Long Orleans Poems
Long Orleans Poems. Below are the most popular long Orleans by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Orleans poems by poem length and keyword.
Musee d’Orsay grasps the hands of time.
The clock crowns; its gears move around.
Gallery-goers lookout and grin
from Paris-Orleans to Montmartre;
the clock crowns; its gears move around.
Each eye’s drawn from inside scenes
to the site of Sacré-Cœur without
then back again to the Degas.
Gallery goer’s lookout and grin
locked on the Place de la Concorde,
as the hand moves past a boat
on the still Seine, and the traffic
from Paris-Orleans to Montmartre.
Time passes; patron’s heads spin unwonted,
as the hands of the clockwork pass,
Monet’s lilies await—is there time?
*The Retourne a French form from the middle ages.
Published in Page & Spine 2015
In New Orleans for some highjinks.
Here to rally ‘round the flag.
She’ll be open to suggestion
When I’ve got her bound and gagged.
I won’t need to solve the riddle
Of the chicken or the egg
To distinguish first from foremost
While I’m making Mandy beg.
You can bet your bottom dollar
Gonna taste forbidden fruit
On a fragrant bed of roses
In this house of ill repute.
Hog the limelight. Gild the lily.
Need to take her down a peg,
Teach her all the whys and wherefores
As I’m making Mandy beg.
There be rotten things in Denmark:
Humble pie and bathtub gin,
Sour grapes with gall & wormwood,
Magdalena’s Den of Sin.
Gonna need a pot to piss in.
Go and tap another keg.
She’ll be forced to face the music
When I’m making Mandy beg.
There’ll be ample food for thought
When I talk turkey with the cook.
I’ll be tickling her fancy
Till she babbles like a brook.
Then I’ll call her on the carpet
As the juice runs down her leg.
Demon rum, Miss Goodie Two-shoes,
I’m just making Mandy beg.
On our way to New Orleans, a destination wedding awaits
My daughter and future son in law starting their new life together with fond memories soon to create
Feeling so much joy on your very special day
Your strong love for each other will surely bring you much happiness along the way
Beating hearts and souls now as one
Planning your life together is sure to be fun
The big day has finally arrived the heavens have granted us bright sunshine
As I walk my daughter down the aisle I feel such a great sense of pride
She looks so dazzling lit up with love so grand
Soon to join with the groom a big-hearted talented man
With the beautiful ceremony now complete
Time to celebrate let our hair down and go dancing in the street
‘I found an explosive quill
down on the streets of New Orleans.’
It’s fun to share who I am and also learn from other writers. There was a discussion on the idea to let yourself get lost inside of another world. I made sure to speak a reminder of the inner child. The one who wasn’t jaded by their transformation as they got a little bit older. Remember to dream visit the sea occasionally. Another poet said ‘Let go of the restrictions of human eyes when you write. Speak to a smile unforgettable and a laugh infectious.’ Which reminded us of children, and how they color outside the lines. Make sure you say it how you want to. Slide down the stairs and destroy the box they try to throw you in. ‘Give yourself to your pen AND your deepest fantasies.’ I took that mantra away with me as I left the writers’s retreat.
Laced with Bald Cypress
my Muse tastes the Big Easy;
A sweet southern heat.
I was thinking of writing an Acrostic
to enter the contest hosted by C.T.,
but that would've been much too quick
for my name with letters of only three.
So I'll share with you a little of my life
in rhyme form that I've decided to pen.
Mother of two I adore; no longer a wife,
My newest love is my grandson, Brennan.
Born and raised on a gulf's southern shore,
New Orleans is my heritage and my home.
Adventures and travels I very much adore
and spend lots of time writing many a poem.
I've painted in acrylic and oils of colors bold,
designed sparkling jewelry for ladies to wear.
Reached out to my friends for hands to hold
A lesson learned is to sincerely love and care.
My faith in Jehovah God carries me through.
He grants me peace beneath an angel's wing.
The more I knew Him, the more my love grew.
This, is the reason of His glory I always sing.
Aye, tis true, that I feel extremely blessed.
Healthy, happy, love of family and friends.
Smiling because to all of you I've confessed.
Down with pen. This is where confession ends.
November 23rd 2015
Name contest:
Sponsor: CT
Joan of Arc
A fearless warrior who made her mark
By defeating England, the victory clear cut
She also inspired the "bob" haircut
- - -
1-25-19
Leader Clerihew Contest
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
-----------------------------
Joan of Arc, nicknamed The Maid of Orleans, is considered
a heroine of France for her role during the Lancastrian phase
of the Hundred Years’ War and was canonized as a Roman Catholic saint.
She was born to Jacques d’Arc and Isabelle Romee, a peasant family, at Domremy in north-east France.
On May 23, 1430, Joan was captured at Compiegne by the Burgundian faction, which was allied with the English.
She was later handed over to the English and put on trial by the pro-English Bishop of Beauvais Pierre Cauchon on a variety of charges.
After Cauchon declared her guilty, she was burned at the stake on May 30, 1431, dying at about 19 years of age.
Allow me the opportunity to acquaint you with a few particulars regarding the background to our story and place the principals securely in the context of the setting in which we take our sojourn with them. Our story begins once upon a Mardi Gras, in a mythical city where time and space maintain a tenuous truce, and logic figures into no part of the alliance. In that city, there lived a happy family that answered to the name of Babineaux. The Babineaux family lived in a tidy little flat on the corner of Iberville and Dauphine, just a few blocks from Jean Lafitte National Historical Park and Preserve. It is a historic neighborhood.
Algebra Babineaux, the mother, had been a schoolteacher on a Choctaw reservation in Oklahoma before she married Papa, whom she met while visiting relatives in Quebec. They moved to New Orleans after inheriting a small shop in the French Quarter from a benevolent relative. Algebra Babineaux is reverent. She sings grace every morning at breakfast while the family holds hands around the kitchen table, "The Lord is good to me, and so I thank the Lord for giving me the things I need, the sun, the rain and the apple seed. The Lord is good to me."
Algebra Babineaux also possesses a firm belief in the sanctity of justice. Her motto is, 'keep the faith.' She’s a country girl who likes her grits thick. Her belief in the rule of law is so strong, she makes it a point to always butter everyone’s breakfast toast on both sides so that if a slice might accidentally drop to the floor, there’d be no possible chance of violating the Tumbling Toast Corollary to Murphy’s Law.
The wedding cake beaver with a cha cha cha
Down New Orleans way, danced the Mardi Gras.
We said “don’t tell us he’s coming this way, Ma.”
She nodded and said “Better tell your pa.”
When the wedding cake beaver comes your way.
It means there is going to be a wedding day.
We were eight and six and scared now for sure.
The only one old enough was our cousin Cure.
Cure was seventeen, is that old enough?
To get married to some old doddery duff?
The wedding cake beaver came in with a flounce.
This mission statement he did announce.
A wedding fell through today down by the pond.
I knew your family liked cake, and this is the road I was on.
They don’t want the cake, would you like it today?
We were so thrilled we let out a hip hip hooray!
Saint Tropez is a summer town.
Smaller than it ought to be, really.
Like when you realize the French quarter,
in New Orleans, is just three blocks wide and long.
In the fall, there’s a feeling of disuse in Saint Tropez.
A turquoise bike leans haggard against a tree,
and summer leaves gather in gutters like trash.
Your appearance in a bar is treated like a surprise.
The wait staff gathers, like they might take your picture
and not your order - one brings napkins another the menu.
Summer memories are indistinct now, from disuse.
You aren’t sedated by sunlight and warm ocean airs.
Was summer some French, romantic, cinematic fantasy,
like "La Belle et la Bête" or "And God Created Woman"?
Or was it deliciously bright, seductive and real.
You find yourself saying, “In the summer, when the thyme,
lavender, rosemary, citrus and jasmine bloom, the aromas
are strong, actually physical, like going into an Ulta store,
where a thousand delicate perfumes vie for attention.”
But it’s like describing ghosts or deserts under glass.
You search for the words, like a poet or an actress, unable
to remember her lines - lines that would make it real,
invoke it, precious and immediate - like a spell.
The Saint Tropez of summer.
Kirsten bought the old Delacroix place,
built back in eighteen hundred thirty-four.
A rambling home in the old federal style;
seven bedrooms, five baths, and three floors.
People whispered about the house
and all the things that had taken place there.
In haunted New Orleans this home was
the spookiest of a town with it's share.
There was talk that a demon haunted the grounds,
raised up from the darkest pits of Hell.
That he would do the bidding of those who asked,
if to the Dark One their soul they would sell.
That, along with strange shrieks and howls
were not even counted amongst the worst.
All knew for a fact, that one century back
Guillame Delacroix had gone quite berserk.
He killed his whole family with a great axe,
so he was sentenced to sing from a rope.
Yet on the gallows he’d smiled and said:
“Fools, it is not yet my time to go!”
For long years after, the legends do say
Mad Guillame stalked through the old house.
Some warned Kirsten that he and the demon
were still within and haunting it now.
But she didn’t really believe in that stuff,
and the deal offered she couldn’t resist.
She even figured that to make extra cash
she could give ‘ghost tours’ to the tourists!
Making it even better, living not far off,
was a young man named Endicott James.
She found herself taken by his genteel charms,
and the old soul that within him lay.
Months went by, then one night while alone
a kitchen pot flew off of the wall.
Made of cast iron, it struck poor Kirsten,
and to the hard tiles she did then fall...
CONTINUES IN PART II.