Best Cru Poems
À JAMAIS
je n’aurais jamais cru
que le jour viendrait
toujours j’ai pensé
que je serais là pour toi
et toi pour moi
jamais je n’aurais cru
que si soudainement
la fin arriverait
comment ai-je pu laisser
le destin t’arracher de mes bras
notre pour toujours et à jamais
désormais derrière nous
Translated from my poem FOREVER
AP: 2nd place 2021
(sing it to the tune of "Cruella DeVil" from Disney's 101 Dalmatians)
There was a Govenor named
Kristi Noem De-Vil Oh
Kristi Noem De-Vil
Her own dog she’ll harm
there's nothing more cru-el
Kristi Noem De-Vil
Kristi Noem DeVil
She hated her puppy Cricket
with wired haired charm
Her own doggy she'll harm
Her own doggy she'll harm
deemed he was useless
like her goat valued less
So, she took the poor pup out
Not sympatico—Not even a pout
She’s made her boss proud
she shouts out loud,
Kristi Noem De-Vil
Kisti Noem De-Vil
with whom she’ll share
the Presidential ticket
Out of her mind with excitement,
chasing all those birds
and having the time of her life
was poor fated Cricket
We need strong leaders who can
do these sorts of messes
She'll bring her own doggy harm
Ranting that it’s just another day on the farm!
The Govenor may be watching too much Netflix
Perchance Wentworth an Australian series
An unhinged system for women's prison
Chicks! Chicks! Chicks!
Chorus...
If anyone out there is looking to offload
an annoying puppy or jerk-face goat
there are many rescues out there
War roars above
~ a hemisphere
gone coal black,
blasted with skin
~ned ash, soot
~scores the sky
and rubble roils; blood can not travel on the
wind. Lines cross, posts cross, peace cru~
cified. Food thought, wry humor displayed
in fields of grain from sea to sea. Commun~
nication cut-off
deafened by the
omnipresent gale.
Fenced in safety
a jest. The gold~
en fuel, isolation
will not save us.
War roars above
~ a hemisphere
gone coal black
blasted with skin
~ned ash, soot
scores the sky
and rubble roils
Blood can not
travel the wind.
An Ekphastic written in the Shape Form
After: Gray and Gold by John Rogers Cox, 1943.
peu à peu comme une rose
quand vient l’automne
je t’ai vu faner
devant moi tout lentement
je n’aurais pas cru
voir éclore entre nous un amour si serein
garni d’un parfum plus divin
tu m’as offert l’intimité comme un trésor
que l’on offre sans rien à cacher
d’un cœur innocent
cette proximité restera toujours avec moi
tu seras en tout temps l’amour de ma vie
je n’aurais jamais osé croire
devoir un jour te dire adieu mais voilà
Translated from my poem YOU WERE MY HARDEST GOODBYE
AP: 2nd place 2021
For years, not a few, and long overdue
I came to this realisation
how little I knew, in fact not a clue
of Classical Civilisation.
So out there I flew, on holiday too,
to garner familiarisation,
to study anew, a modest review
of Greece and her rise as a nation.
In a car which was blue and not very new,
but offered me mobilisation,
I stopped, it is true, for a breathtaking view
to savour my rustic collation.
The wine was a brew of dubious hue,
which said it had fermentisation.
It wasn’t a cru nor vintage I knew
but offered anaesthetisation.
With no more to do, the cork I withdrew
to satisfy liquidisation.
I drank the lot through, my mind all askew,
it banished my guilty sensation.
When thinking it through, I knew what to do;
emboldened with this revelation,
bethween me and you, I now can shay BOO
to Clathical Shiverlization.
~
by Charles Clive
for 'Politically Educated Free Poetry Contest'.
épouvantail
s'il y avait eu
suffisante épouvantail
à effrayer
tous ceux qui essaient de
croa croa croa
au cours de la s'ensuit
cours des événements,
puis, éventuellement, il
aurait pu être un
raison de penser que
il y avait quelque chose,
quelqu'un, quelque part,
qui pourrait venir &
shoooooooooo
tout de suite problème --- est
que l'épouvantail
c'était juste un autre
blocus insuffisante
construit une brique à la
temps par les plus optimistes
qui ont cru tous les
mot que le
alarmistes ont dû
offrir et en très peu de
temps, le tout à fait
la colère irrépressible
tordait juste au-dessous
la surface d'un monde
complète de la blessure.
Christmas Day
By Robert (Bob) Moore-(to the tune of Good King Wenceslas)
Just last night when I looked out
Christmas lights were glowing
soon it will be Christmas Day
but will not be snowing
We live in the land of Oz
heat it can be cru-el
underneath the Southern Cross
don’t need winter fu-u-el
We need fuel for barbecues
meat and drink a-plenty
invite friends and neighbours round
maybe about twenty
We will feast and have good cheer
remember all the good times
drink to friends no longer here
listen to the be-ell chimes
sharing presents one and all
show how much you love them
packed and wrapped with loving care
opened with abandon
Think of times when we were young
presents to astound you
carol singing round the tree
family to surrou-ound you
The people who only eat lettuce
and nibble some nuts from a bowl,
are totally, utterly tiresome;
this ‘smugger-than-thou’ rigmarole.
But me? I am rather old fashioned
and faddy foods don’t pass my lips.
I’ll tell you one thing that I fancy,
a juicy great steak – and some chips.
I like a wee nip of the whisky,
a malt and I beg with no ice;
so will you just make it a double.
I don’t think I’d call it a vice.
I’m partial to wine from the Touraine,
a dry little number will do.
And then I enjoy a good claret,
all ancient and Premier Cru.
Now! Who are these creatures for supper?
Their surnames, I think I have missed.
Dear God! What a dreary young couple.
Shank goodnesh, I’ve got them both pished!
~
For Elliott Bowe's 'Drunken Pen' Competition.
traducere de: Angela Mamier Nache.
aujourd’hui dieu m’a rappelé à lui
m’a grondé comme un père en me disant
qu’un ange s’est foulé les ailes en volant
parmi mes mots et je jure que je ne l’ai pas voulu
et dieu m’a cru sur parole
après il m’a rendu tous les mots en retour
et il m’a dit gentiment de les préserver
qu’aucun ange ne se brise plus les ailes
dans leur incompris
Riding the rhythms of rolling wheels
Driving rusty rock desert miles
Purring pistons pumping power
To my mottled muddy jade jeep
A symphony sprung in my head
Dawning with dainty din of drums
Paving a path for piccolos
And rich rumblings of black bassoons.
Strings sent soaring counterpoint smoke
Playing with a glory sublime
In flawless metronomic time
Mozart tears of joy would have shed.
Music was a top choice grand cru
But when I had to stop for gas
And gulp soothing bubbly soda
My sweet symphony flew away.
Fermented fine without any skills
My heady brew I can't renew.
The mighty wind buffets
And the trees cry bitter tears
I try to hang on to my limb
"Don't let go!"
shutting my eyes to the debris
I'm torn loose,
blown away
through the empty air
nothing to cling to
panic sparks as I'm rolled
over
and
over
pulled this way................................... then that
too much wide open space
I'm battered against something solid
breaking,
cru
mb
ling into dry pieces
I
fall
to
the
ground
into a mass grave
of mirror images. mirror images
mirror images. mirror images
Into those vast spaces, where my mind does roam,
I gaze and find dark e m p t i n e s s all around,
Lin ger ing, looking for someone to hold me,
I cru m b l e to p - i - e - c - e - s beneath these false smiles...
Inside those vast spaces, where my heart does hang,
I gasp and find damp h o l l o w n e s s choking me,
Torn by l o n e l i n e s s, croaking cries in silence,
I fumble in fragile f r a g m e n t s masked in mirth...
Within these vast spaces, where people do live,
Does anyone have such OPEN MINDEDNESS
To accept me with my mood swings, muse and f-l-a-w-s?
I hope there is, but God knows, I'm still w a i t i n g . . . . . .
09/29/17
Contest: Form V - Verse me a poem
Sponsor: Broken Wings
SHE IS A SINGER
THAT YOU LACK
THE INTELLGENCE OF KNOWING!
WHO IS THIS, HE SAID: SPEAKING
OF THE PERSON
WHO HAS BEEN CALLING
EACH DAY. tHAN THE VOICE SAID
"I WILL TELL YOU WHAT
YOU NEED TO KNOW",
HE SLAMMED THE PHONE DOWN
BEFORE SAYING" WRONG NUMBER."
WHO WAS THAT ASKED HIS WIFE, YOU KNOW
THOSE GUYS CALL HERE PLAYING ON
THE PHONE, I GUESS THEY WERE FREINDS
OF MERISU.YEAH I GUESS THEY
WERE FREINDS OF MERISU, SHE HAD AN
OBOE DIDN'T SHE HE ASKED, HIS WIFE
ANWSERING, YES AND A DRUMSET
AND A COUPLE OTHER INSTRUMENTS
THE GUY ON THE PHOONE SAID
SOMETHING ABOUT KNOWING THE TRUTH
IT SAID THESE THINGS
LA FEMME PORTE DU ROUGE
LES APPLAUDISSEMENTS EST DEVENU PLUS FORT
IL SE RAIT QU'IL ALLAIT
MAUDIRE ALORS IL A COMMENCE A MAUDIRE
SA MERE A DIT QUE 'IL MAUDISSANT LE DIABLE
L'EMMENERAIT EN ENFER
BATON DE LEVRE SUR SES
TIROIRS SOYEUX BLANCS
JE SUIS UN CHAT DE TANDIS QUE
JAMBON ACTE DE MAIGRE
J'AI CRU ENTRENDRE TON FILS
ON POUT SE MARIER
MAINTENANT ?
SA FEMME LVI LANCE
DES OEUFS... ELLE EST EN COLERE IL A TRICHE
QUI EST LE ROUGE A LEVRES
ROSE PRTANT FEMME?
AND FINDING OUT WHAT'S GOING ON
I HEARD THAT MERISU WAS IN FRANCE
ON TOUR WITH DELGRIN'S NEICE
TRICE AND MR. GELTRIFE, WELL ONE OF THOSE
CLOWNS MIGHT BE PLAYING ON THE PHONE.
CALL MERISU, AND TELL HER
I'VE BEEN RECORDING SOME STRANGE
FREAK, SOMEONE SHE PROBABLY DATED
AND HE'S BEEN FOOL ENEOUGH TO
BELEIVE HER LIES,
AND WE BELEIVE THIS
DICKLICKER IS PLAYING
ON OUR PHONE,
AND WE'VE BEEN RECORDING
THE WHOLE THING, AND
WE ARE GONNA PAWN
THE INSTRUMENTS IN THE
CELLER AND PAY SOME ONE
TO PUT THIS FREAK'S WORDS
TO MUSIC, AND THEN
WE ARE GONNA PUT
IT ON THE RADIO.
Dear inconnu
If I must be enthralled by something
I saw it to be you
I'm enmeshed in the prism
your song of solipsism
I need your protein
I want your feist
I crave your grand cru
what shall I do
It's stress I guess
supernatural king
with your burning ring
your canvas occurs
in my nightly pictures
a rock replaced my soul
which you now control
I gawk into your pupils
and it captured my will
I lay in the perfume of your memory
dear Inconnu, where is your key?
Rich, vibrant mixtures off the changing colors of
October.
Golden yellow's that represent the ray's of the
sun.
Soft brown's, like dry dirt underground.
Bright red"s that lift the spririt, as do the namesake
birds flying in the sky.
Golden yellow"s that represent the ray's of the
sun.
Leaves turning colors so brilliantly.
Bright red's that lift the spirit namesake birds
birds flying in the sky.
October is such a special time of the year
Leaves turning color's so brilliantly.
Soft brown's like the dirt underneath.
October is such a special time of the year.
Walkways decorated with such splendor.
Raking the harvest bounty in a pile.
Walkways decorated with such splendor.
I jump happily into the pile of crunch.
Raking the harvest bounty into a pile.
I jump happily into a pile of cru ch.
Rich, vibrant mixtures of the changing colors of
October.
October 30, 2019
Poets October Pantoum
Sponsor William Kekaula