Best Gallic Poems
What a slap in the face!
It’s an international disgrace!
(Descriptive distraction)
and (subversion in action)
It’s now commonly used in parlance by judiciary
while in literature this prevalent (lie) I see.
With a bland, enough face?
or is there the hint of a trace?
Could there be in its origin, a.. motive? or motion
created to infiltrate a nations notion?
A.. (sort of sufferance)
involved with its utterance!
So (abused & misused) is the category
I must zero in all my batteries,
Now I am clearing my decks,
here I go, what the heck!
For I have admiration for a Francophile
would converse with a Russophile
I so enjoy your work Faberge
and appreciate the charm of the Gallic sway
But for me there is no third way!
(now) without any doubt I am coming about
And stoking all my fires
for full ahead’s my desire.
On the literary beach
I see a very (rotten peach)!
And it was ‘hidden’ in full view
Hmm.. let’s see what some firepower can do
For the doting parents who pray
keep our kids safe today.
Hardworking moms & dads who care,
find time that is to spare
From extra help with early reading
to painting nursery room ceilings
Some working 14-hour days
it makes me angry I say.
Aunts & uncles, grandparent, teachers
of calm nature and reason
With motives pure and in step
with life’s seasons
And the name of the paedophile should by rights be theirs,
its been hijacked, does anyone care?
It’s too good a description, just not the depiction
to be bandied about, LISTEN
AS I SHOUT WITH TRUE INDIGNATION
CHANGE THIS DECEPTION OF NATIONS
© Joe Maverick 25-04-2011
Across frosted windows chill,
The watcher seeks.
Withered hands clutching branches,
Strong limbs.
Dragging belly's weight like within
This devils heart.
Fiendish smiles exposed, sharpened,
Canines sustains thirsts lust.
Passions mistress voice, calls softly,
Enticing it's prey.
Patiently waiting, longing for his,
Final breath's resolution.
Alone old may.
Prepares for existences end,
Lying at deaths threshold.
He yearns for peaceful pastures,
To rest,
From pains embrace.
Faith's symbol lays idle,
Around a disbelievers neck.
Ancient Gallic preys, protect him,
From within chamber walls.
She banshee laughs in gleeful delight,
Grinning mine slyly.
Behold he turns blind eyes vision towards,
Heavens loving arms.
Forgive me father, take this unworthy,
Servant home I offer myself.
Divine power reaches outward,
Converting their fallen.
Into vials eerie mists a vanquished,
Demon screams.
Uttering vengeance hatred,
It descends swallowed,
By the dark abyss.
Illusions specters disappear as dust,
A hush falls
Upon dawn's twilight’s hour.
Golden silhouettes soar,
Lifted on high beyond,
Heights majesty.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Hear across my native soil,
The calling,
Echoes ancient voices,
Raised in prayers ritual.
A forgotten people, leaving,
Their mark upon histories
Legacy.
Mysteries great questioning,
Lain outward for generations,
To wonder why?
Beneath the heavens vastness,
Behold gray monoliths reaching,
Upward.
In the circle of life and death,
As a continuing sphere ever,
Winding within it's self.
A seasonal calendar timed by,
Natures rhythm.
An inner heartbeat, pulsating,
From the earths core.
Springs awakening warming
Breath,
Or winters chilling hand of death.
To plaint and harvest, or lay at rest,
The tools of trade.
The beasts of burden are released
From heavy yokes harness.
Pagan Gods demand tributes sacrifice,
Lain upon the sacred altars fire.
Druid priests carrying wisdom's staff,
Praying for enlightenment’s spiritual guidance.
Sung in Gallic tongue, they chant.
Asking for natures bounty,
A good years passing and
Healings curing power.
An ancient religion seeking,
Answers to humanities quest to know.
Lost to times relentless pass,
Our ancestral heritage is remembered,
I'm myths and legends,
Mystical circle of stone,
Known as Stone Hedge.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
PARIS
We adore her splendours;
But Paris displays these
Long aloof avenues, and arbours
Of precisely pruned trees;
Turns a disdainful look
At our presence,
Gives a Gallic shrug
At our absence:
See Paris and die -
Paris will not even sigh.
The Corsican was never really Gallic.
The Austrian was not remotely Prussian.
Jugashvili (let's put this in italics)
could not be, in a month of Sundays, Russian.
The point of Communism is, it's global,
or else it's nothing. Swimming or it's dead,
like sharks, it fans out (kind of like Chernobyl).
Like peanut butter, it was made to spread.
This in-one-country nonsense once held sway
(Archangel, all the way to Kazakhstan),
but when he died, his system blew away,
as do all systems centred on one man.
Napoleon's snowball stopped with "Viet Cong".
The wonder is, it lasted quite so long.
stranded Soldier, tossed ashore forced to fight a gallic war .Bound by Honor, a task at hand. a sword and shield upon his back. a twisted Fate he is to find. Bound by oath and his Foolish Pride a hero to many, an enemy to even more. Destiny will decide his fate. His Wish only to return to his wife who Waits. drawn to battle he heated the call.this was the day that he shall fall, pitched dagger shield and all. he gave it his all, but alas that was it .struck down by the will he dared to oppose he did not cry nor weep, as his words begin to slur he remembered only the sun set. slipping into the gentle caress of the Abyss that truly awaits. that which he fought for, shall never more be more than ruins upon the shore .sharpend dagger and shield at hand. he set out for his final Journey to a Faraway land.there worries and weep are but foreign Concepts to the Common Man. pasted the gates he did go.To meet the distance figure dressed in Earl Grey and linen cloth imposing ,but full of boundless love. he accepted another son into his Heavenly inbrace. do not worry for the brave Soldier he is at piece . a piece in time we all shall find. pawn and King set aside .we're all equal in his eyes . gilded Talon ,dragon's claw. we are all equal, we all shall fall.
Seven A.M., feet on the floor, pajamas in-car
for a favorite drive-through fast-food treat? No,
it's the coffeepot, and turn on the broiler, less of
a spoiler, but kudos in Heaven. Breakfast's in the works,
she'll reserve the perks, (pardon the pun,) for when Mass
is over. For now, the egg fries, but the 'frigo' door spies
no cheese for the muffin, What? no fatted calf?
and even worse, no Half and Half. It brings back
the chorus in "How to Succeed in Business," the lament
of the scent of No Coffee, NO COFFEE! But memory
reminds of a Champs Elysees' Ave., where an American
institution gave restitution to exiles like her in an
elevator ride under upscale retail, its costly fashions
to Golden Arches beneath Paris town, destination
a Mickey D's you can't imagine: rows of televisions
ornamenting each wall, an Egg McMuffin perk
in easy reach, and a coffee bar, its center station
a Gallic invention for the hurried intentions
of blase' Parisians on their way to work.
.
A NOTE FROM MALCOLM
My advice is free, and time’s not billable
Try speaking French and I will soon know
Don’t claim a local or a provincial accent
It really does not sound as if heaven-sent
Nor a comment heard such as il fait beau
As the accent is always on the last syllable
As a teacher, these things do really matter
One must develop that Gallic look as well
Sometimes that simple shrug just says it all
From Southern Pyrenees up North to Gaul
Whether from Paris or le Midi, one can tell
In some regions, the vowels do sound fatter
So, let us practice the deep grunting sounds
And don’t forget all those hand gestures too
But accents can apply to letters when written
Cedillas, acute or grave never seen in Britain
Where just the plain and simple words will do
Whilst pretty perfume accents do the rounds
Married to Nobility
The word sits so easily on your tongue
like it had no more meaning than a Gallic shrug
he came from the sea waded ashore you can say
the only survivor of innocence.
Barefoot in the broken glass of spoken untruth so much blood,
they had thought I was one of
them with claws bringing riches how much time
spent and only to find a gardener.
Lonely women everywhere middle-aged craved sex,
something had to be done, the salvation come
one of my forefathers had been a baron had three children
I disliked them all and people said I was a baron too.
The baroness died leaving the dilapidated castle to me.
How they hate seeing me eat dinner at a café every day.
I have spoken to Hercules Poirot but he can do nothing
before someone is murdered
Paris, paradigm of “je ne sais quoi “-
Great Gallic mystery, almost a law.
Evincing an essence, cannot say how -
Shrug of a shoulder with lift of a brow.
But stroll down a street called La Rue Cadet -
The enigma abates along the way.
Senses succumb to a Confiserie,
Snuggled in tight next the Charcuterie,
A few doors down there’s the Patisserie,
Juxtaposed close to a Fromagerie.
“Je ne sais quoi”, astute tourists still say,
This riddle’s resolved on La Rue Cadet.
January 2, 2023
phallic hellic gallic fella,
slipped and fell into the cellar,
gargled with a vat of wine,
stayed for a longish time,
when he found one Isabella,
she was dark as one othello,
hot and steamy primed to go,
seconds later there she blows,
yes you bloody so n so
said the Isobella...
words could not dispella.
i do rattle on ,
Its her fault........Linda-Marie The Sweetheart of P.S.
Don
As you see below Linda-Marie,
your words were ferterlized by me,
so i put it in a poem,
chinese phallus buzzing home..
Yes trials is what its all about,
come here to suffer learn about,
tangled pig trough for the snout,
this methinks without a doubt... :)
The Earths end, sky, sea,
pumice stone, windward, lee;
life grasp, grey, alpine scree,
Christian Church Burren be.
Pillars, lentils, altar stone;
plucked from ancient giants bone;
life, minute, crevice formed foam;
Eire’s core, St. Patrick’s home.
Distilled essence, brightest note;
sweetest scent, verse by rote;
brilliant rainbows, oceanic motes,
Gallic laughter, limericks denote.
The Earths end, sky, sea,
Ireland, pearl in oyster be.
Grit, heart, joy and constancy.
Sorrowful soulful memory.
Duncan MacAlpin thoughts were disturbed
Beauty he had seen in Crovie
Had stolen his heart with one look.
Her face a map of Scotland.
Where would I begin to look for her? He wondered.
Mercury smirked, for He had already arranged everything.
In rivers, marshes, swamps, bogs, the wetlands…..
Duncan blinked; had he heard his favorite Celtic deity?
A shiny black kelpie seventeen hands high appeared.
Standing between Duncan and the ocean.
Duncan instinctively knew he had to get on his back.
He had not ridden a horse since the Gallic War.
Why are you hesitating? The transmigrated kelpie asked.
Not in words, but in telepathy.
He knew kelpies are able to manipulate your thoughts,
so he hesitated a little longer, wondering who was in charge here.
Did you want to see the lass again or not?
The kelpie fairly flew once he was on his back.
Took him to Kirkcudright where he tossed him into a flower bed.
A girl came running out to see if he was all right.
It was Adaira McFallen, the girl he had seen in Crovie.
He could not believe it. His faith in kelpies more vivid than ever.
She too worshipped the sun, moon, and stars,
and believed in the transmigration of souls. A match made by Mercury.
Early Times
Panting through a few females.
Running on the spot mostly.
Go to Paris to find myself
find a locally made Gallic STD.
Have a Ringo mustache,
the prostitutes on the Montmartre
think I’m pretty cool for a kid.
Beach bum along the Mediterranean,
bare feet imprinted on sand do not last,
however, sun, sex, and cheap wine
should not be underrated.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Age Twenty
Took her home to meet the parents.
A good girl,
not much sense of occasion.
Stripy rainbow knee-high socks,
mini skirt, pink hair
deeply cockney accent
and prone to casual expletives.
Father kept grinning until his smile froze.
Mother took her cues
from the Arch Duchess of mucky-muck.
~~~
Age Thirty
In the used car lot
sleazy car salesman blindsides me.
I should have been ready
more alert,
driving home in a ten year old Mercedes
wondering
if my childhood will ever end?
I am now a professional,
nurses figure larger in my life
than they ethically should.
Head for The Far East
to administer to the halt and lame
including, metaphorically speaking,
myself.
~~
Age Forty.
Finally qualify for veteran status
in a marathon race.
My athletic son is also running in it.
I fake a sprained ankle,
then disappear for ages
travelling the world.
When I return,
my shoulders grow cold from icy stares,
wife is dating someone else -
family relief all around.
~~
Age Fiftyish
Fish diet, wife still unhappy, son married
and distantly related to Trotsky.
Adorable brats for grandchildren.
Got a mistress who thinks I’m great,
but maybe it’s too late,
testosterone levels going south.
My Boss hates me.
Adultery & divorce,
new wife, much like the old one
but less y.
We roam the globe again,
desperately seeking something -
anything.
~~
Autumnal Years
The police are getting younger.
Dental appointments are reaching danger levels.
I’m not holding any grudges
for I have been right all along.
Turns out I am a poet
and quite enjoy pissing folks off.
Life is good, but then again
it always was.
~~~
The Fable of Jesus
Jesus was skeptical of his tribe, he didn't
whether he was a Semite, his father, the renowned
the wood craftsman had green eyes and knew
a few phrases of gallic monks had visited until
the Rome administration banned them
Jesus, to please his father, built a bookshelf, it was
It was so bad his younger brother had to take over
Jesus took umbrage and moved to Jerusalem, where
he hung out with radicals of his time
he was good at talking and soon became their leader
there are a few girls in Jesus's fellowship
one of them was Magdalene who had the hots
for Jesus, tall and elegant back in his youth
Jesus became famous when he threw moneylenders
out of the church, many more people joined his flock
He thought he was powerful and took on
the Rome colonial administration and arrested
they mocked him and gave him a crown of thistles
egged on Haiku
y the hateful priests, was crucified
During the night, women got him down from
the cross, hid him in a cave till his wounds healed
A fisherman called Peter smuggled him and
Magdalene to France
they had seven children, and he ended his days
as respected goldsmith