Long Gras Poems
Long Gras Poems. Below are the most popular long Gras by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gras poems by poem length and keyword.
My “honey” with chestnuts will not come for Christmas,
It’s life, you have to enjoy yourself anyway
once a year,
New Year’s menu to enjoy at the time you like,
Foie gras with a glass of Monbazillac,
Snails with butter,
Scallop shell with lemon-white butter
Short break
Quail with hot mango
and hazelnut potatoes,
Maybe cheese with the tour des grands ducs (local wine)
Then the dessert
Traditional bûche de Noël
You are all welcome
No need to be a millionaire even at Christmas
Merry Christmas ou Joyeux Noël
Ma « dinde » aux marrons ne sera pas pour Noël,
C’est la vie, il faut se faire plaisir quand même
une fois dans l’année,
menu du réveillon à déguster à l’heure qu’il vous plaît,
Foie gras avec un petit verre de Monbazillac,
Escargots au beurre persillé,
coquille Saint jacques au beurre blanc citronné
Petite pause,
Cailles accompagnés de mangue chaude
et de pommes noisette,
Peut être du fromage avec la tournée des grands ducs ( vin local)
Puis le dessert
Bûche de Noël traditionnelle,
Vous êtes tous invités
Pas besoin d’être millionnaire même à Noël
Joyeux Noël
Mardi Gras has finally come to town
Bourbon Street is getting ready for the best party around
Let the party begin as the neon lights get the revellers dancing through the streets
Music from various artists with unique and powerful beats
The windows and the doors from balconies fling open with no time to spare
Brightly coloured beads fall through the night air
Police on horses try to maintain crowd control
Thousands of people enjoying their alcohol-fuelled stroll The street looks like a giant rainbow with all the colourfully dressed people abound
The trek becomes an obstacle course with trinkets strewn across the ground
I survived the night thanks to my wife who kept me in line
Truly a night to remember until the end of time
You whispered good morning
Late within your voyage, where fate blinded us
Your neck is covered in crosses
Devotion to the hereafter
Where you know one day
We shall meet
Gothic black, veiled for your special day
When pleasure and pain shall join us
In a soft summer breeze
As we caress in the graveyards' playground
Black roses blowing in the wind
Pearls from deep below, I bury with you
Mardi gras in the south of France
Behind our masks we massaged our facades
We were entwined in passions embrace
Yet we never once met
Until red lipstick ran down your face
The tears fell upon lost yearnings
Magnolia's bloomed
Murder was served at the table.
The fellow is dead, not stable.
Page turned, nothing could be subtler -
Suspicion fell on the butler.
It was the salt and peppering -
It’s clear his oversteppering
was found out this night…all knives out.
Stone cold - the butler gave a shout.
The poison sealed the rim of glass
to coup de gras the loudmouth bass.
Another page was turned, we’d learn
the butler’s dead - a great concern!
The guests, now accuse each other,
but one by one they fall. Bother!
Who hates them all? Who’s caused this strife?
One’s still standing - the butler’s wife!
The reader, glares at the writer,
declares it was a nail biter.
She tells the author to drink up.
He hopes it is a loving cup.
7/21/2022
SPONSOR: Joseph May
Contest: One In Five 2
Chose #2 - SUSPICION FELL ON THE BUTLER
I love the month of February,
The shortest and coldest month of the season,
For an array of personal reasons.
And yet, it feels like Feb is the longest,
For the events that happen haphazardly,
Amidst treacherous winter storm blasts.
Quasi everything is frozen and solid near the nest
Of the American bald eagles,
Except the Mardi Gras masks under the rumbles.
February is the season of love,
The month of Saint Valentine,
A quintessential paradise cove,
Where lovers take refuge. Pure, Pristine,
Snowy, short, Pure, dark, and lovely; Feb's now
The celebratory month of Black history,
One wonders why and how
We get the shortest one. It's another story
That we should let the nomad seagulls
Decipher. No bathers on the sandy beaches,
Solely, a few birds are perched on the branches,
Far away from the cribs of the bald eagles.
February is a month of a kaleidoscopic contrast,
Where snowfalls happen quite often,
And hardcore lovers dream warmth under a heaven
Full of hope, love, beauty, and ice.
Copyright © January 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
A little south of Heaven
On the Gulf of Mexico
Here in the Heart of Dixie
The living's easy and slow
The weather's mostly nice here
Round Mobile Bay
Sunshine when it ain't raining
It's beautiful today here in L.A.
Living in L.A.
Lower Alabama
Spanish moss, azaleas
A deep south panorama, Lower Alabama
So far south, can't get no farther
Off the map, feet hitting water
A little taste of the bayou
A little twang in our talk
Folks are friendly when they greet you
We say sir and maam and y'all
We love sweet tea, our chicken fried
Shrimp and grits, and pecan pie
And watermelon in season
Man, I love the smell of bacon
Smells like Sunday morning
Like America, tastes like freedom
Living in L.A.
Lower Alabama
Spanish moss, azaleas
A deep south panorama, Lower Alabama
So far south, can't get no farther
Off the map, feet hitting water
Now, some might say we've got it all
Hidden treasures to be found
Bellingrath and Mardi Gras
(The first one, mind you) and the USS Alabama
The stuff of dreams, music scenes
Golden beaches, island streams
Fresh seafood to die for
Piggly Wigglys, there's a few
Foosackly's, can't fake the Foo
A sea of Shunarrah billboards, oh Lord
Living in L.A.
Lower Alabama
Spanish moss, azaleas
A deep south panorama, Lower Alabama
So far south, can't get no farther
Off the map, feet hitting water
Alabam, here where I oughtta be
© 2017.
God Shook his Head Today
In the public eye you spew lies from the table cloth, with fake humanitarianism.
A sort of façade one puts on at a mardi gras parade; whimsical and alluring.
Yet, your goodwill proves shallow.
Another ego centric politician to add to the list.
While the oceans dry up, and the glaciers melt, our super typhoons are angrily bellowing out rubbage from the plastics filling the earth.
Nobody really cares, in a world in which life is taken for granted.
Some countries go without electricity, and Wi-Fi as we sit down with a big mac, and whoppers.
Digging around in a cereal box trying to locate the little plastic toy.
Oh boy what have we done, to our planet? I assure you it is time to panic.
God shook his head today, wondering how we allowed the wasting away.
God shook his head today, surveying the land.
Crying as the clouds formed a frown.
I’m ranting like a tsunami killing innocents upon the shore, engulfing the victims with the force of five hundred armies.
It is too late, what’s done is done, landslides, and hurricanes the size of multiple states taking the weak to grow stronger, while others are left in defeat.
God shook his head today, then placed his face in the palm of his hands as he looked downward at the plastic filled sands.
When others sleep
I lie awake
Waiting
For night
To become day.
Rubbing
The sun
From my eyes
Everything I
Tried to forget
Comes back
Like an angry wave.
Hearing about the hurricane
And the neglect
I went to New Orleans
Barely knew the place
Only what I heard
Creoles and Mardi Gras
The Big Easy and
Good times
A distant city singing
Its own sad song
From the South.
Long days and
Months later
A fever came round
From damp nights and bad food
A public health doctor
Looked at me
With an innocence
And worry
I haven’t seen
Since childhood.
Restless
One night
I set out
Towards the outskirts
Of the city.
Fires burned everywhere
Violence
Lay waiting
In gaping holes
Of empty houses
And abandoned cars
The spider web of
Death
Hovered above
Waiting for its next victim
I thought I saw the worst
But I hadn’t.
On a garbage strewn road
Was an old woman
Patiently
Stirring some sort of gumbo
In a beat up tin pot
I approached her
In the darkness
We were
Two solitary
Figures on a dirt road
The space between us
No more than a foot
From the fire
The veins on the back of her hands
Stood out
Her face hidden in the flickering shadows
“I’m noticing you
You’re a stranger
You don’t belong here.”
Looking past me
She asked,
“Tell me mister
If they put a man on the moon
Can't they rescue people in a flood?’
I had no answer
Tapping the spoon
Against the side of the pot
She spoke to no one in particular,
“Must be
We got to be people
On the moon
Before anyone can help us”.
Behind us
Shadows moved
Heavy voices were heard.
A sudden downpour came
The rain turning
The dirt road to mud
The old woman shrugged and left
I walked back to camp
Leaving as lost
As I came.
The night
Became a faint memory
I slept forever
Exhausted
I opened my eyes
To see wet clothes
And muddy boots
In the corner
Of my room
Then I knew
The night
Hadn’t been
A dream after all.
I love the month of February,
The coldest month of the season,
For an array of personal reasons.
And yet, it feels like she is the longest,
For the events that happen haphazardly,
Amid treacherous winter storm blasts.
Quasi everything is frozen near the nest
Of the American bald eagles,
Except the Mardi Gras masks under the rumbles.
Feb is the month of love,
The month of Saint Valentine,
A quintessential paradise cove,
Where lovers take refuge. Pure, pristine,
Snowy, short, cold, dark, and lovely; She's now
The celebratory month of Black history,
One wonders why and how
We get the shortest one. It's another story
That we should let the nomad seagulls
Decipher. No swimmers on the wintry beaches,
Solely, a few birds are perched on the branches,
Far away from the cribs of the bald eagles.
February is a month of kaleidoscopic contrast,
Where snowfalls happen quite often,
And hardcore lovers dream under a heaven
Full of hope, love, beauty, and ice.
Hebert Logerie Tuesday, February 2, 2016
Quirina and Quiqui Quetzal*
Were a truly splendiferous pair.
They won first prize at Mardi Gras
As if nobody else was there.
This had ruffled a number of feathers
Among some who'd come very far
And spent weeks and months on elaborate costumes
While the Quetzals were "come as you are".
But they'd been down this road before,
And Quiqui had a plan.
He'd arranged to start a brawl or two
So later Quirina could brag
That he really was her "macho man",
Not just a sissy guy in drag.
*Author's note: For some of you more ornithologically challenged P Soupers, the quetzal is a brilliantly plumaged bird of primarily Mexico and Central America.