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Best French Poems

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A Stroll Through the French Quarter-A House in New Orleans Contest 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
French bistros by Salzano, Julieta
Incident at the French Open by bauer, ilene
French Fries by Ellison, Jack

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The Best French Poems

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

More great poems below...

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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

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 | |


Humanity grieves with Paris, comforting her with sympathetic eyes;
the brutal attacks of November have reunited the City of Lights:
pictures, flowers and candles can attest!
Let the strongest ones seek revenge, and capture the fleeing coward;
always pray for freedom, pray for world peace and feel so empowered: 
sing your Anthem, put your anger to rest!

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2015

Details | French Poem | |

Villanelle: French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe

Villanelle: French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe
     Dedicated to the great French actor, Off Course!

French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe
Must you invite high breeds to the Hebrides
To maggis shellfish wine said: I love you!

Starved Loch Ness Monster kept well out of view
For this Gourmet eats even monster breeds
French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe

Medieval monarchs gulped innerns – rest threw
To the serfs lords ladies dogs and hybrids
To maggis shellfish wine said: I love you!

French Gourmand let Scots talk their tartans through
Venison loins he carved out for his needs
French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe

Goths Visigoths Vikings Normans or Dieu*
Falstaff nose and paunch hide much actor’s deeds
To maggis shellfish wine said: I love you!

Eiffel Tower Louvre Versailles nothing new
Mountain Man kept apart Scylla Charibdis
French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe
To maggis shellfish wine said: I love you!

•	Dieu: God, but French pronunciation, please!
He might take exception.

© T. Wignesan – Paris,  2015

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2015

Details | French Poem | |

The Way Of The Wood Pusher

There's a game known as Chess that I learned as a lad
But in spite of the passage of time I'm still bad.
I can not see ahead seven moves like some do;
If you say, "Bobby Fischer" I'll just come back with, "Who?"

I speak French when I must, as in terms like, "J'adoube,"
But it's all a charade, for I think like a boob.
I don't know who invented this mind-wasting sport,
But I'm sure many law books would deem it a tort.

You can find "Chess For Dummies" on shelves in bookstores,
And I once tried to read it, eliciting snores.
See, I'm trapped in the middle, 'twixt Firsties and Plebes;
It is called Mediocre, and it ranks me with Dweebs.

But this thing's got me hooked; I just can't walk away;
It's a weird fascination that's always in play.
I don't care if you trounce me in ten moves or less
When I trot out my Queen in a desperate press.

My intent is to smash you like ANVIL on bone,
But it's not very often that I'm in the zone.
And I have other schemes that I'm willing to try;
GARIBALDI's the Gambit that might make you cry.

When I'm lazy I mimic your opening game;
MIRROR MOVES, my descriptive, alliterative name.
Metaphors just delight me as labels for ploys
To deprive my opponents of all of their joys.

If I were only equally good with my men
I could teach all of you a sore lesson, and then
I would not have to channel my fear of defeat
Into tirades like these that sound like a goat's bleat.

Copyright © Roderick Molasar | 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 | |

A House in New Orleans

She always led me down that alleyway holding my left hand with both of hers, like a child, excitedly. It was awkward of course, and I did all I could not to trip in her feet. But she made small, quick steps, avoiding the overgrown weeds with learned skill. My heartbeat quickened as we reached the low gate, when suddenly sunshine would wash over us. It felt distinctly wild and Mediterranean, looking in where we shouldn’t, where old ‘mad’ Mr Winthorpe had set up his little animal grave. It was beautiful.

Weeds and stones and love
Planted with you all the above
Your memories live

Copyright © Miriam Calleja | Year Posted 2016

Details | French Poem | |

Shadowed Heart

The sun went down on yesterday.
When evil had it's horrid way.
A new day dawn's around the world.
As a bloody flag has been unfurled.

Somehow our joy is not the same.
A little dimmer burns the flame.
We carry on and do our part.
But we're reminded with a shadowed heart.

Jesus said there would be trouble.
That no one lives inside a bubble.
But how many lesson's must be taught?
To learn that action is not a thought.

As we go on and live our lives.
And simple pleasure still survives
As we are left to now restart.
The past is cast in our shadowed heart.

Prayers, peace and hope for Paris and this world. Amen

Copyright © robert johnson | Year Posted 2015

Details | French Poem | |


You touch the light that no one sees
and see winds whisper through the trees
deep in the night you think on these
few things, but everywhere.

You curse at life, the constant bore
but give it all you have and more
you're right on time but ask what for
when no one else is there?

You see the faces never shown
and bare the soul no one has known
but what you find are hearts of stone
who ask how could you dare?

You look too deep where no one goes
to feel the pain that on one shows
you know all things all Paris knows
when no one else would care.

You see each rain drop to the ground
and all night long you hear each sound
of mystery of what you've found
and hold them close and dear.

But you must hide these secrets of
what life's about, the pain, the love
and no one wants what's really there
though free--and everywhere.
© Ron Wilson Arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2015

Details | French Poem | |

Whores of La Rive Gauche

      THE WHORES OF La Rive Gauche
To talk of love, in such a time as now
is letting loose the devil in his day
for what is love is what life will allow
in search of feeling good in any way;

in sweet temptation of the heart and mind
we jump into what love has come to mean
then wrap our lives in what there is to find
and swear that it's the best there's ever been;

too late, discovery makes our hearts to see
we've let our beds to whores who want to stay,
and love, the joke, has layed so casually
where we have slept the night, and thru the day;

it's easy to be here in loves embrace
and so we never look love in the face.
© ron wilson arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2015

Details | French Poem | |

Black Friday in Paris

Black Friday is hovering over the wet alleys of Paris
Scratching its nails against the brick walls, holding in grimes
With his every breath, dies a red tulip on the pregnant terrace
Lovers shiver in their empty rooms, chocking on  the echoes of innocents’ shrieks
Terror screams and birds scatter into the suffocating air above
Their feathers still wet, dipped in the blood 
Pebbles shake as Fear steps on them, having a grin on his face
Rain can’t even wash what has marked peoples’ grieving hearts
The best Wine is now spoiled where music is standing still in the air
The hands of agony are digging the grounds of despair
I pray for Paris and for the great light to shine
For courage and love to be resurrected at once
I pray that His light will shine and overcome the terror
He is the true conqueror and the world’s only savior
He will come riding on the clouds, shushing the terror, making it crawl
He will restore love and will lay down peace
People of Paris will smile and listen to His tender music!
Lovers will fill the alleys once excruciatingly dark
They whisper I love you, beholding the Eiffel right at dusk

 November 16, 2015

Copyright © Rahy Hayati | Year Posted 2015

Details | French Poem | |

My Parisienne Girl

You will be the forest and the trees
every leaf that whispers in the breeze
and be one of those who always sees.
You will understand.

You will be the whisper of the wind
and become part of your only friend
singing songs that never have an end
you will understand.

In the night you'll be the shining star
my love is there and always where you are
becoming all you've known in life before
you will understand.

You will be always, eternity
from where you have come and have to be
and you'll be in love, and that is me
you will understand.

You will be all things you'll ever do
and all I want, is all the you of you
yes ev'ry breath of life already planned
you will understand.
© Ron Wilson Arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2015

Details | French Poem | |

For France and Liberty

For France and Libertè

Bloodbath of hearts, young, old and hard working, 
Pit of despair with anger, death and evil lurking, 
Why France, why that small country? 
Lights cut off, silence punctuated the gunshots, 
Which killed, and where so many became hotspots, 
You are malevolent with no gentry. 

France has always been known for free speech, 
For America’s liberty and Piketty’s wealth screech,  
Continuing to embrace the many; 
A hard intervention policy on Syria for the following, 
Of other nations which did indeed with them ring, 
For a Syrian democracy brawny.

And recently, Qatar only won the FIFA football bid, 
Because France validated them to Blatter, the top lid, 
Qatar gave them money for ISIS;
The freedom found in France must not diminish,  
Right must be fought for to dictatorship abolish,
Our lives may just be the thesis. 

Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015