Long Faire Poems
Long Faire Poems. Below are the most popular long Faire by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Faire poems by poem length and keyword.
And if finally, instead of opening your new phone,
You looked at your garden calmly languid,
You stroked the broad leaves of the green fig,
Listen to the hot rhododendron song,
If you took the time to do nothing useful,
To question the lilac with exotic perfumes,
To decipher the nocturnal enigmas of the camellia,
Praising the deep rose springing from the vain buds.
And if finally, instead of questioning your beautiful mobile,
You shared the sweet sweetness of magnolia
You let the green leaves talk to you, yes,
Keeping fig, lilac or apple tree as only friends.
( loved the music of french words, here)
Et si enfin, au lieu d’ouvrir votre portable neuf,
Vous regardiez votre jardin avec calme langueur,
Vous caressiez les larges feuilles du figuier vert,
Écoutiez la chanson chaude du rhododendron,
Si vous preniez le temps de ne rien faire d’utile,
De questionner le lilas aux parfums exotiques,
De déchiffrer les énigmes nocturnes du camélia,
Louant le rose profond jaillissant des vains bourgeons.
Et si enfin, au lieu d’interroger votre beau portable,
Vous partagiez la douceur suave du magnolia
Vous laissiez les feuilles vertes vous parler, oui,
Gardant figuier, lilas ou pommier comme seuls amis.
Peter is joining us for lunch in the cafeteria. I met him on a crowded Saturday morning at a coffee shop. He’s from the flammable, paper-dry, sagebrush hills of Malibu and grew up overlooking the hazy blue Pacific Ocean. He says Mel Gibson’s drunken Nazi rant, when a cop pulled him over for a DUI, put them on the map.
Poor Peter is fashion challenged. He’s 25, too tall, and too thin. Reading glasses hang around his neck. His too loose-fitting clothes are all variations of brown, like tawny, penny and wenge. He’s wearing a battered tweed coat, brown corduroy slacks and tortilla colored mock turtleneck. He’s adorably shabby-fancy. If he fell in the dormant, straw-yellow grass, we probably couldn’t find him.
Peter has a serious aura of experience about him. His cheek bones are sharp, his hair is an explosion of uncombed black, his skin is pale - bleached - by over exposure to library lighting.
He lives in a different world - the prosaic, laissez-faire universe of research - where students are left to their own devices and expected to self-manage.
Right now, he’s being vetted by one of my roommates, Leong. His student lanyard marks him, but she wants specifics if he’s going to hang around. “What’s your major?” she asks, her eyes squinting like the Chinese lie detectors they are. “I’m a doctoral student in applied physics,” he says.
I pat his knee, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” I say, reassuringly.
The thing about a scarf is that
I know just how to buy one
But I don’t do it often ‘cause
I’m clueless how to tie one.
My friends look chic and classy
With a scarf around their throats.
For hiding saggy skin like mine
That style gets all my votes.
A neck stays warm when breezes blow
If it is scarf-protected
And sometimes boring outfits,
With a scarf, can be corrected.
Yet somehow I have never learned
The skills that are required
To knot a scarf so that my neck’s
A place to be admired.
We’re either born with savoir-faire
And everyone can spot
That stylishness so cool and hip
Or else, like me, we’re not.
Does he really think about us, God?
When Lyhanna is murdered,
When the earth shakes in Caracas,
When JOHNNY suffers from cancer,
Does he want to make us doubt?
Yet the stars continue to shine,
Galaxies are rams
Who strike the unfathomable void,
Yet the sun, burns us,
Makes us see the light, from Hercules
Yet a pope prays alone
For the salvation of all sinners
Does he really think about us, God?
Pense t-il à nous vraiment, Dieu ?
Quand Lyhanna est assassinée,
Quand la terre tremble à Caracas,
Quand JOHNNY souffre d’un cancer,
Veut il nous faire douter ?
Pourtant les étoiles continuent de briller,
Les galaxies sont des béliers
Qui frappent le vide insondable,
Pourtant le soleil, nous brûle,
Nous fait voir la lumière, d’Hercule
Pourtant un pape prie seul
Pour le salut de tous les pêcheurs
Pense t-il à nous vraiment, Dieu ?
3 fugacity
Did you see the butterfly,
Flying in your garden,
To make one’s wings vibrate
To forage again,
Accept his happiness,
Breathe in the perfumes
The magnolia flower,
The butterfly tree, says
David’s Buddleia,
Dip your icy lips
In a glass of jurançon,
The moment won’t come back,
Did you see the butterfly?
13
As tu vu le papillon,
Voler dans ton jardin,
Faire vibrer ses ailes
Pour butiner encore,
Accepte son bonheur,
Respire les parfums
La fleur de magnolia,
L’arbre à papillons, dit
Le Buddleia de David,
Trempe tes lèvres glacées
Dans un verre de jurançon,
L’instant ne reviendra pas,
As tu vu le papillon ?
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
If you should hear him coming, fear his roar
His grizzled warnings, you should not ignore
A formidable champion is Ursus, a carnivore
His claws protects those he loves with vigour
He confidently stands on two powerful legs
to liberate the world from its deviant dregs
Quite beastly is his gnarly savoir-faire attitude
when in combat with the insolent and the rude
He'd prefer to live in harmony with c'est la vie,
thinking, That's life and what will be will be
But he will fight when needed... c'est la guerre
Off to war with courage, strides the Great Bear
With one arm held in check, he'll not be denied
the voice to rebuke those who abuse and deride
If blinded in one eye, he would never hold back
To defend those in need he would bravely attack
Soon, sunlight will yawn on the edge of dawn
and I'll welcome the warmth of his morning rays,
but never could I liken them to the great love born
when I feel your sensuous touch that sets me ablaze.
Anxiously, I wait while my heart is yearning
for daylight's journey to cast shadows over me.
Restlessly, I watch the hands of the clock turning
until the hour when the sun surrenders into the sea.
When skies are awash with an amber glow
I become eager to touch the breast of twilight.
Watching as grains of sand in the hourglass flow,
knowing when comes the moon, dreams take flight.
A pearlescent gem, she lulls me to sleep
when gracefully ascending upon her throne.
It's then my reverie descends in slumber deep,
and ardor's silken threads are passionately sewn.
With our hearts ignited by a stellar flare,
we circled the moon on diaphanous wings.
In Luna's lair we made love with savoir-faire
while starlight dreams caressed my heartstrings.
Impatiently, I feel passion mounting
before the moon rises to her zenith height.
Hours move much too slowly as I'm counting
the hours when I can touch the breast of twilight.
*a repost
National Panic Wednesday March 9th, 2022 actually... every day
Founded by Tom and Ruth Roy
solely to acknowledge hardship
of A. R. Harris
and her husband M.S. Harris,
who cope poorly
(even courtesy medication)
with anxiety attacks, especially when
violated, probed, interrogated courtesy
Highland Manor inquisition,
which traumatizing event happened
on aforementioned date
included with poem title.
J. G. and P. F.
constitute management team
under jurisdiction of Quoss
(pronounced chhath tt) and Grade,
who espouse principle laissez faire
but whose exhibited heavy handedness
pertaining to the married couple
named in the third line of this poem.
Either one or the other gals
who attend these premises
here at the Schwenksville location
(I won't mention
the state as penile solitude)
alluded to a peculiarly nasty odor
emanating from unit B44,
our man/woman cave.
We received a twenty four hour deadline
to get into shipshape the disarray
messiness even Pigpen
would find abominable,
yet upon receiving both
oral and written admonition,
me and the missus
buckled down and kickstarted
frenzied whirlwind one bedroom
apartment cleaning spree
zoned out like zombies of Sugar Hill
when the clock struck bewitching hour,
more specifically that alluded time
synonymous with midnight.
No matter we felt dead tired
whereat neither option
to acquire additional time,
nor desist existed,
and yet nearly impossible mission
to continue, but appealing
to temptation of sandman
out of the question.
Deep sleep for the weary
appeared oh so heavenly,
on par with plate
of powder milk biscuits,
our mandate (analogous to pilgrims
adults and children -
forced to fight in crusades)
forbid cessation, thus to plod
and plow onward
despite overwhelming urge to plotz,
(not the slang definition)
found yours truly
blissfully in dreamland
when me noggin hit the pillow,
Not for a minute
could yours truly
sit down and take a breather,
despite severe lower
(rightside) back pain.
Said dull throbbing ache
diagnosed as tight muscles
by Doctor (physical therapist)
John R. Mishock,
he would not countenance
(approve, comply, honor...)
I popped one Ibuprofen.
Yours truly never heard, seen, no lies
particularly when alone
facing my (pushing up daisies) demise,
without pretense nor guise,
he honestly decries
smelled, tasted, nor touched, any size,
and essentially knew nothing besides
ancient fruit grown in Japan
for past 1,000 years as Earth flies
thru space, now more about loquats,
plethora of details to exercise
memory bank, though
this poetaster still tries
to appear learned, no matter
me no expert, I reckon eyes
aforementioned small yellow size
egg-shaped acidic fruit
great breakfast, lunch,
or dinner sup prize
for dessert never knew the evergreen
eastern Asian tree of rose family,
in Thorndale residents
at somber occasions,
or holidays edibly feast
as modus operandi to eulogize.
If ever opportunity
finds agriculturally cocksure
and propensity doth arise to venture
to savor succulent juice of Loquat,
savoir faire mine mean
mien to one epicure
this wordsmith, whatever
his wordsworth as whitman,
he will need to remove lower denture
minor inconvenient truth (er tooth),
where jaws comprise juncture
and/or chop delectable treats
into byte size morsels.
Perhaps before I lay
me down to sleep
forever and a day
launched into death
be not proud, aye
will strive to appease
culinary yen oy vey
searching high and
low unexpectedly axed
about diddly squat (a spot,
pimple, or sty) seated
please and lemme
introduce myself, cuz
thar thou looking
for specific monsignor okay
thy my quest, I wilt thus assay
to indulge me secrete,
and rejoice hip... hip... hooray
if thee will allow any which way,
yours truly to supplicate,
perhaps magic discovery
after I pay obeisance and pray
to Mother Nature
my hunger, she will allay.
If ambition to satiate loquat all naught
please scatter cremated ashes,
upon bed of loquat sought
but ne'er found,
cuz earnestness to secure
coveted desire fraught,
not necessarily in vain if I got
repurposed to commingle,
viz this pauper devoid of haute
cuz thrift stores find me
where clothes get bought.