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He was French,
And Moroccan,
“Pieds noir” they called him
In the streets of Toulouse,
“Black feet.”
The French can be crass like that,
But when he walked shyly over to where I sat,
I only noticed his eyes, like two warm cups of dark coffee,
And I wanted to take a sip.
The way he couldn’t speak English,
And so I tripped through my burgeoning fluency
In French, tinged with that accent so prominent in the south;
Endings of words extended, emphasized with a flippant
Toss of the head, like
“T’es tres mignonne, toi.
Tu veux aller te promener avec moi?”
Yeah, I blushed at that one and took his hand,
Yes, yes, I said, I would walk the streets and these
Endless sands of this fairy tale Mediterranean Eden
With you.
Down by the waters of Languedoc he told me,
“When you are not here, tu me manques,”
And later, holding my hands in an Algerian restaurant,
He finally said “je t’aime.”
And so, I decided I would give it all to him,
In the depths of the night near the river,
I gave this French boy with mahogany eyes,
The gift of my first time,
And I haven’t a single regret.
A true story of a magical spring and summer in France when I was just nineteen. I knew I would never see him again and I never did, but that hasn't dampened the magic of the memory.

"T'es tres mignonne, toi. Tu veux aller to promener avec moi": You are very cute/sweet. Do you want to take a walk with me?

Tu me manques: I miss you.

Je t'aime: I love you.
under the stars, with the smell of chocolate croissant
now you are going to the Eiffel tower's restaurant

merci beaucoup lovers
come back sooner than fires

hope you guys stay together
cuz you seem good for each other
Thank u for reading.

To see the full version of "the couples in Paris" and also
to see my other poetries you can check this link.

My instagram: @eminkusaslan

Take care **  -E
Azfar Hakimi Jan 25
swam with me
in the river
and the sea.

broken glasses
and coming back
as a masterpiece.

roses with sunflower
with a secret thorn garden
and I end up burnt
in my own desire.
a boy that was fed with a pretty little lies of love.
Arianna Oct 2018
Strutting birds of paradise
Flaunt satin, silk, and velvet wings,
Their plumes the rainbow outcoloring.

Shimmering, masked, they dance:
Petticoats swish, hat-feathers bob up and down
Prancing through
Galliards, pavanes, voltas, and branles.
Inspired by a mid-17th century painting of dancers. Seeing the bright colors of this image, the ruffs, doublets, and crinolines, it struck e, the beautiful but unnatural silhouette of the figures. They reminded me of exotic birds: majestically strange.

Painting name: "Bal à la cour de Henri III, dit autrefois Bal du duc d'Alençon" by an unknown artist.

Perhaps they danced to something like this:
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
╰⊰✿´ℒ♡ⓥℯ '✿⊱╮
Puds are long, vanilla rich
Custard honey-sweet
Poured down from the liquid sun
Caramelised crust
turns nut-brown
and bubbling
Tenth Epulaeryu! ^-^
I'm not gonna lie,  I liked it! The custard was like honey, very smooth but
I found that it's a bit TOO egg-y for me.
Then again, it could just be the cafe I went to at the time.
I'm open to trying it again, though I admit, I'm not in a rush.
One day! ^-^
Lyn ***
Aa Harvey Jul 2018
Revolution: Part one.

The first French King sentenced to death,
Must have a new execution invented;
So that this day shall be forever remembered.
The execution of your King, this invention of evil;
This is how he will finally meet his end and go to the Devil.

The man behind the mask, the executioner;
Will lead us to change to a new world order.

A declaration of civil war, to stop the oppression,
Has lead France to say, we must fight to stop the aggression.
We must be revolting and begin the revolution;
To put an end to the executions.

The fall of the guillotine, for a life time spent,
Writing the encyclopedia, which lead to his death.
There is no place for God, in an encyclopedia of Man;
This writing is illegal, you are blasphemous!  *******!
So the time has come, to take your last breath.
Remember when you see the guillotine... don't lose your head.

Until it's chopped off and ends up in the basket;
Another case of basket case madness.
No fiction necessary, for us to live here on Earth;
But this execution, you surely don't deserve.
So the poets leave France, before the revolution;
All of them heading, back to England.

These prison bars to entrap the young.
Taken prisoner for writing a book.
Follow their rules; free thinking is wrong.
The encyclopedia is evidence enough.

Man is born free and grows to imprison himself;
Then he must follow the orders, of somebody else.
Frances revolutionaries, said let it be, let it be;
But the nation is ruled, by the monarchy.

Imprisoned for what they think, the poets and the artists;
But there are no walls, in the prison inside their heads.
Begin the revolution and make us all classless,
Because they’re chained by society,
For the thoughts that they think.

A fight for equality, a modern day philosophy.
Man is born to think for himself; a revolution is on the way.
Liberty!  Liberation for one free state;
A jaded nation must make a change.

Revolution began, after the fall of the blade;
Now the guillotine of power will stop us being slaves.
Preaching revolution, we must free ourselves of these manacles.
Preaching liberation for the masses
And freedom for the individual.

This new guillotine, the machine of death,
Makes the severed head fall into the basket,
As they take your last breath;
But they can't take your words, from the books you have written.
So fight the power!
Revolution!  Revolution!

We must have a revolution, that is televised.
Che Guevara, Malcolm X, me, myself and I.
All of us willing to join the fight;
All of knowing our view is right.

(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
A cluster of clothes clamped to my skin
Shreds of country flags floating in the wind
Harrowed by the heavy hollow heresy
Of humanity, scattered bribes of poesy.

But when you speak, my secluded soul
Sees the watercolor rainbow formed by four nations
Euskal Herria, France, Spain and America
You hold in your accents my tenderest childhood.

And when poets ink their nationalities
Through the diaphanous paper, light
With the burdening joy of their fatalities
I follow the trail of their voyage burning bright

Where you barred it all on the page
Shadows of lashes on your literary back
Raw and pure, rare and *****
The essences of you, self-permeating.

Aurora, your rose-kissed fingers
Skimmed your book, the imprint lingers
Surrounded by your poignant power
My quill joins your flow, serene seer.

Inspired by Aurora Vélez García
Lyon, July 5, 2018
Appoline Romanens
Written to a Spanish friend and poet, whose poetry book I had to review.
Michael Martins May 2018
Ontop a boat fishing with dad,
Afloat stale water, a lily pad-
My line caught, in water lilies,
Dad laughing, states, they’re my Achilles-
I reel again and cast away,
Hook in air, converges far astray,
My mind, no longer an array-
As an oil painting by Monet
carmen May 2018
my warmth aches
for the pleasure it might receive
brought forth by the rigidity
of your wanton ****

my eyes grow heavy
saturated with tears and the syrup
of peaches, sweet nectar falls
slow molasses, dripping down my cheeks

the sun grows cold against my skin,
ashamed i've lost my way again,
misguided by empty compliments
and warm, callused hands

your fingers fit perfectly inside me
and melt away every inch of my being
i float farther towards paradise
when you're feeling my pulse

i missed you in the french alps
and was blue in the corridor, stained
with age and mystery from weary-eyed
girls luring men through broken shutters

paris is *****, you wouldn't like it there,
but rome is divine, with magic in the air
hold me close in your suit coat with wine in my veins
and thrill me above the streets, watch me cry out and pray
ciao, my darling
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