Long The french Poems
Long The french Poems. Below are the most popular long The french by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long The french poems by poem length and keyword.
What America is About
Liberty Enlightening the World
(La Liberté éclairant le monde)
Overlooking New York Harbor.
A gift from France, cast in copper
To commemorate French and American alliance
In shared ideals of freedom and democracy,
For which many sacrificed bravely.
Upon the pedestal wearing sandals and a toga,
Lady Liberty walks on the chains of bondage,
Bearing a beacon and a tablet
Declaring the date of America’s Independence:
“We are Americans from Lexington and Concord
To Philadelphia; that is what America is about!”
***
Notes:
The “Statue of Liberty” is a copper statue of the Roman goddess “Libertas” that was designed by the French sculptor Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi (1834–1904). It was given to the people of the United States of America by France to commemorate the friendship and shared ideals between the two nations (dedication ceremonies took place on October 28, 1886). The statue is located on Liberty Island (formerly known as Bedloe’s Island) in New York Harbor, U.S.A.
The American Revolutionary War, aka the American War of Independence (1775–1783), officially ended with the signing of the Treaty of Paris on September 3, 1783, in Paris, France, between Britain and the thirteen American colonies (Patriots). Three years later, on July 4, 1776 (July IV, MDCCLXXVI), the Second Continental Congress of the United Colonies adopted the Declaration of Independence. On September 9, 1776, the name was changed to the United States of America.
The lay of the land
Ramadan is going green; eat cabbage stew before dawn
and leave the cattle feel safe from men with long knives
I think of Israel, a none Muslim state, where the Jews
are demonstrating against the fanatics, who are, at heart
Fascists; the wish is, for them, to extend to lend a hand
to the long-suffering Palestinians.
In Europe, people are tired of the proxy war between
Russia and the USA; they are finally seeing Ukraine for
what it is, a fascist country that, with the help of NATO
Illegally grabbed power; they are wrong to think that
NATO fights for them.
It is with sorrow I see Finland joining the NATO outfit
that will build bases near the Russian border and sow
Discontent in a nation of thousands of lakes that have lived
In peace, with the larger neighbour, since 1954.
One wonders when Germany will break free of chains
Saddled with the burden of the past, weighing them down.
The French are marching in the streets, protesting to
the curtailing of their right; but it is a pointless struggle
unless they – the people- declare a general strike
till Macron’s regime falls.
Café Terrace in Arles, France
Beneath stars of heavenly grandeur,
In a café, romance prospects dwell brighter.
Patrons’ entertaining escapades of camaraderie
Charismatically whisper away the evening.
Visible under the illuminating gas lantern
Of sulphurous yellow, revealing customers
Who say, “S'il vous plaît” to the French waiter
As passersby stare at empty tables.
At the street’s end is seen a church spiral rise,
And in-between the buildings’ windows of light,
Over the cobblestones, the calèche chatters
As people yield to the horse-drawn carriage.
Une nuit d'été de bonjours et d'au revoirs
(A summer night of hellos and goodbyes)
On Place du Forum in Arles, France.
***
Note:
“Café Terrace in Arles, France” is an ekphrastic poem describing the painting “Café Terrace at Night” (1888) by Vincent van Gogh (1853–1890).
~ I Give You My Love ~
( Mirrored Rondelet)
~O~
Give you my Love
See the sky with stars, and the moon
Give you my Love
Sent to us all way from above
As night leaves, brings promising dawn
Gracefully Love, glides like a swan
Give you my Love
Give you my Love
Gracefully Love, glides like a swan
As night leaves, brings promising dawn
Sent to us all way from above
Give you my Love
See the sky with stars, and the moon
Give you my Love
~O~
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2017
February.24.2020
“Kindness is a language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.”
- Mark Twain-
~Author's Notes:
The ' Rondelet ' is a French poetry form or style.
The " Mirrored Rondelet " is a poetry form or style that was created by
Dorian Petersen Potter, aka ladydp2000,in 2010.
I just love all the repetitions or refrains in all of the French poetry forms, I guess, it must be
a lot of that French blood that I have in me :)))...lol
I did write u a poem but I lied about it and forgot. As you would say, I tend to lie about things a lot
Please would you meet me at the park?
Today, at four-o-clockish sharp?
At the bench under the tree
(Just come and talk to me!)
And yes I know that if there's snow
Or rain, we'll get cold and have to go—
But have you heard, do you know?
How to kiss like an Eskimo?
We can rub our noses together
To protect them from this horrid weather
And If it snows we'll just build an igloo
(If only to extend this brief rendezvous )
Stay a little longer to see the northern lights?
Stay with me to watch the starry nights?
I get it if you're busy, that's also fine.
(But won't you, can't you, just be mine?)
But now it's five, we don't have long
And so I guess the igloo's gone
And so we'll go back to the bench
And you can say "Why not more like the French?"
I like Svalbard, but you like Paris more
(And of course, for you) I'll say: "sure!"
when you wanted to give me
you never said for a while
salavic eclipse per epilepsy
test of the taste then a bile
like a swing in the atmosphere's mood
scared earth passionate puke
next the sky seemed to be soothe
catharsis resetting her view
I never held back
like the waves pulling her muse
contractions of zeal moistened hard
supine sand tracing the tune
chaperoned by a virtuoso,
torrent complimenting the blue
undaunted, feigning its strokes
catharsis resetting her view
This mouth counted its syllables
tossed each subsequently
watched them dance dribbles
erected a mood in your feelings
like the wind and tiresome trees
the former a bow from the latter drew
shriek a shudder, tortured trees
catharsis resetting her view
I'll love no more,
feelings transmogrified into glue
like winter firstly to the earth draw
catharsis resetting her view.
19:10:16:14:06
*Note*: A reflection on the French form of Poetry entitled 'Ballade'. Let it not be mistaken for 'Ballad' of tragic attributions.
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Sponsored by Maureen McGreavy
One word wit style poetry Contest
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10/27/18
The paddlewheel unloads people,
tourists who were out on a cruise,
above the docks and the gift shops
the brown palisades come in view.
(The canoes draw up on the beach,
Iroquois out looking to trade,
in the fort the merchants gaze on,
guns and metal they’ll send their way.)
The families walk to the gate,
the young boys humming joyously,
his place is out of story-books,
with so many cool things to see.
(The Mohawks bring their wares inside,
redcoats guards above, quite alert,
they’re supposed to be allies but
keeping an eye out doesn’t hurt.)
They run around the great courtyard,
to the stocks, the well, the wagon,
local youths, dressed up are their guides,
explaining how things were once done.
(The bargaining goes back and forth,
local guides translate what is said,
both sides want the best of the deal,
squabble for all that they can get.)
One the wall kids climb the cannons,
pretend that they’re soldiers of old,
parents ready to pull them back
if, like all kids, they get too bold.
(The big guns look out on the lake,
they know that the French are out there,
these Mohawks came out of the north
so it pays for folks to beware).
The young ones scamper down the walls,
duck into buildings now and then,
the parents tried to read the signs,
but they can’t, since they’re minding them.
(The young man walks a lonely path,
takes the steps, makes sure to go back,
if officers see him slacking
then he knows he will get the lash.)
They get through the gift shop intact,
a battle for parents, it’s true,
pile into the mini-van,
kids asleep in an hour or two.
(The Mohawks head back with their haul,
still hours until they make camp
while merchants stretch out beaver skin,
they never can sate the demand.)
The family goes back to its life,
vacation over for the year,
miles away safe in their homes,
they have little reason to fear.
(The fort remains every watchful,
in a wilderness dark and stern,
not knowing that within a year
all of those tall timbers will burn.)
I open the book of time once more and again,
where pages are engraved in my mind;
the worn old pages- all tattered and yellow,
oh, here is the house of my childhood;
and my memories come twirling . . .
The smell of old wood and the stained glass,
the french doors and the long curved staircase;
my little room overlooking the garden,
and the big claw foot bathtub- a lake to a child;
the kitchen old and cozy with wonderful smells,
mom humming as she cooks . . .
A little girl (me) playing quietly on the front porch,
with long hair in tangles and rosy cheeks;
and grandma rocking and rocking and knitting,
and I hear dad busy in his workshop;
my baby brother in his stroller sleeping,
oh, the happiness . . .
A child's table set for tea and dolls sitting pretty,
a real teapot and some china cups (a gift from grandma);
my kitty cat Snowball asleep on one chair . . .
I walk up the shady street of my memory,
up that big hill where I rode my bike;
to the end of our quiet dappled street,
and into a park lush green and full of songs;
oh yes, the water lilies float on the pond,
and white swans and ducks drift . . .
Further down the street and up a hill,
is an old church with big ornate doors;
I enter the gloom in my mind remembering,
pungent the smell of candles flickering;
and the memories flood back . . .
The worn withered pages of my childhood,
all the pages tattered and yellowed with time;
then slowly- I close tight this book of time,
until the next time . . .
_______________________
July 7, 2019
Poetry/Verse/Withered Pages of My Childhood
Copyright Protected, ID 19- 1164-783-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Childhood Memories
sponsor, Chantelle Anne Cooke
First Place
Casanovas slipping into the red-light tangle;
Forbidden fruits, where temptations dangle.
A carousel sequelae of transient fun,
Shoving precious life through a darkened dungeon.
Herpes, a saboteur of life's quality;
Silent falsehoods, pernicious in totality.
Retrovirus tainting the filthy foray—
Courtesan's fate wrapped in tragic dismay.
The French disease, resurging like a dragon,
Greatest mimicker, its curse on the wagon.
An avalanche of despair, harrowing as the Holocaust;
Fleeting morale fulgurates, bruising life's bitter frost.
Relationships crumble, akin to a precarious card cascade—
An insidious monster of misery, lurking like a ticking grenade.
Dire repercussions of the aftermath,
Grueling the innocent's once-quiet path.
Serenading the cognizant wizard,
Salvaging thyself from a tumultuous blizzard.