “Security” enters the room As I hold hands with Cuban female rent-a-cop, her head warming my shoulder, “Thank you for these 9 months. For now, I have given birth to a new me. The Best Man that you will never hold again.” ©Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes


Details | French Poem | |

Where The Heart Resides

Like open arms
These broken gates reach out to me
And lead me to the lonely house
That overlooks the sea

Her door once proud and stately
Now splintered hangs in shame
As she realizes no longer can she
Keep out the wind and rain

I look into her beautiful
Sad and haunted eyes
These windows to her soul
Where alone she waits to die

Her rooms I see before me
Stripped naked raped and bleeding
And somewhere from within them
I hear her softly pleading

She beckons me to enter
I cross her threshold timidly
And suddenly an old familiar feeling
Comes washing over me

The floorboards squeak beneath me
As I move slowly down the hall
Tip-toeing through the paper roses
All withered on her walls

I step into her parlor
With tears falling from my eyes
As precious memories carry me
To the place my heart resides

I see her in her former splendor
Dressed in satin and old lace
Crystal chandeliers reflect the light
And caress her lovely face

French doors open to the fields
Where once I used to play
Make believe in lands of dreams
On sunny summer days

Silky curled beside the hearth
Purring softly as she sleeps
I caress her so tenderly
As my heart falls at her feet

The air is filled with music
As grandma strokes the keys
The aunts and uncles all join in
And sing in harmony

We take our places at the table
Laid out in fine bone china
We bow our heads and thank the Lord
For all the ties that bind us

Grandpa carves the giant turkey
Grandma brings the platters
We fill our plates with food and mirth
And an endless stream of chatter

And when the moon hangs overhead
In a soft and velvet sky
One by one we take our leave
With hugs kisses and goodbye’s.

I love you Grandma
I love you Grandpa
Rings into the night
And once again in my world
Everything is right

I close the door behind me
I say my last farewell
As I hear her take her final breath
In the trill of a whippoorwill

                    ~~~~~
Author:  Elaine George

My first entry on Poetrysoup  - Feb. 2, 2006

Copyright © Elaine George


Details | French Poem | |

High Bred Reality

     Soul progress
     back field in motion
The guff
     Chose, chose, live grow leave!  GO!

Leapt from heaven's gold
Jump started into a human mold

    White clapboard poverty with tiger lily blooms,
blueberry rake poverty woolen looms.

Riffs of Emerson, Whitman, Longfellow dawns,
mothers’ hazel eyes, father Davidesque form,
chosen to drive twixt a Jew and a screw.
          Magnet of lunacy...
Tumbled like an agate into the stream of life
part of the dream lesson
scream      lesson

Abuser of power, one who had once roared,
 Eve shaped now, weak and mewling
                 between the weeds of woe.
Care taken by lovers torn.
          Watched over by pedophile uncles.
Befriended by lewd Father of sons.
Adult child, searching amongst the Word
for the Word is God           and GOD …
       There are so many   words
    
Root ripped scenes from beauty to horror
Shiksa* taunts seep in with the smell of borsch. 
 A pumpkinseed amongst the pricks of Brooklyn
A wild rose planted in the asphalt soil 
     Doo-wop      ditty
Jew’s bop to a Dago harmony,
bagels, bialys and the French twisted strands 
of great grandma’s hair.
          Clipped, stripped of family shoved whole 
into yet another new mold.
      True believers,  ah yes,      fanatics all.
The struggle to survive whole healthy
dipped in, dripped in, a bath of acid and  thorazine. 
Polish priests pedal platitudes to the sisters of St. Joseph 
behind the gilded glory of the Church.

Raped by trust and betrayed by lovers,
a rose married to a prickles thorn,
so empathy is gained, and a healer born.
              Metal must be formed in a crucible of fire 
A healer can not be born without tasting the pyre.


Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

More great poems below...


Details | French Poem | |

Multi-Tasking

Wearing wireless headphones as I listen to the news.
I'm outside watching children playing, taking in the views.
There is screaming in my ears two voices disagree.
A little girl serves her playmates imaginary tea.

They're speaking on the pod, unarmed victims shot by police.
Captives tortured in war. I hear our own. I hear their pleas!
There's screaming in my ear a few voices disagree.
Little girls sitting pretend to speak French saying Oui, Oui!

There are typhoons hitting an island, reminds me of a tsunami.
Also officials gathering parts of a plane shot down by an army.
What  happened to the plane that went missing, no one remembers.
Teenagers on the street play basketball great kids, great neighbors.

The president uses his pen, makes some politicians angry.
There is screaming in my ears so many voices disagree.
The girls skip rope, laughter fills the air and singing too.
 Pundits discuss, argue this and that it's what they do.
 Night and day is closer then these scholars and their degrees.
Theres screaming in my ear, voices, everyone disagrees.

The guys still shooting hoops, living the life, always polite.
Protests on the streets, the  police display their might.
Some back peaceful protests others speak accusingly.
There is screaming in my ears, crowds of voices disagree.

I wave goodbye to the boys, we'll talk, I'll see them again soon.
The children want me to skip rope I play along like a buffoon.
They laugh that I can't skip properly. I leave them to their play.
There's screaming in my ear, voices...might as well talk to clay

My sleep will be hard, in the morning the sun will shine, children will wake.
What kind of world will we leave, you smile and laugh but feel like a fake.
Look how well we have done. When did we stop being one, being mild.
What happened to being cohesive? It takes a village to raise a child.
There is too much screaming in my ears, too many voices disagree.
I can only pray, lend my voice to the calm, hope we can all agree.

11~12~2014
Maurice Yvonne
Sponsor: Cyndi MacMillan
Contest Name: I CAN'T BREATHE: A peaceful Protest, An Anthology of Powerful Poems 
 

Copyright © Maurice Yvonne


Details | French Poem | |

A Debutante's Ball To Remember

A Debutante’s Ball to Remember
In the autumn of my life, oft have I recalled that superb summer night, when I finally experienced my long-awaited heart’s delight. Family and close friends were all ready for my entry into society, to celebrate it with a grand debutante’s ball filled with gaiety.
In a dreamlike state, I felt like a princess with a golden crown, making my grand entrance wearing a champagne chiffon gown. With matching gloves, and a pair of satin shoes on my tiny feet, my auburn hair was adorned with butterflies and posies sweet.
The ballroom was magically transformed with gas lights all aglow, and a glittering chandelier reflected on a highly polished mahogany floor. As the orchestra played, my body and soul were enraptured and consumed by its rendition of Ravel’s enthralling “La Valse” which pervaded the room.
Elegant ladies were all dressed to the nines in exquisite pastel gowns of winter white, baby blue, powder pink, pale peach and beautiful browns. In tacit competition to out-best each other, social charms were well-honed, as they daintily fanned themselves and gossiped animatedly in hushed tones.
Refined gentlemen in their finely-tailored tails navigated the room to mingle, keeping an eye out for eligible heiresses beautiful, graceful, and single. Wafts of mild masculine colognes came from discretely dabbed faces and hair; while the fresh feminine floral scent of French perfumes permeated the air.
Armed with a full dance card, I waltzed the night away with ardent admirers, curtsying and coquettishly smiling, moving on to more exciting suitors. My enchanting evening climaxed with Strauss’s “Vienna Waltz” filling the hall. Oh, what a tale I will have to tell as my granddaughter prepares for her first ball!
11-21-2014

Copyright © Pandita Sanchez


Details | French Poem | |

French Bread

	
	
	French Bread
	
	
	Your index finger 
	draws figure-eights 
	in the dusting of flour 
	on the counter top 
	where you lean
	quite casually, 
	watching as I make 
	a loaf of French bread. 
	Then, laughing a bit, 
	you insert your powdery finger 
	into my right ear. 
	
 	I’m startled... 
	I was so very focused 
	on assembling ingredients 
	that I wasn’t aware 
	of my surroundings, 
	at least not enough to see 
	your finger inching its way 
	toward me. I laugh too, 
	realizing the intimacy 
	of your floured finger.
	Somehow,
	I don’t believe 
	your interest is in my baking,
	 
	but I proceed on to 
	proofing the yeast 
	in warm water, 
	watching carefully 
	for the always-shocking 
	bloom’s suggestion 
	of the possible, 
	our palates fine-tuned 
	to the perfume 
	of earth and damp places.
	
	Thus begins the slow tango 
	of dryness becoming wet, 
	a touch of salt-taste, 
	elements bound together 
	by the slippery 
	until there is inseparable oneness, 
	deep warmth in the joining, 
	the inevitable rising, 
	swelling    seeking relief. 
	
	But not yet, oh no... 
	
	First there must be a pause, 
	a relaxation of the engorged, 
	consummation delayed,
	then the pressure of my hands, 
	pressing-on, 
	pressing and shaping and pressing.
 
	We sip our wine, 
	talk quietly, anticipating 
	the inevitable increase, 
	saying between us,
     		“We’re ready for the final phase:
      		the heat that binds, 
      		coalesces the disparate ingredients, 
      		yielding at last to the 
      		inevitable    delectable     finish.”
	
	Later, cooling as it always must, 
	we can’t resist 
	nibbling still-warm bits 
	dipped in melted butter, 
	feeding them to each other, 
	transcending words, 
	finding new ways of seeing
	one another.
	
	
	Written November 23, 2013
	for Charlotte’s Scorchers.
	
	
	
	
	
	


Copyright © Jack Jordan


Details | French Poem | |

MADDENING METER

If my meter were sweeter could I be the star of the show I struggle with getting it right – I know I’ve a long way to go I sound out the syllables but where is the stress Apart from in my brain - oh I make such a mess 'Foot’ or ‘feet’ aren’t the limbs that I see Iambic pentameter – its French and Greek to me! Da DAH Da Da DAH ... it’s ringing in my head Oh I’ve had enough so I’m going back to bed 10th April 2015

Copyright © JAN ALLISON


Details | French Poem | |

Quote compilation

In your eyes I see the person I am becoming.


Contemplation, the art of seeing the magnificent in the simple.


I searched for wisdom within myself and found God.


Forget all others, until I am the last thought on your mind.


You hide, hoping that I will seek.


Do not set limits on your dreams, that's your boss's job!


I tried to give her a French kiss, unfortunately she was not bi-lingual.


I turned practice into luck, what others see as easy comes from hard work.


If you search for yourself in darkness, how will you find your way back?


His mind traveled at the speed of sound, yet no one could hear him.


She bent over backwards for him, with disappointment she lost her flexibility.


 She was an emotional anorexic, starving for a substantial love.


You will always have a friend if you truly get to know yourself.

Instruments of God we can only create music if he is blowing through their lives.

If all she had was her eyes, she would still be able to smile.

It is impossible to betray someone who has never considered you a friend.

I love the way you bend the sun in my direction.

He promised he would stay forever, some men have no sense of time.




Copyright © Richard Lamoureux


Details | French Poem | |

HEARTBEATS ON PAS DE DEUX

HEARTBEATS ON PAS FE DEUX Starstruck by your smile as I opened my eyes Snow-white cheeks glows to peaches sweet Running fingertip to heart shaped lips As spring breeze kiss, I am a lady longing to grow Fear a lost shadow because warmth flows With your presence alone, I am soppy blown You bestow me a new life within a universe that's dark Walk with me, don't you depart Let's decorate views: a tapestry of you and me Man ... how quick you boil my fire Your heart thumps a crystal chime choir Cushioned pleased from your musky scent Words weak and not needed for us to speak Beside the hearth, let's dance our anthem real slow as our heartbeats jive in a pas de deux If by chance you catch my eye I hope for you to see our sparkles high... Our footwork a unison graceful cruise Two become one in this dance we choose Best given as we don't wanna to lose © O. E. Guillermo October 24, 2014; 10:27pm ***Inspired by the poem made by James Fraser: THE FONDER OF YOU ***PAS DE DEUX (French, literally "step of two") is a dance duet in which two dancers, typically a male and a female, perform ballet steps together. The pas de deux is characteristic of classical ballet and can be found in many well-known ballets, including Sleeping Beauty, Swan Lake, and Giselle.

Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo


Details | French Poem | |

Slavery in Haiti

Haiti, the home of voodoo practices
Seventeenth Century Spain cedes to France
Catholic Spaniards trembled when they saw
“Dead” men revived to wander in trances

A vile poison can make men appear dead
Revival requires an antidote
But perhaps there is more to zombie lore
An explanation to why these souls woke

Brutally treated slaves worked sugar fields
Captives from Africa known as “Maroons”
As French aristocrats sat and grew fat
Blacks sweated for “sweets” in the tropic sun

Buried guilt deep at night still festers
For conscience is God’s gift to each man
Some may suppress it for just a short time
‘Til magical night envelopes the land

Spirits of those who were taken in chains
Are given by God a chance to rebel
Stalking the living in deathly pallor
Haunting their captors with visions of hell

“Zombifications,” Maroons erected
Spreading the horrors of slavery with anger
Showing the French what their evil produced
And putting their sanity in danger

So please put the voodoo dolls back on shelves
The needle-sharp pricks of remorse can sting
Enslaved Maroons prevail in heaven’s court
Our Creator’s eyes aren’t missing a thing

Magic, black or white, God sees no color
Love is bestowed on men of all races
And those who question the Lord’s intentions
Should look in the eyes of living-dead faces

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire


Details | French Poem | |

Autumn on my page


There is a wind ,  which sketched,
Without my knowledge,  the message;

Autumn had lying words,
On my page.

It was by way of red leaves,
The bird of passage,
Twirling in space,

I followed it of my glance
And its woven loops,
On the canvas of the sky.

I just transcribed,
What the wings,

Supported on the wind,
Said to me.

-
(translated from french )
--

C'est un vent qui traçait,
A mon insu,         le message  ;

L'automne avait couché les mots,
Sur ma page.

C'étaient en guise de feuilles rousses,
L'oiseau de passage,
Virevoltant dans l'espace,

Je l'ai suivi de mon regard,
Et de ses boucles tissées,
Sur la toile du ciel .

J'ai seulement retranscrit,
Ce que les ailes,

Appuyées sur le vent,
M'avaient dit.

Copyright © rene Chabriere


Details | French Poem | |

GROWING Together

After six months of living with you
I found it amazing how we grew
     As the passion seemed to fade
     The worst signs of this charade
Were the clothes I couldn’t fit into

Lovemaking’s a form of exercise
And then when it stopped, what a surprise
     I asked you if I looked fat
     You said, “There’s no truth in that”
As you consumed even more French fries

But the doctor’s scale would tell no lies
Some 25 pounds my weight did rise
     Still you refused to believe
     Just continued to deceive
Till friends noted YOUR increasing size



By Carolyn Devonshire
For Judy’s “Short Poem Contest”

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire


Details | French Poem | |

The Last Waltz

La dernière valse

From the skies
Clouds fall upon my dreams
I am up high, away from it all
I am far, but my tears still fall
I stand up and shout to Paris ( Pareee)
You left me, you left me here to fend alone
I can not danse, nor can I waltz
I am here, overlooking skylines of desire
Graveyards calling out my name
The clouds in the sky grey and dancing
The tour Eiffel stands up high
The symbol of all that makes me cry
I can not dance, nor can I waltz
Alizee Alizee go go go
Arête, arête my love simply won’t flow
Abelard died, and so must I
Lovers of love, wine runs dry
Poets and words, vices and crimes
Lovers of the majestic and the absurd
I was pushed over the ledge
In Versailles they left for me dead
Grandiose mirrors and artistic displays
I can not dance, nor can I waltz
So in the castle I will be slayed
By the demons of lovers
From the past, they do say
She left me here
On the left bank of the seine
So here I shall drown totally insane

Notes: I have on purpose used french spelling for some words in the poem.

Copyright © arthur vaso


Details | French Poem | |

When All That's Left Is To Love

.

You are the temple, I worship within,
living prayers of merging love and lust,
breath writes holy scriptures upon our skin.
You are the temple, I worship within,
a sacred place for me to enter in,
my priesthood's vows renewed by ev'ry thrust.
You are the temple, I worship within,
living prayers of merging love and lust. 














*This is an adaptation of French Triolet, a form which is officially written
in lines of 8 syllables, incorporating Iambic Tetrameter. Instead of French Iambic T, 
I am in the mood for a more rambling Colonial English flavour :P



.

Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner


Details | French Poem | |

THE CITY OF LOST SOULS

Beware, out-Lander for thy tread on the sacred ground,
Of Louisiana, guarded by the ghosts of the Mississippi,
And here the dead tell know tails, of the living's returning,
After adventuring into the darkness of the night.
Rattle them bones, sister voodoo woman,
Black magic's high priestess, cast asunder the 
Ivory teeth of the white devils, across the streets
Of old New Orleans, behold the ancient city of lost souls.
Hidden beneath the glittering mask, of La Carnival,
It is the celebration of the dead, my friend, and faceless
Figures, do toss the beads of evil, to the lustful
Crowds gathering, for Mardi-Grad's extravaganza.
Phantom walkers, without names or emotions, spirit stalkers,
Roaming the old French quarter, seeking to catch the
Innocent traveler unaware and unprotected. 
A wall of realism and illusion, thin is the veils that divide
Light and darkness, sheer vaporous mist of transparency,
Existing in this the forgotten realm, where southern
Comfort invites the living to visit, but never allows them
To leave alive.
As the flickering rays of twilight fades, swallowed whole
By the spectral invaders, the creatures of light seek refuges,
Holy places, as the church bells ring, calling unto the innocent
Make heist to salvation's shelters of grace.
In he city's center, lays a dry leathery organ, sunken
And misshapen, feel the rising, the awakening of the
Heart of evil emerging, its veins arteries made of 
Cobble stones brick, thus are the webbing's of streets leading, 
Unto the deadened heart, metamorphosing it alive once more.
Slowly bloods spiritual essence rushes through
These ethereal veins, reaching this source most
Evil, it owns this city of lost souls, unto the tolling
Hour of dawns first rays of light, crossing the horizon.
Red bricked buildings lay side by side one 
Another, in a design of Gothic manipulation, feeding
Stations made cozy for the living and dead to reside
Within, as the crimson curtains blow freely from the 
Inside out, welcome my friends to the French quarters,
The threshold's crossing, between life and death.
Hear the low thumping of the Jamaican drum,
Mixed with African tongue, chanting in rhythm's
Echoing breeze, softly spoken in whispers are the spells
Of misfortune, a vow's crimson promise, written in blood
Long ago, a demonic pack made between the spiritual native
Inhabitance and the dark heart of the Cajun Bayou.
On bloods throne the Grim Reaper does so sit, next 
To his bride, the Queen known as Mrs. New Orleans,
Both laughing in tandem, with the musical chorus
In this requiem of the dammed.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Copyright © cherl dunn


Details | French Poem | |

Scherben des Lebens/ The shards of life/ Los fragmentos de la vida

Die Scherben des Lebens lassen sich nicht kitten.  (German)

The shards of the life cannot be cemented.  (English)

Los fragmentos de la vida no se puede enmasillar.  (Spanish)

Les éclats de vie ne peu pas être à nouveau ensemble.  (French)

I frammenti di vita non può essere di nuovo insieme .  (Italian)

Die skerwe van die lewe kan nie weer saam wees. (Afrikaans)

Ang mga tipak ng buhay ay hindi maaaring simentuhin. (Tagalog)

Cioburile vietii nu pot fi cimentat. (Romanian)

Copyright © Gert W. Knop


Details | French Poem | |

Strings


Musical renditions
The voice in unison, together we chante
Strings play their story
In harmony fate sings along
The winds blow in from the sea
The sun runs away
We are the band of the night
With whiskey we sing and play
We are young and we are old
The night breeze carries the tunes
I may be fao, and I may be inebriated
Harps and chords, strings to be strummed
I see you stare, would you like a Rum?
You know what you want
So close your eyes
The kiss will be sweet
Tomorrow you may fly away
Tonight the strings they are all in play

String me along
Not for long
All strings fall
Naked is your deception
The strings are all gone


Notes "chante" pronouncec shante, = sing in french
Fao = ugly in Spanish

Copyright © arthur vaso


Details | French Poem | |

In the Harem of the Flower Kisser

at the break of dawn a Hummingbird starts his rounds Morning Glory sought flaunting a red hue - Mexican Sunflower tempts looking hot, hot, hot the Don Juan of birds sucking nectar from Beardtongue. . . drunk on French kisses Goldenrod at noon. . . Zephyr carries a sweet scent beneath a gold sun between Rose bushes the Flower Kisser gets lost in Blue Infinity Sweet Pea and Bee Balm entice with purple petals. . . Bees join the orgy Monarchs swarm in droves when blue Hummingbird alights on Butterfly Bush Evening Primrose waving in the dusk’s last breeze. . . the proper lover the Flower Kisser leaves his harem sated as white Moonflower glows By Andrea Dietrich *The capitalized names for flowers represent some of the most popular flowers visited by hummingbirds.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich


Details | French Poem | |

Butterfly Dreams

Giving in to desires dreams of butterflies,
Dancing to internal rhythms pulsing beat,
Finding Heaven's scent, devils delight, sighs; 
Wanting temptations forbidden fruits heat.

Come to where butterflies desires go to kiss,
On wings that whisper of earthly tones,
Carried to heights of sublime bliss;
While butterflies whisper orgasmic moans.

Plunging deeper, coaxing french vanilla cream,
Eyes wide open drinking in butterfly dew,
Giving in to butterflies secret desires to dream;
Devouring ambrosial butterfly nectar anew.

Trembling beneath each stroke of butterfly wings,
Release struggling to cascade in brilliant form,
Tender hushed whispers, as the heart sings;
Caught off guard during a butterfly storm.


Copyright © Shannon Deane


Details | French Poem | |

In A Meadow

.

I can feel the breath of violin, upon my face ~ The fluttering wings of fingers playing, 'A Lark Ascending' In sweet release, I close my eyes, and drift away to inner peace ~ All strife takes flight, the music takes me to a meadow growing…. Two clarinets, in soft duet …..are timeless, ageless, knowing I'm standing still, in waving grass, a cello plays a soft breeze blowing I weave and sway…the music plays …a french horn makes sweet love to me As if a lark, I leave the ground, upon the lilting sound, and fly away…
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Inspired by the Classical composition, "A Lark Ascending" Composed by Vaughn Williams

Copyright © Carrie Richards


Details | French Poem | |

Cashmere Wishes

You waited for this moment,
As if you were an incomplete salutation

You waited for confessional breaths to alleviate this finite evening
Missing its constellations

You wept for their sunflower touch.

A touch to engorge the gaps of your imprinted thumb
With honeysuckle madness

Dry

Another cashmere moistened parable
Hungering for ink-plated resolutions

You waited for their Haiku smile.

A smile condoning resilient waterfalls
Unto ocean’s distant memory

Aching for risky walks above coal-ridden tomorrows

No forest green pupils observing
The hindrance of time

You wished upon wishes
For blanketed convenance to warm aspiring, French kiss upon promised morn

You wrestled with downward spirals,
Uplifting loneliness from Heaven’s chasm

Lost

Enough

Regurgitated sobs reserved under no-name invitations

But, I...

…I was 						h	e	r	e.

All along

©Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes


Details | French Poem | |

An Ode to Ezra Pound - Musical accompaniment performed by audio-visual hallucinations

Through past/present/future, the Oriental Express still clatters,
bending time, space and everything else that really matters.

The eclectic, co-mingled aroma
of Turkish coffee, French onion soup
and spicy Kung Pao almonds,
wafts through the observation deck,
stinging the ornamental eyes
delicately carved into the interior bas-relief.

Initially squinting,
blinking wide open,
pupils melt like hot candle wax,
dripping onto toes tip-tapping
alongside the steady music beating 
from off the iron bones spinning 'round below.

Barely, just barely,
they hear the yardman's migratory yearnings
as he switches the tracks of thought -
so mesmerized they are,
by the moistened, black boughs
speeding past open windows.
Pale faces dangling from the laden branches;
strange, intoxicating fruit

-hanging-

so comfortably close to fingertips,
their spiral prints bending time, space
and everything else in-between that really matters.

Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner


Details | French Poem | |

FIVE FABULOUS FUNNY FOOTLES

JAN'S NEW NICKNAME
Pooper
Souper

*For her now famous pooh poem

REACTION FROM JAN'S FAVORITE CRITIC
I fuss
Jealous 

I think
You stink

Pooh write
I fight

Pooh talk
I block

Your run
Not fun

You poop
No soup

I judge
Brown fudge

Humor
Not her

You lose
Short fuse

French chic
Short wick

Date: 6-8-15
Contest: Jan's "Five fabulous Funny Footles" 

Copyright © Lyric Man