CITROEN
The car of Four Door
Ahead of its time
Back in the day
My Grandfather had purchased one
He wanted a different ride
Sophistication the car would provide
Components of its own
Push Button Start
Waiting for the back of the car to rise before maneuver
Some might think of it being clever
Wait in move
As years passed, my Grandfather decided to upgrade to a Citroen station wagon
Same process only bigger
Upon trading in the Four Door Citroen
For a while it was great
It wasn’t until one of the back wheels fell off in transport of the Citroen station wagon while on the road
Pitch black at night
A Citroen became a stand still
My Grandmother stated to my Grandfather being the next time he purchases a new car, let it be get in, start and depart
No more push the button to start, waiting for rise then ride
Memory of a vintage of the Citroen family
France sensation
A car being a creation.
In the genial glassiness of the glazed conservatory
the jade in the green of the jasmine yellows;
geraniums, plumbago, bougainvillaea on the wall
let go on the hold of their precious flowers;
only this rose persists and stands tall.
Flowers fade, but love forever endures.
.
hern hip's limb
drape'd it's other
over
it's thigh's taut
rest'n hern visage
in purty
hern
torso'z limb'z mitt
it's
elbo 'top
rest'n
hern oblige'n
knee
hern gaze
mine my
enamor'd
hern now butt next ine
squirm'en
.
i trace every curl
thoze
auburn coil'd
tress'z
long down
"mmph"
')>
Sometimes we take a turn with others in the dance club.
It’s fun and friendly but when it’s over - you know it.
He stepped on my foot
and I winced in pain
he’d stepped on my foot
and then he did it again
That's the danger in dancing
a slow dance - being too snug
his hands on your back
and you're pinned like a bug
I should wear combat boots
when cutting a rug
with guys I'm not sure of
I’d finally had enough
The last guy ended our dance
by adding a hug - I don’t know,
a bit extra, but I went with the flow
Why am I sweating in strange men’s arms?
Then again, what exactly is the harm?
The social oddity of public touching,
of course, is that if we weren’t dancing,
would I even stand close to them?
p.s.
If you’re looking for a Summer, French-café coded, it-girl drink to put out your fire of thirst, try a ‘Diabolo menthe,” it’s made of lemon soda plus mint syrup and obviously non-alcoholic. Pair it with a vanilla Madeleine, a petite, shell shaped pastry with a lot of charm. YUM
.
.
A song for this:
I'll Call You Mine by girl in red
August by No Vacation
Old money home,
white curtains drawn,
shadow of the moon
bringing the violin back in tune.
I open the diary,
look at the old pages,
the desperate wishes.
Now I live.
To walk on the streets,
the fashion,
old luxury on my body,
the rich stock of scent,
the exclusive watch on my wrist,
power, confidence in my fist.
The glowing tower at night.
I dance, I make a wish, I cry, I live—
the life my old version always needed.
To experience the city of dreams,
as a niche class of society,
champagne in the backseat,
returning to the palace I built.
Alarms came alive.
Reality hits.
Oh, this dream,
I badly wanna live.
Who ever invented French Kissing?
Certainly, it’s nothing to be missing!
Open mouth – let alone
Other mouth – duplicate clone!
Two open-mouths lock so close
Lip-to-lip and beak-to-beak like two crows!
One tongue encircles the other
Round and slow, hearts churn butter!
Wet and slithering saliva swap
Heaping exchanges in drooling glops!
Taste the gallons or taste the drops
As heart beats race and minds all flop!
No…No…Whether gallons or droplets of drips
I’m certainly NOT missing saliva sips!
The pecking quick peck
Of a Woodpecker’s peck
I’m certain won’t make me gag nor sick!
Keep it clean…Keep it gentle
The Woodpecker’s peck is more sentimental.
Like two young “kinders” on Valentine’s Day
When simple cards are handed away
And both are bashful and way too shy
Mustering every courage to bypass both their “Shutterflies”
And the card is quickly handed with a quick closed-peck
One-second peck causes no harm, no foul, or even wreck!
Cute and quick
is the Woodpecker’s Peck
Such sensational expression of innocence exchanged between two
Our Heavenly Father may better approve
Beautiful things don’t last.
Think of flowers wilting
in woeful pageant
You’re lounging,
half in shadow
almost out of the sun
your feet, outside shade
look on fire, a photo overexposed.
Your smile is light and brite.
Your skin tanned and tight
as if stretched over
Leonardo’s David, in repose.
You are beautiful
if flawed
your hair is a tangle
your smile akimbo
I think, ‘this is too good,’
in self-aware deflation
as if the moment were both sacred and imperiled.
You brush sand off my face
your hand seems warm, fevered.
I’m as delighted as a child
to be touched
.
.
A song for this:
Constant Craving (Fashionably late remix) [Edit] by k.d. lang & Tracy Young
Let’s start with some rhyme..
I started the morning microdosing iced coffee
and scrolling the endless Internet sea
Similar to Odysseus’ travels in the Odyssey,
my sales were swelled by fashion amenities
and I was waylaid by sirens of curiosity
enough of THAT..
Ok, I have regrets. Last night I was talked into going to an after-party, when honestly, I was ready to go home. Why does Peter let me do that?
We were having enough fun where we were.
So, in this group of 10 or so, on foot, we tottered into an elegant restaurant where tiny plates that cost €40 held 4 actual bites of delicious food. We were sharing (with 1-3 other people). So, picking up the tab, I paid €400 and got what? Two bites?!
Still, with the energy of a club after midnight,
we finally got to the after-party and it was a delight
but with absolutely no food in sight.
Except two olives.
This morning I’m as ravenous as a Cyclops.
My order, placed early, would fill a triceratops.
For room service I’m toe-tappingly waiting
because the staff’s moving as fast as a Monet still-life painting.
.
.
A song for this:
Beauty and the Beast by Jump5
Seeing the Seine
and the Eiffel Tower view
it's not the same
without you
so feeling somewhat blue
toujours l'amour ma chérie
with this brief billet-doux
thought I'd drop a line
wish you were here
the weather's fine
We’re having a heatwave
our clothes are all sweat-stained
Everyone’s dressed to the minimum
my board-shorts are all dri-wick fabric
and a bikini top hides my little secrets
How hot is it?
Standing still counts as cardio
Still, everyone is suffering beautifully
I’ve got a handheld fan that sprays mist
and getting some rewarding second glances
Those coming ashore from yachts
dressed in Missoni and Camilla couture
act like perspiration is a styling trick
but they’re casually hugging shade,
like vampires avoiding sun
If fashion is fantasy. Sweat is reality.
The heat is very democratic.
.
.
A song for this:
heat wave by Bing Crosby
.
youtu.be/lMwZ6LvY7NM
The round dance of the world is a cry from bottomless years.
Celestial waves grant me beautiful music.
In a flash the years pass, destinies drift away.
A star sparkles at the heart of time — it is magic.
Wave after wave, surging, the oceans break the rocks.
Listening to your voice, the sound of your steps, a part of me.
I feel taller; I see you again playing — it is the past.
Years are never long enough; we always run after what?
The day will come when I leave quietly, with nothing,
but a soul loaded with so much — an encyclopedia.
Above all, to share, to keep nothing, to serve what is good.
On that day, the painter of words will remain a link to life.
Poet of a time, all the strength of the wind licks my sail.
My son, the song of love flows in me — it is for you.
A glimmer in the sky carries my heart, a dust of stars.
And my brightness that night, up there, will shine only for you.
— Joël Charvillat
. mine dukes
latch wide
open
digits not dent'n
'round hern
fromg pixie
hern
'hind
mine 'gainst
lifts'er
mine beg'er
bang
,)
French bulldog Betty
I patrol the borders of my property I take my job seriously as head of security
If you see me watching you and think I look like fun just cross my border then you better run
The postman tried it once he should have known better crying out as he ran I have to post a letter
Then there was a man I think his name was mike I chased him away so fast he left behind his bike
Then the police came that was such a laugh
He dropped his radio as I chased him up the path
The garden came one day not knowing I was about left behind his gardening tool as I chased him out
Now my humans have had to keep a log of the injuries caused by me Betty the French bulldog
French toast is good for you
and French toast is good for me..
of this bread I hope you approve,
and be the best that you can be!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ no air conditioning required ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sub Categories
Definition | What is French in Poetry?
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.