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Imogen 4d
Strutting birds of paradise:
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.

You can view it here: https://www.photo.rmn.fr/archive/03-010207-2C6NU04DR4PQ.html
Lyn-Purcell Aug 13
╰⊰✿´ℒ♡ⓥℯ '✿⊱╮
Puds are long, vanilla rich
Custard honey-sweet
Poured down from the liquid sun
Caramelised crust
turns nut-brown
and bubbling
Spoon!
╰⊰✿⊱╮
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 27
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 ***, 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.
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 21
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
her entrance was full of
beautiful blue-hued stars
filled with the nuance of a touch of romance
inspired by her i make clear announcements to my heart
that this daughter of moonlight
treads the path to my dreams
alone scatters pages of rose scented poems
along my veins to the point of creations fire
even her tears spent for me are gracious and kindness

after her entrance
blue stars settle on the bare floor
in exquisite patterns that flavor the minds meal
that lends its rich texture and sensations to the bodies temple
she lay in repose like a field of summer wheat swaying
in the cool breeze
she lay in the folds of my blankets
like the queen of hearts
a luscious liquid in her every move
softly she speaks every embracing word
that cools your heated brow
comforts your beating heart
she knows just what to say to ease you
she knows just how to weave you

beneath her entrance
her barefoot leavings are a track
that have led many to their unwitting tale of woe
where from a great distance can they
with longing and tender expressions put to page
placed ever so delicately into envelopes
headed for the mythical west coast
the land of palms and glitz
forever summer
in the land of golden statues

after her entrance
i have within my grasp
a poem of her
a poem of her moment
a rich tapestry that is woven into
the fabric of her Paris fashion catalogue
where she is a French princess in prints 8"x10" glossy

poems © 2018 mark john junor all rights reserved
Terry Collett Mar 30
Charlie said about going
into the small French town.

You'd been told about the
street of brothels. There
were other soldiers walking
up and down the street.

Girls milled about in flimsy
dresses or tight skirts.

Charlie and you had never
had *** before but neither
told the other. Charlie went
into one such place and you
followed. There was a bar
and tables and some chairs.

Girls were with soliders
getting them to buy them
drinks then take them upstairs.

Charlie bought the drinks.
Dark beer stuff. Two young
girls came over and spoke
in a broken English about
buying drinks. They moved
themselves against you both.

You sipped the beer. Charlie
drank a couple of mouthfuls
and went off with the thin
faced French girl. You stood
there with your glass of beer
looking at the girl left behind.

Your father who had been
out in France in the first war
said to avoid those places
or you'd get the pox. She said
about going upstairs. You said
you couldn't not today. She
rubbed herself against you.

You gulped at your beer not
knowing about *** or what to do.
Peter Balkus Mar 24
Would you
swap yourself
for a hostage,
knowing
that you may die
and that there may be
no reward,
no Heaven,
no afterlife?
Would you?
Would I?
Would anyone?
Poem inspired by Col. Arnaud Beltrame, French hero officer who swapped himself for hostage and sadly died in a terrorist attack on a supermarket in Avranches, western France, yesterday. R.I.P.
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