Best Rouge Poems
I awaken; the darkened skies my alarm clock
I reek of whiskey, scotch and pastis
Tumbling out of bed, I reach for a cigarette
The dusk harkens as I rise to ply my trade
I am embodied inside a one room flat
The nightlife and the ladies both coming to life
Out the window I see the windmill so famous in red
Ladies with offers, men with drinks, the recipe for lust
I am the mime of the Moulin Rouge
I ready myself with my white painted face
Tonight another performance or so it seems
I shall juggle my knifes, with my many sad faces
Up up up in the air, one, two, three
Knifes in a whirlwind of iconic display
Around and around like the Moulin Rouge
I perform, toss and catch to applause
My sad face bows in graceful acknowledgement
As they toss their lose coins my way
If they see fit to fill my container of misery
I make for them my spectacular encore
I take a knife, a long black sharp blade
Tossed 12 feet in the air, dancing its way back down
As it slices the stem of a red rose in my hand
I now hand a pretty girl a cut rose
The ladies of the evening smile
They see I too traded romance for coin
How sad it is, this Moulin Rouge of dreams
Eleven more roses, and I shall earn my keep
Or so the ladies in red believe
I, on the other hand, will be changing the last act
I am tired of rent and being rented and rented cloth
I shall perform the ultimate act finale ce soir
Selecting the sharpest set of long fine knifes
Lighting them with orange flame, the juggling act begins
My audience enthralled, once again
Wondering maybe does he ever miss?
I never miss, I never shall, this is a certainty
The knifes a glow in fire, lighting the nighttime sky,
Tossed high, I lie down fast, tossed a rose in the air
A Knife as usual cut the rose stem
One, two, three, the knifes enter my heart
The blood will warm the falling rose
As it gently falls upon my silent chest
I die with a smile, yes my final act a success
The rose so tender upon my breast
Breathless all, Gay Paris has died once more
I never miss
Yet, I miss you
brewing divinity
rosé rouge
on Rose Rose Rose
mystic landscape
eyes cheeks nose smile silk
Rose Rose Rose
god delighted
horto flos
ROSES ROSES ROSES - Poetry Contest
Sponsor Mystic Rose
POET: Rajat Kanti Chakrabarty
15 December 2014
Lets go to Paris' finest venue.
Lets go enjoy the ride.
Where the skirts fly high,
and the gentlemen dressed in black tie.
Follow me behind the red curtain.
Experience this life.
Where the dancers entertain you,
and there's no strife.
Venez au Moulin Rouge,
and be apart what you dreamed of.
Feathers that drift, Diamonds that sparkle in the light.
That you'll wanna stay all night.
So come to this cabaret,
witness the cancan.
You'll love it forever,
cause nothing else is better.
Cambodia
Prison camp S-21
Angkar kills but does not explain
your blood bleeds into my veins
so I can feel your pains
whatever god you pray to
beg for deliverance.
in the good old USA we are
unaware of unseen suffering.
Usually but not always.
we met at a wedding and
you shared your story
in broken English until
I understood that you
had been in the killing fields.
"50 Words for Poe: Rouge"
Rouge, sweet stains
the bleeding mouth of the brain
Green poison from
the tongue of envy a postal note from Hell
Rouge makes a bed
with an enemy
Knife slices the insipid pale
in the bucket lies Hell's abysmal fail
Rouge, dances in 3 inch sharp knives
Rouge, slices lips and rips through black the widower's widow's veils
Rouge Stilettos 'round a slick Rouge Rue Pole
Slices through a dullard’s mind, eats it like Hot Creole
Diamond eyes smiles
Dark Vermillion gives a deep twist
There’s the knife
She’s wearing the cache
a glistening string of rare pearls
Silver Lady on the Open Road
purrs
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
(Notes on Murder Methodology from the Infernal Dante Dungeon)
https://youtu.be/jXVADFT6m1g
LOW/Candy Girl
"What songs the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, although puzzling questions are not beyond all conjecture."
– Sir Thomas Browne, "Urn-Burial"
“You can’t train a monkey new tricks, inevitably bare feet runs the wild in the beast’s blood” Anonymous
“Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum”
1. Cache
2. Rue
3. Rouge
4. Ratiocination
(Aieee! We Gon’ Pass A Good Time Yeah Cher …Enjoy et Laisez les bons temps rouler)
Haricot was tall and quite lean
In English they would call him String Bean
Haricot would often travel down the Bayou
by way of pirogue to visit with his sister Sue
Every one knew when Haricot came through
The morning would start with the smell of Roux
Caf Noir, Hot hush puppy’s and biscuits too
one could feel music of the zydeco by mid-afternoon
And Haricot would shout Laisez les bons temps rouler
The town folk and kinfolk alike would gather that day
Some found sipping on bourbon and café au lait
while awaiting the succulent taste of Cochon de lait
Oh the savory taste of Lagniappe which filled the air
All truly possessed la Joie de vivre
Consuming Andouille and Boudin flavored with the Bouquet Garni
Children could be found nibbling on sweet Beignet
While elders could be found playing a game of Bouree'
The women would have prepared jambalaya, Gumbo’s, Grillades
As the sunsets all will have ate every thing from their bowls and plates
And all would begin again to dance Fais-do-do
Haricot would shout too all and his sister Sue
Mon cher, mon cher sûrement ceci est la vie
Good music good friends, family, dancing and cuisine
ceci habite véritablement Sue et tout agreed
MICE AND ME by Jeanette Jones (01.11.2016)
based on PORTRAIT NO 8
L'Enfant au Tablier Rouge, 1886 by Berthe Morisot
MICE AND ME
Inside my lonely room, I dream.
Old man winter’s stamped his mark
across the fields and mountain tops.
The faint breeze through my window,
allows a brush of his presence on my face,
this makes everything ok.
Scuffling across the floor, tiny mice
whimper in the same sultry air;
an old soul, mom calls me,
for allowing them here,
to dream in my space and share my air.
To reach the sill,
I allow them to climb my red ribbon,
if they can catch it in the wind.
La vie est rouge comme ton coeur
plein de passion et d'excitation
avec l'amour comme cerise sur le gâteau
et le bonheur est la crème glacée ...
Moulin Rouge
The Moulin Rouge of minds is intertwined with mine,
And though my heart denies my soul aligns alive.
The opera always soaring, the show it must go on,
Yet little voices in my head shout push on, push on, push on.
Tossle feathers flash, skirts in black and gold and
Rumours flutter through the mills like warm air in the cold.
Manic faces and steely eyes, echo shrill my moral sighs,
Decisions rush and moments lapse, never will my mind relax.
Curtains fall like morning snow, church bells ring and we all will go.
The smile on my face is the only trace of the icing I stole from the Moulin Rouge cake.
O sunflower Helianthus thy Name
The internet for Writing, strange game
My love for Helianthus Annuus, came
With Morning Muse. then CONFUSE-ion
Not on the site, lost in cyberspace
Meanwhile new cultivars of sunflower
Are amazingly done in the US
God be praised for flowers, that give and give
Yes, an annual, dies when cold, but reseeds
Itself -- feeds us good seed-- Glory to God
Who made each & every flower, with variety
Only Russia today, seems to hate variation
But we learn from Hitler & Putin, never PUT IN
This universe whatever lies in your heart
Learn from Nature (Jesus, too) the giving ART
They as some say, you can't help it when your in love...
Where passion pours uninhibited her ? Free flowing from
A heart's quill: brush the canvas virgin white; gossamer scenes
In candlelight; quantum dreams their no surprise: love's rendezvous
Balanced beams his moon she shines; twined these two, to paint her eyes.
In my younger youth, this color was sort of appalling for me. I did not fancy nails with decorations. I was not raised around it. Now I prefer to have black nails or some kind of warrior looking paint.
A friend of mine asked a teacher if he could see her bare feet. He told her no. As a curious adolescent, I looked down to see her feet. Her feet were pretty and she read polish on her toes. Since that day, I have been fond of the color red. My friend was pretty and from the pictures of today I can see her pretty smile, rosy cheeks, and covered chest showing two humble mountains. Her name was Amber Garcia.
The night time went rouge
Wouldn't you know
Stepped out of the dark
Hitting the road
Finding out how
To weave in and out
From the still of itself
Without any doubt
I took a-hold of the night
Read it its Rights
Don't come again
Till after day light
This sneaking you do
Round about noon
Really is not
Very becoming of you
Where upon the night said to me
I can do as I please
Be who I want
This country is free
You're wasting your time
If you're trying to find
Some way or another
Of controlling my life
So that's why we are
Now all where we are
As the night took a bite
Instead of just bark
Knocked the daylight
Right out of the park
Where now we remain
All in the dark...
From within the frost-frozen, bare-boarded, shed
within its loosely hung zee-braced door agape
the spring light peeked.
Warming the woodsheds King’s pine planks
toasting the ten penny nails
popping the planks to a toe-stubbing height.
Door slamming dashes through the obstacle course of cord,
tinder, rake and hoe;
to the semi attached outhouse.
Draws half down,
butt bitten by March’s wind;
the two holer waits, lye bucket at the base.
Curled, yellow-brown, newspaper pages from 1890,
the shade of Uncle George’s pipe stained teeth, wiggle in the wind;
as do I when with a holler as
breeze to bottom freeze dries.
A half flashed mad dash to the kitchen door
is halted; awestruck at the gapping door to the kitchen garden.
Raspberry-red, tit tipped rhubarb buds and stalks,
warmed by the sheltered spring sun;
set my mouth to drool.
A waylaid girl child in transit.
you were not live
died in the womb
before I could hold you
at birth and kiss your soul
my little princess
the moon in your heart
that failed to beat
tore the promise
of peace innocence desire
to walk by my side
and I grieve