In those streets of buildings
by Frank Lloyd and Corbusier
I dreamed of my dry landscape...
In those temples of sumptuous
mystery, I dreamed of the little chapel
of São João...
On the fast High Ways, I dreamed
the trails of xique xique...
In the monumental parks,
of those megalopolises, I dreamed
of the backyard of the caatingas...
In those exploded Meccas,
I dreamed of my shotgun
of soca-soca...
In the nightclubs of
high society, I dreamed
of Zé Lagoa's relaxation bal masquê...
I confess that I lived in those worlds,
but I never left home...!
Candid and fully exposed as the theatre’s light dims
She stands poised, dauntless disciplined and statuesque
A stance both stalwart and defiant yet supple are her limbs
Mango hued flower, shoulder's thrown back thrusting her breast
He sits rapped by intrigue as he studies her movement
A silver fox and raven mane is neatly brushed regally back
To beautify him further would take divine improvement
Only to be bathed in her impassioned embrace does he lack
Swirls of sangria red fabric charge like El toro spark undulating trails
Laced in pearly white with azure blue print mesmerize and highlight
And flow about her generous hips in a rage of billowing canvas sails
Flamenco dancers firm legs are revealed in fish nets that boldly invite
Whilst her furtive glimpse ignites his cavalier bon vivant smile
She bewiles with onyx eyes that glisten and fingers splayed for effect
He connects in a flash with a performers come hither guile
Upon times eternal river this fiery night's tryst they shall reflect
When she gave birth to you, your mom
lay resting in her bed
and wondered what you would be like
three decades up ahead.
She thought you might decide to be
a monk withdrawn from life.
You'd ponder all the mysteries
alone and far from strife.
Perhaps you'd be a bon vivant —
pursuing mirth and wine.
You'd burn through life like through a wick,
but that would be just fine.
Or you'd select a scholar's path —
a thinker deep in thought.
You'd spend your days reflecting on
what matters and does not.
Your mother would not mind if you
became the artsy type,
creating paintings, songs or yarns
and puffing on a pipe.
But then you might elect to be
political perchance.
You'd run for office and proclaim
this or another stance.
A man of science in a lab
would not have put her off.
A Nobel prize is not a goal
at which good mothers scoff.
What she could not have guessed back then
but what has since come true
is that it took you thirty years
to just emerge as... you.
It’s fall of 1888, the south of France,
In the verdant fields of Arles,
Two artists shared a single dream,
And so began their quarrel.
Vincent paved the way for Paul
With bold sunflower sprays.
Paul dissembled, stating plain,
“More practiced effort pays.”
“Don't smile before December,”
Said the mentor to his charge.
And the student pegged his better
As a bon vivant at large.
So, their tenure at the Yellow House
Grew troublesome and dark.
Their artists’ shared collective
Strayed a long way off its mark.
Dry and cold, the Mistral winds
Spread madness like a plague,
To infiltrate poor Vincent’s mind,
Whose memories grew vague.
Mania, delirium, anxiety, and fear,
Climaxed when the voices told him,
“You don’t need that ear!”
He’d heard no praise, regardless.
Dr. Rey used his sorry portrait
To fix his chicken coop.
Then Theo got engaged,
And Paul sailed away to Tahiti.
Now time’s become history,
And that paint smeared canvas,
Nailed to a chicken coop
Means to claim a hefty sum.
And Le Fou Roux lies cold in his grave,
Unmindful of the legend he’s become.
THIS SPACE RESERVED FOR
STARRY NIGHTS AT SAINT REMY
Benny was a high living’ bon vivant
Who ran around with his crazy old aunt
They traveled many countries afar
Playing Spanish flamenco guitar
Until she married a man named Ben Brandt
written September 30, 2021
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Solitude
loves
parties
balls
bars
but
alone...
beauty
there is
on here
there
is at
any
place
just look with eyes to perceive
and feel...
winds
blow
smells
poets
sprinkle
dreams; ...
crowd
is where solitary people
most
feel
solitude
the splendid side of living,
it's always bon vivant
paradise
there is
where
there is
on here
and there...
present
it's life
future
is
march
Just “Gimmie” a Casserole
By: Tom
12-2-2019
I could never be thought of as bon vivant guy,
I prefer plain “vittles” that will stick to a rib.
Most fancy dishes I allow to pass my plate by,
and I never eat things that require a bib.
BOHEMIAN LIFE
I was a bohemian ... I shot
words and songs in
gypsy nights ...
I attracted a lot of kisses on
worldly dawn ...
I was bon vivant in the madness
of the world...
I drank at every table
of fortune ...
I laid love on burlesque
beds ...
Ah! I was a wanderer of
all the scenes ...
many barefoot paths ...
I broke bare boundaries,
unveiled horizons
to the finger, and the arm ...!
Ah! this my life,
folly but lived ...!
he was
a bon vivant
not denying himself
any luxuries in life
did not believe
in abstinence
live to the fullest
was his motto
appreciate
the gifts of life
we will never
pass this way again
when he died
a starving artist
his pockets
were empty
but his heart
overflowed
not one regret
AP: 3rd place 2021
bon vivant Gaston
precocious carefree Gigi. . .
courtesan or wife
Copyright © 2018 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
Published 2018 in "Hollywood Haiku" via wattpad.com
A better gentleman there never was
Kind loving and generous man
Bon vivant and lavish tipper
Articulate, meticulous and dressed to the nines
Phoned his mother every Sunday religiously
Never a bad thing to say about anyone
It was a Friday after work
Celebrating the end of the week
More exuberant than usual
Spring was in the air
The days were getting longer
And the breeze warmer
He loved life till the very last minute
When it wasn’t baseball
It was Texas Hold’em
Then that fateful Friday afternoon he said
‘Tell my family I love them’
Just like that
We buried him on St.Patrick’s Day
It was a beautiful sunny afternoon
I’ll never forget that one final glance
That one lone sentinel by his grave
Standing guard
Up on that hill against the setting sun
A fitting tribute honouring
A man who had lived and loved
Every blessed day of his life
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Dark haired Anne of Green Gables
Freckles and playfully naughty giggle
Hailed from Prince Edward Island
Easygoing bon vivant friendly nature
Everyone couldn’t help but love you
Your nonchalant laissez-faire demeanour
Often made you look as cute as Pippi Longstocking
You were a friendship magnet
People couldn’t get enough of you
Everyone wanted a piece of your energy
Your exuberant joyful freedom
Hoping a bit of your magic would wear off on them
You never doubted about the true treasures of life
When you talked about the fields of daisies down home
Your eyes teared up with nostalgia
When you did move back for good
It was a cruel jolt to us
We were sad and lost a chip off our heart
But we always did see you
For what you truly were
A captive bird trapped in a cage
It was time to set you free
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
© Ben Burton Feb 5, 2014
I view beauty with desire
But am seen through abstract eyes
Which begats a mystery
For I don't try to be that kind
The shattered pieces in my wake
As tea leaves wither in the brine
Leave only scarves to pacify
The punctured seal can't be revised
No posturing through symphonies
With trebled horns, but for the one
That is and was and shall remain
While hearts still beat and rivers run
Should I not come before I go
Indulgence can't be quantified
For every itch that is not scratched
Becomes a casualty to time
Yet, with decorum I imbibe
Without deception at the core
Or abrogation of the vow
Unto myself, no spawn of spore
And without mirror to reflect
The bounder from a boundless shore
Inspectors at the terminals
Will fruitlessly try to record
But DNA will not impeach
The gene which flawlessly imparts
Abilities to cherry-pick
The naivete of hopeful marks
So, to ourselves we need be true
From courtesan to bon vivant
And though restraint may be pursued
It will not kill the will to want
A bon vivant lyfestyle
of the Bohemians de Paris,
has always saddened and deluded me...
by seeing it in someone's happy smile.
Mademoiselles and jeunne hommes,
exchanging artistic and poetical ideas
at the Cafe' de Flore, or at the Les Deux Magots...
with coffee aroma on their breaths.
Living in legendary and vibrant Hollywood
is an honor to be seen with the admired and respected wealthy;
and whoever struggles, can't keep up with any of them...
whose only desire is the glitter of money.
And steadily dreaming of a bon vivant lifestyle with an aloft
imagination, I let this want often disrupt my peaceful sleep...
not being able to accumulate, quickly enough,
fortunes and stand on that pedestal of greed.
So snap out of fantasy and don't peruse into La Dolce Vita
of Hollywood! Stay away from those extravagant fashion shows!
And at the Cannes, Capri or Venice Film Festival, avoid contact with movie stars,
stare at them from far...they are as contagious as influenza.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
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