ahhh... the crisp feel of the new notebook
its spine never cracked open
its pages of virgin white perfectly aligned
awaiting their marching orders
eager for all and any pen markings
from sunday best handwriting to doodles
inviting playful interaction
your creative élan of spontaneity
random thoughts splashed on a page
scripted lines scribbled to offload
a mind seeking clarity, peace or absolution
seeking a semblance of order
of profound clarity or silly mischief
one page then another
the daily journal of a busy mind
in search of something
through self-expression
hoping to find it between
the whites of pages
and the ink of a ballpoint pen
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
For the very first time in my whole damn life
Things are sailing along tickety boo
Don't ever remember a time quite like this
On top of the world cuz of you
You've turned my world all topsy turvy
Loving it, as happy as it gets
Been sailing along on cloud number nine
Haven't quite gotten over it yet
Probably never will and why would I want to
It's the greatest feeling known to man
This tickety boo feeling, this feeling of love
There's nothing to match this élan
If you think it's a great new formula of mine
I'd simply say look in your heart
Everyone possesses this ability to find love
The heart's the best place to start
Silken whispers greet the blithe morning
damp mist spring tap on red oak door
joyful treat preempted faint dawning
Felicity a phase one can’t ignore
bright daffodil white and pink bloom
fragrant garden bouquet stuff of lore
Alyssum’s plump trailing mound may loom
where greyedging border might seem bare
ideal cluster wraparound March plume
Ever present awe inflames my stare
rampant green aroma gust blown sent
nearby rabbit chuckled in its lair
Ample rose bush color splash in lent
showcase of enduring floral sign
tints and tones that ruffle by assent
Snowdrop bells perennial align
sprout from moistened brown earth
on pebbled wall a green creeping vine
Embrace this heady seasonal birth
marvel at its blue spruce tapestry
exhale your élan vital of mirth
il était une fois, à Saint-Marine,
Un regard si pesant sur cette fenêtre qui m'illumine,
Douce, immobile, fort appréciable,
L'envie de te rencontrer, inoubliable.
Mais notre rencontre ne se prononça pas ce jour-là,
Tu disparus, et mon cœur en fut ébranlé, hélas,
L'amour s'écoula dans mon sang comme un aimant violent,
Changeant ma vision, ma vie, tout devint improbablement brillant.
Je cherchais sans cesse cette rencontre éternelle,
Juste pour te remercier de ce regard qui éclaire l'irréel,
Car tu as changé ma perception, ma réalité,
Et je suis tombé sous le charme de cette beauté.
Aujourd'hui, ton regard reste gravé dans ma mémoire,
Comme un trésor précieux, une histoire à revoir,
Et je suis reconnaissant de t'avoir croisée sur mon chemin,
Car grâce à toi, ma vie prend un nouvel élan, sans fin.
I'm a poet through and through,
Though I cannot explain to you
How it happened or what it was
That led me to it.
I didn't set out to pursue it,
I just, one day, began to do it,
And then ten years blinked by
Almost before I knew it.
The poems I pen are mostly true,
Though now and then I stretch a few.
To imbue lines with more élan
Is why I do it.
The verse to which I lend my name
Won't tend to fortune nor to fame,
But I'll keep scribbling just the same
And never rue it.
My heart and soul are in my style,
If I can make one reader smile,
My efforts will have been worthwhile,
Although I may never know it.
I'm no Shelley, Keats, or Poe,
Or Frost, or Nash, but even so,
I hope in time my rhymes will show
That I'm a poet.
gripping the shards of memories
ignoring the bloodied emotions
why do we torture ourselves
with that which we cannot change
these evocations
vivid
disturbing
invisible to others
but our élan spotlit
driven
instituting mostly patronising
eleemosynary projects
perfect recall
subject to
experiences dictated by
accident of birth
the authenticity of memoirs
tenaciously defended
but ravaged by
subliminal influences
a testimony to its perfidy
From You have come the wonderful things
That brought me joy and spread my wings
I soar today above the stabs and stings
That unfriendly bias so often brings.
The lightning that came was looking for me;
You deflected it far and away from me.
The snowstorm stayed miles from my town.
The deluge was gone: I did not drown.
For me the trees are green, with élan
Flowers bloom, their colors transform
Nature to a friendly warmth and charm
A rhapsody in hearts they do perform.
For me the sun, the moon, the stars
That bring in bounties, relieve my pain.
I’m no longer alone, I cry not in vain
Hope and faith are, in me, just born again.
In these radiant hands, let me bury my face,
Kiss them with my eyes and seek the grace,
Shed tears and wash away forever the trace
Of an unholy past, its pain and its fiery haze.
Bright
shines spring's
fledgling sun.
New blooms praise her,
inspiring élan.
Now effusive,
she conquers
winter's
dun.
4/7/2021
Written for Caren Krutsinger's "Spring Ninette" poetry contest.
élan vital
David J walker
Everything is hungry
Every single thing alive
Shall survive at the expense of
Some poor enhungered something else
That has learned to thrive in it’s
Own peculiar environment
The élan vital has turned even the
Blades of grass into clever predators and hunters
Capturing sunlight and rain that will sustain it
For another day
The forest records its own language spreading
Branch to branch Tree to tree
As the sea sings its ancient songs between the
Salty soliloquy of tidal waves
Even the mountains standing majestically
Will be spread softly along the beach
As the Earth remakes itself
Patiently
Day
by day
by day
I cannot help wondering about Vivaldi.
Antonio was a priest they say,
a cleric of the cloth.
I can’t help surmising
when as a young man
at the Ospedale della Pieta,
(a home for foundlings
and the training of musically inclined
female wards).
I wonder about all that fiddle playing
with an orchestra of young ladies
and him, the red-headed priest
with all that passion and élan.
wanting to express himself
in so many ways
with a strong and vibrant bow
and all those ladies.
Ennui crept up and perched high
On the shoulder of a roving mind
Hand in hand with gales, now spy
Rainbow shrouded in a misty pall
Golden friend of the sky just left
Entrusted to me a sleepless daze
Though my partner be ever nigh
None but a grey expanse and I be
Mind and sky in murk so cloaked
Verve bubbles blown off the shore
End the free fall into grief, I must
Flailing 'til I find a foothold, a frame
Set alight my moony essence, I will
And imbrue the balmy tinges of élan
Rekindle cinders of passion, I shall.
OluDola2019.
A quiescent misty lake in center of hillock,
surrounded in soundless old oak trees.
Sheen of mercury looks ethereal in sunbeam,
blue headed kingfishers, in sly glances skim.
silvery air sparkling in splash of wildflowers,
a frescoed terrain painted in élan,..
but happy faces never make life
smile is heavenly only with sad eyes
Suddenly....
wrapped in snowwhite glossy feathers
white blossoms glide in majestic drift.
across motionless ripples of clear stream
curved necks entwined in heart shapes
mute love sing their last farewell song
Swans....
Cygnets of myth
Created by man
to see pain,... listen to pain
and still admire the death of beauty.
20th April 2019
Maureen Mcgreavy's Suddenly Swans Contest
Villanelle : In what way has the Sexual Revolution freed Man
In what way has the Sexual Revolution freed Man
One man's still at the helm where one woman pulls the purse strings
Political structures still rest authoritarian
Is Reich's Function of the O.ga.m lame duck also ran
Do power struggles at all levels bounce bums on bed springs
In what way has the Sexual Revolution freed Man
Strikes protests manifestations mere excuses we ban
Face-saving measures populist fire-brand broken wings
Political structures still rest authoritarian
Does kiss-tail orgasmic reflex replace sublime élan
The chimère of suppressed masses condemned to strum heart strings
In what way has the Sexual Revolution freed Man
Who hoists family father-figure as revered top sultan
No authority at home spells chaos at source well-springs
Political structures still rest authoritarian
Sans moral consciousness the substratum cracks in ev'ry man
Abuse an innocent child he'll in turn abuse all beings
In what way has the Sexual Revolution freed Man
Political structures still rest authoritarian
© T. Wignesan - Paris, November 17, 2018
Before He was born in this earth,
Angel announced Christ Jesus' birth;
When He was born, a tiny boy,
Angels declared it - Oh! What joy!
He grew up, not with much élan,
But in favour with God and man;
After fasting, came temptation,
Then came angels' ministration;
Three and a half years of preaching,
With His Love to people reaching;
Then He went to Gethsamane,
Praying there in deep agony,
An angel came down from heaven,
Just, in order, Him to strengthen;
He hung on the cross sinister,
No angels came to minister;
An eternity of silence
Followed His affliction intense;
On the third day morning, they came,
Christ's resurrection to proclaim;
On the mount after forty days,
He ascended 'midst angels' praise;
Right from birth till His ascension,
In Christ's life, they had a mention.
Ev'n today, angels are singing,
With His praise, heavens are ringing
He sends them down to protect us,
When we choose to serve Lord Jesus.
08/08/18
A Second in Court
A déjà vu to centuries past is just a quantum peak
to glimpse the courtly, avant-garde in session to critique
Baroque and Renaissance displays, pointing as they speak,
admiring slight anomaly that makes some art unique.
With ennui they gave no ear to a dilettante’s entreat
knowing only, it’s the king and queen’s élan you have to meet.
A cacophony of tongues gossiped outcomes so discreet,
stood waiting for the bona fide applause, “Oh magnifique!”
Royal people had carte blanche to make artists great or weak
sometimes not ever finding those with natural technique.
iambic heptameter 14 syllables a line
1/26/18
Related Poems