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
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
A creative process
disguised as a French Bulldog
has pooped in my mind-pot,
where I was complacently
growing small obscure weeds.
Muse me, or abuse me you poetry bug,
if you are a stinkbug, I will take it,
fake it until…
The Frenchie faux English Bulldog
licks a poetic banana smoothie
I have been working on like a dog.
The soft and gooey muse
shudders, goes insane
from a rare form of Gallic syphilis.
The dog poop,
is not processing well.
Fragments float in a soupy miasma:
said poop, a small annoying dog and
a smoothie.
But hey,
I think I can do something with that mix.
Poets know
that all kinds of ingredients
may be added to a mind-pot,
all we need do
is stir.
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
French “The Language of love”
Darling, speak French when we make love
wicked words I don´t understand but has a whispering meaning of delight.
I stand before you with salutial ********, a soldier of love
ready to sacrifice myself in your subterranean pleasure.
Your wishes have to be expressed in French, or the steed will not react
with proper force thinks it is time to return to the stable
On the subway in Paris, I got in the way of a woman who wanted to exit
she swore at me, thinking she said words of love, I kissed her and was arrested.
But soon released when they understood I was a foreigner
lost in the ways of the Gallic idiom.
Laid back over oarlocks,
arms akimbo, hat slouched;
slow riding the Loire.
The river pushes
into a bobbing place
a sylvian picnic
where female bottoms convene
in soft repose.
Iridescent thuds, a thrashing of fins.
A large trout flops in the gunnels.
Wide lips, mouthing Gallic obscenities;
the rainbow splashing
of a disgruntled fish.
The rowboat rolls, rights and recovers.
Upon the shore
bottoms rise like plump geese
from green lawns.
The fish sneers,
flips a glowing Gauloises
between thick lips.
Full-figured forms rise
to watch the watery fuss
then shrug
as more wine is poured.
The trout jumps into the river.
Parasols open and twirl.
We all smile behind our hands
as Renoir paints on.
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.
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
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
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.
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
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.
.
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.
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.