SUGAR BEAR...
COUNTRY CHILD
SILVER HAIR...
COUNTRY WILD
SUMMER AIR...
HOW SHE SMILED
SAVOIR FAIRE...
HEART BEGUILED
she had a flair, a savoir faire
sophistication in the air
she was chic, sleek and lovable too
a perfect lady, my fine aunt Sue
Just how champagne came to be
opinions vary and there are many.
The French insist it was no mistake
like all great art they highly rate;
indeed, a felicitous coupling
of skill and savoir faire* resulting
in a tingling bubbly effervescence
rocketed champagne to prominence.
(Other stories and less discreet
explain the wine maker fell asleep
and thus the fermentation
exceeded normal maturation.)
The French even claim to know the name
of him who gave the wine its fame,
(a lowly monk named Dom Pérignon),
who described it as a phenomenon
akin to “drinking the stars,” an epithet
as valid today as when he first sipped it.
*Savoir faire = Know-how
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
It’s a sound that can’t be spelt
A sound not uttered by the svelte
A sound like when your grandpa knelt
It’s worse with every year you’re dealt
A sound made rising from a chair
When pulling up your underwear
When climbing each successive stair
A sound devoid of savoir faire
This sound made by the elderly
Is commonplace; apparently
But lately this sound seems to be
A sound that emanates from me!
I can't believe you don't believe
we just rolled passed your fenced in home
But we left something behind
People looking and thinking if we're their kind
I feel like a clown
Then you pretend We're not around
People know where they are
Savoir faire the only suite to wear
The demands of workers
Silent pockets of greedy corporations
You can reach down you'll be found
Knee deep in butterfly farts
How can I stand behind him
Memories of alien foot prints
Deep in the woods
Where only I exists
A man called many things but not called you
Different times of his life
Like chickadees mobbing a blackbird
Dont lean on me
I stand half fallen
Being torn from my beliefs
Seeing nothing come out
The machine is not working
They don't dance anymore
But its just like nothing happened
I don't want to be part
Part of this shadow
Part of a life
That knows kind
But won't ever find time
We got too much pride
It's just another day
In the frozen grip of winter's chaperone,
Cinderella gets walzted in like a dirty faced hussy.
As light and darkness stand side by side
in a battle for her supremacy.
Godmother has the ground vermin rousted up
from their hidden abodes.
Busy fashioning her apparels and pearly things.
But kissing in their modes.
Dreams that have lied dormant promise the moon,
meets with sunbeams fresh advances, with golden threads of dress-up in swoon.
New pickup lines and peer reviews
to peak at her pinnacle lines.
Fresh new light clings to the hem of misty morn,
sown at her delicate feat, like diadems.
Promised in consecrated dew-drops newly born.
The fowl caress the air in synchronized swim,
in salvos of savoir faire,
bannering rehearsal,
the reversal of Death's Nadir.
Much work to do in presenting.
Gonna have a good show.
Godmother tends to her proper dress.
Tries to tone down her exude of amoress.
Winter looks tacitly, concerned-
from the cold distance,
but is lit up by the way Spring looks back
in her gratitudes,
when she turns,
bows and curtseys at her complicit,
Majesty.
Venetian blinds shuttered
Vivacious lust a fix
Veins throb crimson allure
Visceral dread repels
Victorian specter
Vexing savoir-faire lure
Vampire's bloodletting
With no ballyhoo as the clock struck two
In a cottage near the edge of town
A maiden there graced with savoir faire
In a flash shot her lover down
A wiley gent from the county Kent
Known for his shameful reputation
Broke the maiden's heart when he chose to part
For another lass in desperation
The constable Green arrived at the scene
The smoking gun still in her hand
Had so many clues it made all the news
And drew attention throughout the land
With jury cast the trial ended fast
Then the judge made a public decree
This maiden there graced with savoir faire
Charged with murder in the first degree
Standing proud amidst the village crowd
Where she could hear their voices roar
Wouldn't bow in fear or shed a tear
When they led her to the gallows floor
Her neck would snap as the as they sprung the trap
All angels wept in Heaven above
With her final breath before put to death
I'm glad to die in the name of love
Morning birdsongs beck and call
Bluebird, are you here at all?
Where'd you fly to? Where'd you go?
Perhaps it's not for me to know
I'll always keep the fire warm
Within my heart should you return
I'll always stand and look for you
And see your face in sunset blue
You're back inside where you once dwelt
Instead of telling I just felt
My love in secret lives in there
I'll handle it with savoir faire
The hopes and dreams won't go away
They'll stay with me until someday
In place of you there can be none
You'll always be my number one
Bloom
all day
wild
summer
caught in gold
green life
burst
of hues
scenic views
flush blooms are there
savoir-faire
garden
joy
cherish
each moment
orange
sun
will fade
soon
Written on 3/2/2023
For: Waltz Wave Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Waltz Wave Poetry Contest
She has a certain savoir-faire;
always clever with the cleaver.
Young leveret wants to believe her,
follows signs for trim of hare.
Too old, her title to recoup,
waits patient at the barbershop,
then takes a little off the top;
a tortoise makes delightful soup.
Engraved like stone upon the writer's sense
a waft of inspiration flows from here to there
like fragrant spice of myrrh and frankincense
inside a writer's skill the savoir faire
a waft of inspiration flows from here to there
word to verse assembled and remembered
inside a writer's skill the savoir faire
it can be read but never be dismembered
word to verse assembled and remembered
the poet holds his own but shares at large
it can be read but never be dismembered
crafted words of what cannot disparage
the poet holds his own but shares at large
like fragrant spice of myrrh and frankincense
crafted words of what cannot disparage
engraved like stone upon the writer's sense
an active writer who writes to succeed
will be a blessing to all those they meet
so, take up your quill it's all that you need
keep penning and never take a back seat
November 26 2022
A redheaded stepchild, he lacked savoir faire;
seems all that he did brought his parents despair.
He made them some gingerbread, did so with flair.
Just for spite, he included some bits of his hair.
Reality occasionally hallucinates,
poetry almost always enchants
our art is to balance the extremes,
so that we compile the finer results
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