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Best Poems Written by Gael Attal

Below are the all-time best Gael Attal poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Gael Attal Poem

A Ship Is Safe In the Harbor

A ship is safe in the harbor,
But that's not what ships are built for.

Because in the sum of our human gleams,
We have created the vessel for our dreams.

Its purpose: to retrieve the alien shore,
To scout, seek, achieve and explore.

A ship is meant to fly and fly,
To seize the horizon and capture the sky.

And the few of us with the intrepidity,
To brave the virulent vortex velocity

We are the wealthiest of men ever to dream
And ever to combat a sea or a stream.

And the harbored ships that fritter away,
Slowly begin to rot and decay.
Never has there been a greater waste of a day,
Than that spent harbored,
Than those of us who stay.

Details | Gael Attal Poem

A Forest

The night like clouded charcoal scorched,
A sea of trees with starlight torched.
A night where laws are sound asleep,
Anarchic prayers running deep.

Alone I hear the wretched screams
Of screeching trees... or so it seems.
The cries protract into the air,
Without a sound they disappear.

The shrieks have bartered now anew
With sounds of meat and boney chew
Discharging from the faithless trees
And snarling with my memories.

But creatures' gruesome growlings drown.
I smell the gunpowder and frown.
The waging sounds of war advance
In battle stance with gun and lance.

The sounds of bleeding men enhanced,
The sounds of fate and time and chance,
No sooner do they cross the trees
Than fade as all their voices freeze.

But worse than bombshell sounds occur;
The storms, the winds, the thunder stirs.
The roars that shake the forest's roots,
The flowers, soil, and passion fruits

A rainy resonance restocks
The grass the air the woods the rocks
And washes with its dancing tingle
All the sounds that intermingle:

A dreaming forest in the night,
And trapped within its fanfare fright,
It chokes me in its thunder thrill
And hangs me in the silence still,
And hangs me in the silence still.

Details | Gael Attal Poem

The Mastermind

The Mastermind isn't keen or shy.
Though some have deemed him pretty sly,
His life just keeps on passing by
And in the end, he’s a normal guy.

He speaks good French but he's not from France.
He lives in a dream, dwells in a trance.
His life never quite seems too advanced
But he thinks it’s a fine song and dance.

He gets a lot of his elation
From instant-messaging conversation
He also puts to application
His years of gathered information.

He doesn't go out very often,
Or refer to himself in the third person,
He did this time though, to get a grin
And he wants to learn the violin.

The important part is yet to come,
He chews his nails instead of gum
He sings a tune and hums a hum,
While calculating his life's sum.

The Mastermind is sharp and slick.
He counts the seconds as they tick
Things tend to click in his mind pretty quick,
And he carries the Devil's walking stick.

Like everyone else he dreams of fame,
And like some out there he plays The Game.
People tend to mispronounce his name:
He pretends to care and thinks its lame.

He's not very sexy or defined,
But considers himself a rare find.
If you meet him he'll be very kind,
That's who he is... The Mastermind.

Details | Gael Attal Poem

Irony, My Dearest Love

Was strolling down on Lover's Lane
With you lingering next to me.
Aphasiacs told me your name,
My love forever: Irony.

Your eyes of polished solar hue,
Comparable to no degree...
And I would venerate them too
My love, if I could only see.

You love the seasons with acclaim,
Adore the sight of all the trees. 
But then of course, it starts to rain
An acid that erodes the leaves.

But I confirm my love will last;
You may possess me endlessly.
My passion, never will it pass
Away, or go missing from me.

Despite my greatest efforts though,
There is one thing I cannot change.
It is your name, my deer, my doe.
The irony of love, so strange.

My love for you has now been slain.
As I was strolling down I slowed,
The sign that once said "Lover’s Lane",
Actually reads "Memory Road".

Details | Gael Attal Poem

Give a Man a Sea-Kitten

Give a man a sea-kitten,
And you feed him for a day.
Teach a man how to sea-kitten,
And PETA will make him pay.

I guess there isn’t much to say,
We’re gonna eat them either way,
Because the message here being conveyed
Does not have to do with fish per se.

Instead we feel the need to build
A foundation where we can rest our guilt.
Or where we can sway, or push, or tilt
The basis of sanity. And watch it wilt.

Humans are actually land-dodos.
A tree is also a green-giraffe.
But no name we will ever sow
Will ever cease to make me laugh.

I mean, how bored do you have to be
In a world with war and disease uprising
To stop what you’re doing and decide: “Here see,
Fish are in trouble. Start compromising.”?

Man is the measure of these extents.
The apex of idiocy slips his mind,
And thus he chooses to invent
Another means to thwart mankind.

We’re defending the rights of things we need.
Things we need for survival, like skin.
And in our greed we fail to read
The paradox lying herein and within.
Among all the things that humans bleed for,
Nothing more imbecilic has ever been,
Than renaming the fish of which we feed
Into something like sea-kitten.

“And then Jesus blessed the sea-kittens,
He broke the bread and divided it amongst 5000 people.”

Details | Gael Attal Poem

The Woolgatherer

Had I not witnessed with my eyes
The massive throng of empty dreams,
I would have fallen for the guise
That all is better than it seems.

The awful truth that lies within,
Its harsh intents I shan’t forgive.
How cruel, alas, deceit has been;
To make me think that all dreams live.


And on that fateful night I met
The shepherd’s twin on timber sitting.
He was collecting in his net
Some empty thoughts, and meekly knitting.

“Woolgatherer, woolgatherer.”
I said with eager dreamer’s tongue.
He had the look of wanderers,
That many deaths have dwelt among.

“How many dreamers have there been
Who’s dreams on solid grounds were crushed?”
“To tell the truth, I can’t begin.”
He spun his words at me, quite rushed.

“The broken dreams…” I said to him,
“What will happen to the pieces?
Will they run, or fly, or swim,
Or simply die? (Their life ceases)”



What he said I won’t forget,
His flabbergasting scheme:
“I’ll pluck the fragments with my net
And build a better dream.”

Details | Gael Attal Poem

Sky Blue Daydream of a Distant Life

A firestorm of fleeing grace,
A holy aria from its base,
Its mem'ry will not be erased
From you.

The shifting shards of fate and chance,
The phosphorescent great expanse,
It all together seems to dance
For you.

A dream that stood a hundred years,
That, when it died appeared in tears,
And exiled all your joys and fears
Through you.

And when the dawn shrivels, subsides,
The queen of grievance stays your bride,
Though crying, all the dreaming tides,
They flew.

Augment your misery with gloom,
Let loneliness become your tomb,
Instead of watching flowers bloom
In you.

Now if you think you can and care,
That you will swear, that you will dare,
Then dream and it will take you there,
The mew.

You shall not ever justify,
The reasons we would all deny,
That in your life you'll never fly
It's true.

But love it smiles and beckons you
To strive and smile and linger too,
To bid the shame that flows through you
Adieu.

Who knew
That life could be so...
Sky blue!

Details | Gael Attal Poem

The Sound of Meaning

The sound of Meaning
Wailing emotions
Whimpers with grief
At Logic’s intentions
	
The sound of Purpose
Whistling to dance
Spits in the face
Of theorized Chance

The sound of Judgment
Thunders with treason
Struggles to balance
Logic and Reason

The sound of Fate
Laughs and cries
Gets to decide
Truth from Lies

The sound of Liberty
Throats are sore
Strongly resembles
The sound of War

The sound of War
Snickers at Judgment
For human Logic
Serves punishment

The sound of Logic
Deafening with hate
Easily dispatches of
Purpose and Fate

The sound of Meaning
Wailing emotions
Whimpers with grief
At Logic’s intentions

Details | Gael Attal Poem

The Temptress of the Cliff

The heaven's lanterns she commands,
The harmony of ocean's harp.
Her moonlit shadow firmly stands,
And merges at the hem of scarp.

As I approach, afraid to speak,
Her illustration disappears.
Alone I brave the mountain peak,
Her cosmic voice still in my ears.

Express'd within the spectral mist,
Her tender kiss, conveyed so soft.
And on her words, I do subsist;
A multitude of miles aloft.

I then behold the sight surreal,
And ponder secretly my choice:
"Shall I take flight? (My fate I'll seal),
Or will I die a silent voice?"

My reasoning was then postponed.
Her beck'ning gaze that I adhere,
Came back to seize my love, dethroned.
Her sympathy was so austere.

I saw the sky, in half was split.
Beheld the universe immense.
Her fragrance rendered counterfeit
In face of harsh liquid incense.


I spied the Owl in the monsoon,
And glimpsed the Lark with grace outdone.
The former dancing with the moon,
The latter weeping for the sun.


And in her treason, I confide,
In holding on to but her arm.
The temptress of the cliff, my bride,
Will keep me far away from harm.

And so we danced on sky-high rocks,
The temptress of the cliff and I.
Disregarding all the clocks
That once beguiled us from the sky.

And on this cliffside masterpiece,
I felt my life was then complete.
With all my joy and inner peace,
I plunged a hundred-thousand feet.

She stood there singing to the draft,
High up that rocky balcony.
With her success, she cruelly laughed
At my stalemate epiphany.

Temptation preys on ill of wit.
So brook your life's pathetic tiff.
Above all things, do not submit
To her, the temptress of the cliff.

Details | Gael Attal Poem

Sentence Structure Matters!!!!!

Sentence structure matters


Attention don't we really if pay
Build or to invention the we poem way
Might words just the scramble we as well
Everyone absurd that because it's will

Nicely don't words if the flow
Read will concisely them one no
Very really true it's apropos
What is because that silly we we wrote know

Scatter trying to now I'm not
Fun or for flatter this plot
Her to tell just I forgot
"Sentence" ... like a matters structure lot

If we don't really pay attention
To the way we build poem or invention
We might as well just scramble the words
Because everyone will think that it's absurd

If the words don't flow nicely
No one will read them concisely
Apropos it's very true really
Because we know that what we wrote is silly

Now I'm not trying to scatter
This plot for fun or flatter
I just forgot to tell her
A lot ... like "sentence structure matters"