"berceuse" poems
Sing me a berceuse,
Sweet melody abound,
In your astral glow of your effusive vignette,
Play with your celesta sweet
beguiling with evocative speak
Turn with your astral glow
abound with pungent, redolent snow
and gaze at the symphony
before you
Sing in sweet felicity
Joy you bring,
Serendipity,
Asylum you bring,
None shall come,
but the brave warriors who
knock and question.
Apr 29, 2011
Apr 29, 2011 at 2:11 AM UTC
Most late summer days fade into night holding a tepid dreariness in their breath, beating away with the tedium of the sun from late July through early September.
Yet ephemeral as it may be, the life of early summer is purely sanguine in the face of its oncoming age, as willowy saplings sway in the blustering breezes of June, and sprouts of vivid animation appear all around.
This is when the soul heals, and out of the mulch rises new beginnings and the ripening fruit of various works.
In this early season of summer, many taciturn inhabitants of the flourishing earth made their home, and among them, Lily: a creature of reticence and intricacy.
She burgeoned in attitude and character as days crept forward, extending her limbs upwards in an eternal paean to the heavens― as such was her sinecure and quiet delight.
In this, she stood insular to her ubiquitous family, an outsider to the sisters who flitted about carelessly on the wind, satiny gowns of pink and yellow billowing as they twirled.
Always invited into the fray, Lily was evermore stalwart in her choice to keep out of their plainly sordid affairs.
Yet in her isolation, the night whispered to her many a berceuse.
The sleepy stars implored of Lily’s indolent nature as she gazed into their eyes, trailing across eternity into peaceful slumber.
The night sky held wonders and questions that filled her paltry existence but placed her in stasis with the decorated heavens of her dying season,
Left to wither away with the insidious heat and vibrant splendor of late summer evenings.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 2:45 PM UTC
Sleepy Green Eyes, rest your head,
Slip softly into dream,
Walk amoung the painted clouds,
See their golden gleam...
Sleepy Green Eyes, night has come,
Laisser votre jour va,
Your lover and the silver moon
Guard you from afar...
Sleepy Green Eyes, drift away,
Dance, or swim, or soar,
A melody, a drug, a dream,
Une berceuse pour vous mon coeur
Mar 9, 2011
Mar 9, 2011 at 7:10 PM UTC
your body is my habitual enclave,
I know the roads, the routes, the rails,
the way it sparks in the night, how it creaks with the sun.
I coast your body like a map,
the compass in my palm quivers, the needle
whirls and swivels, disoriented, north left behind.
instead I will globe-trot through your anatomy,
with no concerns of foreign lands, with languages
of gibberish and people unfamiliar.
first, I will plunge into your shoulders,
gape at the brawn, the vastness,
compare them to the beautiful mountains seen in Colorado.
next, I will huddle in the wool of your torso,
stealing a quick snooze,
submerged in the berceuse of your coronaries.
afterward, I will drift among your hands,
skipping among the grooves,
stumbling upon the calluses.
then, I will float among your lips,
stealing speckles of salt while playfully
greeting your lingual.
and, and, and, my darling, this adventure
will exhaust me.
so I will traverse back, through your lips, your hands,
your torso, your shoulders, until
I come to my favorite monument.
they are waves full of sapphire, clashing among
charcoal thunderstorms, dancing along
fields of jade.
two orbs of magnificence (and mine)
you will smile, and ask how the journey was,
and I will reply, as always:
“unforgettable”
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 9:03 PM UTC
Sonnet.
Ils me disent, tes yeux, clairs comme le cristal :
" Pour toi, bizarre amant, quel est donc mon mérite ? "
- Sois charmante et tais-toi ! Mon coeur, que tout irrite,
Excepté la candeur de l'antique animal,
Ne veut pas te montrer son secret infernal,
Berceuse dont la main aux longs sommeils m'invite,
Ni sa noire légende avec la flamme écrite.
Je hais la passion et l'esprit me fait mal !
Aimons-nous doucement. L'Amour dans sa guérite,
Ténébreux, embusqué, bande son arc fatal.
Je connais les engins de son vieil arsenal :
Crime, horreur et folie ! - Ô pâle marguerite !
Comme moi n'es-tu pas un soleil automnal,
Ô ma si blanche, ô ma si froide Marguerite ?
959
Right after days
of silence and solitude
we, in pursuit of spaces
and magical grounds
collide in blue
dream-like refuge
far and allied
closely with birds
in harmony and array
I in berceuse,
you in dors.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 2:30 PM UTC
La mer est plus belle
Que les cathédrales,
Nourrice fidèle,
Berceuse de râles,
La mer sur qui prie
La Vierge Marie !
Elle a tous les dons
Terribles et doux.
J'entends ses pardons
Gronder ses courroux.
Cette immensité
N'a rien d'entêté.
Ô ! si patiente,
Même quand méchante !
Un souffle ami hante
La vague, et nous chante :
« Vous sans espérance,
Mourez sans souffrance ! »
Et puis sous les cieux
Qui s'y rient plus clairs,
Elle a des airs bleus,
Roses, gris et verts...
Plus belle que tous,
Meilleure que nous !
798
Dis-moi, ton coeur parfois s'envole-t-il, Agathe,
**** du noir océan de l'immonde cité,
Vers un autre océan où la splendeur éclate,
Bleu, clair, profond, ainsi que la virginité ?
Dis-moi, ton coeur parfois s'envole-t-il, Agathe ?
La mer, la vaste mer, console nos labeurs !
Quel démon a doté la mer, rauque chanteuse
Qu'accompagne l'immense orgue des vents grondeurs,
De cette fonction sublime de berceuse ?
La mer, la vaste mer, console nos labeurs !
Emporte-moi, wagon ! enlève-moi, frégate !
**** ! **** ! ici la boue est faite de nos pleurs !
- Est-il vrai que parfois le triste coeur d'Agathe
Dise : **** des remords, des crimes, des douleurs,
Emporte-moi, wagon, enlève-moi, frégate ?
Comme vous êtes **** paradis parfumé,
Où sous un clair azur tout n'est qu'amour et joie,
Où tout ce que l'on aime est digne d'être aimé,
Où dans la volupté pure le coeur se noie !
Comme vous êtes **** paradis parfumé !
Mais le vert paradis des amours enfantines,
Les courses, les chansons, les baisers, les bouquets,
Les violons vibrant derrière les collines,
Avec les brocs de vin, le soir, dans les bosquets,
- Mais le vert paradis des amours enfantines,
L'innocent paradis, plein de plaisirs furtifs,
Est-il déjà plus **** que l'Inde et que la Chine ?
Peut-on le rappeler avec des cris plaintifs,
Et l'animer encor d'une voix argentine,
L'innocent paradis plein de plaisirs furtifs ?
753
mots simples ils ne écrire des mots
d'amour que sérénade
métissage, sur la
musique breeze tombe pleurant
murmure d'amour
à suivre la lecture de la berceuse
de leur chère notes
par les anges, qui écrit dans
le ciel ...
Leur beauté en porcelaine
pour tous à voir
oblige une swift stride
qui ne peut cacher
qu'ils partagent leur coeur
en vol ludique
qu'ils écrivent dans le ciel ...
Angels Write In the Sky
Simple words they do write
words of love that serenades
mingling, on the breeze
music falls weeping
whispering of love
to follow the lullaby
from their cherished notes
by the angels,
writing in the sky ....
Their porcelain beauty
for all to see
compels a swift stride
that cannot hide
they share they hearts
in playful flight
as they write in the sky...
Debbie Brooks 2014
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC
we laid on the sand and we laughed as he pondered the cosmos above and I pondered the cosmos streaming through his veins. we talked about the boy he knew and the boy I know and we cried as we wondered why life was so unfair to the ones that gave it the most. we cried at the waves and we stomped on the sand and we cursed at the gods and the stars and the sun and the moon and anything else that we could put the blame of our recklessness on and we wished the worst and the best and the worst for all of the people that existed more than we.
he cried for the boy that lost his voice in the fight and the parts of himself that he lost every night after that. he could barely stand upright. and in a weary, cracking, voice, I looked up at him and asked, “are we ever going to go back to who we were?” and for the first time in all of documented and undocumented history, my collection of stardust, my religion of a boy turned cadaver, my flora and hellfire and fauna didn’t know. so we laid there, hand in hand, head in hell, pondering the cosmos. and we cried some more. we hypothesized as to why there were people starving to death and why humans killed humans in the name of God and why all the while we were sitting here in our little corner of the world crying over everything and everyone that had ever hurt us. but we shrugged it off. tonight was for the stars in his veins and in my eyes and in the sky. tonight was for crying for the boy who lost his voice in the fight. tonight was for mourning the parts of him that he lost every night after that and the parts of myself lost every midnight I watched him cry and lull himself into an ill fated sleep. the world is big. and the sand was so heavy and the water from the atlantic so amorphous and the dark sky so dulcet that I had forgotten about the trials and tribulations. but I snapped back as I heard his voice oscillate with every breath like my own berceuse. secretly, i loved this. but silently I wished for me and him to dissolve into our tears and up into the atmosphere, so the month of june and i would never have to deal with how cruel the world is ever again.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 5:27 PM UTC
Silver notes ringing
The Rising Moon is singing
A sweet lullaby...
Wind Whispers through trees
Secrets on the midnight breeze
Swirling around me...
The sun softly glows
Kissing my cheeks as I doze
Waking me gently...
Feb 25, 2020
Feb 25, 2020 at 9:46 AM UTC
They always come in waves;
Kamikaze planes, or sweet berceuse
Felo de se, or euphoria.
Go up.
No, go down.
Ice, then fire
Then, chaos
Like a pendulum,
swinging madly across a spectrum.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 5:51 AM UTC
Rock me to sleep crickets
with your grand night song.
The ones,
that makes stars shine
and moon radiate.
The ones
that gives peaceful dreams
a chance to root.
Take me
in your arms
oh lullaby,
so I may drift in sleep,
to vision sunshine days.
Rock me,
as night evolves to day
and light breeze
moves through window pane.
Gryllidaes,
small but loud.
Wrap my ears
with your musical berceuse.
The ones
that tickles inner ear
to match hearts warble.
The one’s
that play an original masterpiece
all its own.
Bluebottle of night
play on
like fine musician,
as I whisper smile.
As I,
drift
in world of sleep
with your blankets song
and my grateful heart.
StarBG © 2017
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 5:33 AM UTC
Ouvrière sans yeux, Pénélope imbécile,
Berceuse du chaos où le néant oscille,
Guerre, ô guerre occupée au choc des escadrons,
Toute pleine du bruit furieux des clairons,
Ô buveuse de sang, qui, farouche, flétrie,
Hideuse, entraîne l'homme en cette ivrognerie,
Nuée où le destin se déforme, où Dieu fuit,
Où flotte une clarté plus noire que la nuit,
Folle immense, de vent et de foudres armée,
A quoi sers-tu, géante, à quoi sers-tu, fumée,
Si tes écroulements reconstruisent le mal,
Si pour le ******* tu chasses l'animal,
Si tu ne sais, dans l'ombre où ton hasard se vautre,
Défaire un empereur que pour en faire un autre ?
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