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Best French Poems | Poetry

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New French Poems

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

French by bauer, ilene
freddie mercury george michael lisa stansfield all connected to a french baker by low, gate
French Food by Rigoler, Maurice
Mom's French Ascent by Pinet, Emile
French Revolution PARODY by vaso, arthur
Les Faux Pas de French by Rigoler, Maurice
Fed German Strudel To French Poodle and More by Horn, James
FABRIC FRENCH TERRY KNIT by Loo, Laura
the french connection by hansen, jan
A French Kiss by Hawkins, Craig

View all new French Poems

The Best French Poems

Details | French Poem |

I Knitted You A Scarf

Listen to poem:

                           
   
                            
                             t         e         t        e   
                               a        l          a         l    
                              s        s          s         s    
                             s          s        s          s   
                             l         a           l           a        
                            e         t          e           t  
                            IKNITTEDAWINTERSCARF
                            ALARGEINTRICATECASH
                            MEREFANCYPANTSGENT
                            LEMANJIMKINDOFNECKC
                            LOTHESPEOPLEWEARARO
                            UNDTHEIRPREVIOUSLYNA
                            KEDSKINBETWEENTHEIRH
                            EADSANDTHEIRSHOULDER
                            SWHICHREALLYCOUNTSIF
                            YOULIVEINABELOWZERO
                             WEATHERCITYWITHAFREE
                               ZINGCOLDATMOSPHERE
                              THATWILLMAKEYOURTE
                              ETHCLATTERANDCLINKMA
                              KINGSOUNDSTHATWOUL
                              DRATTLEEVENTHOSEWIT
                              HTHESTEADIESTOFNERVES
                              THETYPEWITHTHOSESTRO
                               NGJAWSTHATPOTRUDEBE
                               YONDTHEIRFACESANDDRI
                                VEFATBOYHARLEYMOTOR
                               CYCLESANDCOULDCRUSH
                                YOUWITHJUSTALOOKFROM
                                 WHERETHEIREYESSITONTH
                                EIRVISAGEWHICHISASTRANG
                                 EWORDTOUSEHERESINCEITH
                                 INK"VISAGE"ISONEOFTHOSE
                                 SOPHISTICATEDWORDSOFFR
                                ENCHORIGINWHICHISNOTARA
                                WCOUNTRYTYPESLANGKINDO
                                 FWORDWHICHWOULDBEMUCH
                                  MOREAPPROPRIATEFORBIKEM
                                  ANANAMEICOINEDMYSELFFOR
                                  MARKWHOTURNSOUTTOBEAN
                                 UNEXPECTEDLYKINDGUYWHO
                                  TURNSOUTSUITSTHEWORDVI
                                  SAGEINFACTONEWITHAGREATS
                                   MILETHATOCCASIONALLYPOPS
                                    UPONMARKSFACEIACTUALLYE
                                    VENGAVEHIMTHESCARFASAGIFT
                                     (PAUSE)(2)(3)(4)ASWELLASMYW
                                     ALLETMYCARKEYSMYCREDITCA
                                      RDSMYPINNUMBERSMYWATCH
                                      t              e           t              e     
                                       a            l              a            l    
                                      s            s              s            s        
                                     s            s                s              s
                                        l            a             l              a  
                                          e           t             e           t



THE CASHMERE WOOL I USED TO KNIT A SCARF 


I knitted a winter scarf, a large intricate Cashmere
                            
fancy pants, Gentleman Jim kind of neck clothes people
                            
wear around their previously naked skin between their
                            
heads and their shoulders which really counts if you live 

in a below zero weather city with a freezing cold atmosphere 
                             
that will make your teeth clatter and clink making sounds that

would rattle even those with the steadiest of nerves. 

The type with those strong jaws that protrude beyond their faces 

and drive FatBoy Harley motorcycles and could crush you with just 

a look from where their eyes sit on their visage which is a strange
                                 
word to use here since I think "visage" is one of those sophisticated 

words of French origin which is not a raw country type slang kind of
                                 
word which would be much more appropriate for bike man a name 

I coined myself for Mark who turns out to be an unexpectedly kind guy 

the type it turns out suits the word visage in fact one with a great
                                   
smile that occasionally pops up on Marks face I actually even
                                    
gave him the scarf as a gift (pause) (2)(3)(4), as well as my wallet 

my car keys, my credit cards, my pin numbers, my watch...

Details | French Poem |

Door to Nowhere

Door to Nowhere


Royalty have Chateau’s
With moats and drawbridges

Artists have colors
Paints and brushes and dreams

The poor have soup
And Marie's gateau’s

The lonely have open doors
To nowhere

I let my baguette go hard and stale
So I could stab myself with nourishment

As my blood flows slowly
Through that door with no hope

I with no rope, fade away

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

Details | French Poem |

Beautiful

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.

Details | French Poem |

The Whore and the Sea part 1

The moon was neither full, nor was it not
She shone down radiant lighting the misty ole night
The waves lapped the shore
As a gentle breeze streaked my face
Alone by the sea, clouds, the moon and me

The easterly winds became stronger
Whipping up sand at my feet
The gentle sea, turned, 
Becoming bold and loud as can be
It seemed the wind and the sea were holding
Each others embrace in tangos graceful dance

The sand began to whip my face
As the winds become stronger still
Before my eyes, the sand itself took shape
Slowly taking form before my trembling body
Appeared a beautiful woman wearing an angelic shawl
All in pure white, staring with a smile at the likes of me

She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen
I thought to myself, this must be but a dream
I told her, you are a princess me lady, and bowed
She shyly looked back at me replying
“I am no such thing, I am unworthy, and unholy
I am dirty and un-pure
I am the whore of the sea”

I was shocked to hear these words pour forth
From such an innocent soft spoken mouth
How can this be? You look to be a Royal Queen
She answers; my looks deceive, as I have said
I am nothing but the whore of this sea”
Every sailor and fisherman who ever sailed these waters
Have had their wishes with me
I have done their biddings for 1000’s of years
I appear before you in shame
Seeking redemption
I walk the shores, tormented by my
Bodily sins

Have you a name me lady of the sea?
“I have none, simply a faceless whore”
Of course this must be a dream an illusion
How else does sand become such sad beauty?
I must be going crazy, hallucinating
Sleepwalking? 

A cold wind, one huge gust
Across from the northern skies
Slapped me in the face
Ice cold clarity 
This was real, she was real
Even the moment was unexplained
The shock of it, struck me
I stumbled backwards over driftwood
Bruised and lying in the sand

She ran to me
With such concern in her eyes
I saw then underneath her sadness
I felt her humility and compassion
She asked, young man?
Are you injured? Can I attend to you?
I told her I was fine, a mere slip
So to speak

Now the winds changed direction again
Westerly with utter fierceness tearing the sand
Whipped up and slashing my face
She simply gazed west
Another form appeared before us both
A sailor, a pirate, I was not sure at all
He looked menacing none the less

I asked now who the bloody heck are you?
He exclaimed
“I am a grand sailor of the seven seas
Why I have traveled east and west, 
North and south
There is little I have not seen
Little I have not tasted
Forbidden fruits, and even as you see
Before your very eyes here
The whore of the seas standing before thee”

She shuddered and moved closer to me
As if for protection
Of what or how I had no idea
I was a mere pawn in this apparition
This dance of the universe
Beyond all my comprehension I was sure

The sailor in a softer soothing voice
Ah sorry me lady
I meant no offense as to that comment
My mouth doesn’t always flow with manners
The winds have brought me to your charms
Have no alarm
Like you, I wander the sea shores
1000’s of years in hell reliving past sorrows
I bow to you me lady
In despair for tales untold

She the whore of the seas
As she so called herself
A taken aback at his candid admissions
She was not all that sure, however
She even thought there was a tear in his eyes

Here I was, between the sands of time
Between two ghosts of ancient ways
Yet it was I who seemed invisible
As they parleyed back and forth

The pirate of hearts was on his knees
He begged with his eyes
That we all listen to his heart of hearts
And I swear to you
Theses are the words I heard

Lady, tiss true, I had my way with you
Those many long lost years ago
From that moment on, my heart was broken
I left, I traveled, I roamed, I bedded
There was no one as you
No heart as pure
No soul so white
No woman so wise
No human with your compassionate eyes

I longed for you, if only you knew
What would a whore want with me?
You, who could have any man
For gold silver or want
I could not cry
Nor admit my defeat
God forgive me the battles fought
To forget the look of you

Now here I was, alone on a wind swept shore
Listening to the confessions of sand
It dawned on me, we came from dust
And so shall we one day return
As this thought passed
The women of the sea spoke back

Continued next post

Details | French Poem |

The Whore and the Sea part 2

You know sailor man,
You woke the spirit in me
I thought you were drunken and carefree
I could not hope or dream
The whore of the seas must take her place
I was of the lowest cast
The lowest morale
After you
I was with a baby you see
I had to run to the mountains
Alone and far from the salt air
To give this child more hope
Than could ever exist for me

The sailor of the seas seems touched
He truly had tears running down his face
He continued his side of the tale

Ah me lady, the winds of the east
The winds of the west
The ghosts of the past
The Moons pull
And this young mans wonder
Have aligned to bring us to a truth

Your child, was my child
Your love was my hope
For the seed of life to continue
For better times
I have walked these shores
As you
For a thousand years and more
Seeking solace
Seeking you
The gods have seen to this
I have escaped the fires below
In search of you

I knew not what was love
Until I knew you
Only upon me death
Did I see what was lost
The sea is vast
Your love vaster still 
Even we, as the people of ancient times
In this moment
On this shore
We our bound by this immortal love




As they spoke the winds howled
The sands tossing in the wind
I felt nothing
Riveted to these phantoms of other destinies
Why was I here?
Did I fall upon time itself?
The answer was to become shockingly clear

The Princess of the sea was both 
Sad and smiling
She touched the sailor’s hand
And said,

We have taken a thousand years to know love
To know we were loved
To know we died in sadness and emptiness
To what ends are we here
What have the gods planned?
You in hell
Me trapped upon the shores of my service?
Why, why sailor man, must we weep now
At the love we had
Yet never shared?


He smiled
He caressed her hair
Gently he whispered to her
We shall wander these shores
For a thousand years and more
We now have found serenity
Comfort
Love
We know deeply the erotic desires
Of the spirit
We are here my love
For a special reason

I await your answer she said!
He replied;
A thousand years have passed
Here on this shore
I saw your eyes fall upon the young man
Who fell at the mere site of us
I saw the love in your eyes
The love of a mother




So I say to you my love
Look into the eyes
Of your son
He is ours
Even if many generations have passed
He is the love that was us
He has now witnessed
Our bond, the universes wisdoms
We are here this windy evening
To caress both our pasts
To know the love that was always there

Yet
We are here at the whim of the unknown
To let our flesh and blood
Know that goodness
Is not ones circumstance and profession
Life offers few choices
We have shown our child of our child and so forth
His past, his future, his path
The very secrets of life
And the universe
Unfolded upon his breast

We the sailor and the whore
Implore to all men and women of honor
Listen to love
Go forth our fine young man
Knowing now from where you came

The winds shall diminish
We shall return to sand
Until another day
When fate needs a helping hand

I awoke on the beach
Had I dreamed?
I was uncertain
In my house, by the door
Lay a white shawl
With bruised knee
I smiled

I held the cloth of secret mysteries

Details | French Poem |

Darkest of Confessions

Darkest of Confessions


Voices in my head
Dancing abreast with the abstract
Shattered glasses and shattered dreams
History repeats many a lovers’ defeat

I demand a duel
With my heart
I welcome the sword that shall draw first blood
Ending the torment of duel nationalities

Kissing lovers and slaying love
The ménage a trois of all duels
The sword, the heart, the opera of nothings
Graveyards hold the court, from dusk to dark

Lovers return
Some are loved
Some are slayed
Regrets in my diary of misery

Hold me true
I shall sing of you
In my darkest confessions
As my sword pieces your heart

You can bleed in tranquility
With your last breath
It’s I Mademoiselle de Maupin
That laid you to eternal rest



Julie d'Aubigny 1670Aprox–1707, better known as Mademoiselle Maupin or La Maupin, was a 17th-century swordswoman and opera singer. Her tumultuous career and flamboyant life were the subject of gossip and colourful stories in her own time, and inspired numerous portrayals afterwards

Details | French Poem |

Paris in Turmoil

I
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.

Details | French Poem |

Lake Vaso

Skies falling, upon the ragged heart pasquil
Tranquility ripples across the lake in plethora
She is there, in my heart, a sweet delusion
As I cross the waters wishing I was omnipotent
I drop my oars on forest floor, seeking Aurore
I run along the earth clad pathways towards the cloister
Praying that accrued love still has her beholden 
Kneeling on one knee, I look up with a glint of promise


The Lantern reflects back the softness of her eyes

Details | French Poem |

Blanc comme la neige

White like the snow

Ice stiffened limbs
Reaching out
No saviors about

Snow flakes in the wind
I reached and reached and reached
Towards deaths cold hands

Never to see her again
I looked down
Wine of bloods holocaust

Flowing from my hands
Unto the devils abode
Whitest of Pyrenees days

I died beside her departure
Railroad tracks empty
Bloodless heart
Ashes black
Butterfly born

Details | French Poem |

Notes

"A Paris"
Jazz and ballet
White dresses
Red wine

Violin strings
Moulin dances, stories so grim
Le Bois de Vincennes
Castles under clouds of sin

Cafes with causal chatter
When after all
What does life matter?
Drowning, the words filled with laughter

By the Seine
Walking amongst insane dreams
Singing of things never to be
In Paris a fiery inferno

		desires flame

	up in smoke

Details | French Poem |

Skies From A Little Girl's Eyes

She wades in until the water reaches her waist,
looks out and continues into the endless sea.
Her imagined long gown floats behind her.

Her little girl shoulder blades 
become hidden beneath the water.
Each time she raises her arms because 
it is cold, but the sea is calm and peaceful,
too cold for the others who prefer to watch.

It is her moment alone to feel like a Princess.
She lowers her regal eyes
but not her head, to keep her crown from falling.

She sees how her feet glide on the sand,
her legs extend to touch the bottom as golden 
sun reflects her movements on the water.
Sunlight penetrates the depths
as her toes penetrate pristine sands.

When water becomes chest high
her arms rise and then she lies back 
to float so she can view the azure sky 
in great wonderment.
Are the clouds shaped like a person ? 

Translation by Connie Marcum Wong
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Original Poem:
RIEN N’EMPÊCHE D’AUTRES OISEAUX
By Ariane Dreyfus 

Elle s’arrête quand l’eau lui arrive à la taille
Regarde, avance à nouveau, et la mer infinie
La suit, traîne qu’elle sent à peine, la robe elle l’imagine

S’effacent ses omoplates de petite fille
À chaque fois qu’elle lève les coudes et se hausse
Car il fait froid
Mais l’eau est calme, pas embêtante

Frileux les autres sont restés derrière
C’est donc un instant de princesse

Elle baisse les yeux, mais pas la tête
À cause de sa couronne qui pourrait tomber
Regarde comment ses pieds glissent
Sur le sable
Parce qu’il est très loin les jambes ont grandi
Elles se tordent à plein de reflets
Le soleil y va, en profondeur
Et plus en profondeur la pointe des pieds
Pour aller jusqu’au sol intouché

L’eau presqu’à la poitrine, elle étire ses bras
Ainsi flottent les mains

Puis s’allonger, sinon comment voir que le ciel
Donne un si grand vertige, et les nuages en forme de 
personne? 
*************************************
Rough English Translation I had to work from:

THERE IS NOTHING TO PREVENT OTHER BIRDS
By Ariane Dreyfus 

She stops when the water comes the size
Look, move again, and the endless sea
Follows her, drags that she feels, the dress she imagine

Fade her shoulder blades of little girl
Whenever she raises the elbows and to increase
Because it is cold
But the water is quiet, no annoying
Chilly the rest remained behind

It is a moment of Princess
She drops the eyes, but not the head
Because of its Crown that could fall

Look how her feet slide
On the sand
Because it is far away the legs grew
They writhe in lots of reflections
The sun go, deep
And more in depth the toes
To go to the ground untouched

Water almost ' chest, she stretches her arms
Thus float hands
Then lie down, otherwise how can I see the sky
Gives a great dizziness, and person-shaped clouds?

Details | French Poem |

Death Of Marie Antoinette

 THE DEATH OF MARIE ANTOINETTE
 (MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE)
Songwriters set their words about her style
and artists make pursuit to paint her smile
but all the light that's Paris, shows,
her heart and soul to only those
who come to fall in love for just while.

But knowing this, my wondering still lies
as I recall Marie, her face,her eyes,
and she is just a memory
though what I'd have to always be,
if time was mine and not a thing that flies.

I trace my blood and line of ancestry
down through some troubled times of history
or is it that I've journeyed long
from when my life went all so wrong
but it's so far removed, my mind can't see?

These questions rake my mind and leave me cold,
Am I my father who's still growing old;
and who is she, to go away
to deju vu--to yesterday,
or has she layed our love to times' unfold?

I guess I'll find her on Champs Elysees,
or in the Champ de Mars, where children play
or where one day the guillotine
cut life away, and cut it clean,
but this is now, and that was yesterday.

O! I would lay my neck under the blade;
if there would ever be a diff'rence made
to end the pain she left in me
and stop the love for my Marie
but love--this love for her can never fade.

And so, as other loves they come and go,
as Paris says, and Paris makes it so,
I wait and wander by the Seine
but know not where, and know not when,
for love of my Marie, she'll come, I know.
© RON WILSON aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet

Details | French Poem |

French

In the orchestra of languages
Nobody would dispute
That French, with honeyed cadence,
Would be likened to the flute.

I pass a French school every day
And hear the conversation – 
So smooth and silky that from English
It’s like a vacation.

The melting pot that is New York
Enables me to hear
A wealth of tongues all chattering
Into the atmosphere.

But only French has silvery tones
Like flutes when they are playing
And I enjoy the sounds although
I know not what they’re saying!

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

Details | French Poem |

Trumps Wall

Trumps Wall


He boasts
Walls he shall build
With his generals
More weapons for the King of the Hill
Sowing hate and creating
Fascist dreams
He divides and demeans all those
Who share not his vile power dreams

I have news and its foxy news too
He can have his walls, and his shiny shoes
Hate and fear will never triumph
Trumps wall will stumble and fall

There is a secret army
Hidden under his little hands and pudgy nose
This army will defeat any wall
No matter how big, and no matter how tall
These little soldiers come from here and there
They shall stand up, were sometimes adults stall
They shall make the wall
Something Trump hadn’t thought of at all

A place to rally, a place to dance
They shall write their messages with
Love and smiles, inked with paint
They shall embrace the world
Walls and all! No giant can stop them all



Notes: He (Trump) sounds a lot like a cave man I know. Ha ha

There is no such thing as racism; we are all ONE race the human race. Racism is simply hate guised under another name.

This poem is dedicated to Kids United and specifically to the song
“On Ecrit Sur Les Murs”  which means “ we write on the walls “ Even if you don’t speak French or cant read at all for that matter, the video carries the message. On a completely separate note I found a spelling error in the New York Times. Oh my! LOL

I encourage all to listen to more of their songs.

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
Trembling
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

Details | French Poem |

L'Overture

L'Overture


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.

Details | French Poem |

School 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.

Details | French Poem |

Cold Nights In Paris

      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

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

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
L'horloge
Le bruit du silence
Noyade dans la tranquillité
En solo
Parmi tous mes livres
Mort chante à mon oreille

Details | French Poem |

BBC News Alert BOSSY COW

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

Details | French Poem |

The Dance

      SA PROCHAINE DANSE
( 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

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