"cyrano" poems
I saw the ***** in you
She walked out and said hello
She smacked me upside the head And almost ended me, like I was Macbeth or Cyrano
I saw the ***** in you
She looked me in the eyes
With a heart full of jealousy and lies
Took advantage of my emotions And left me drowning in a tear filled ocean
I saw the ***** in you, she was hard to find
The ***** that said I'm less of a man,
For breaking down to cry.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 2:17 AM UTC
don’t tell me “I love you” ~by Roxanne, for Cyrano~
<>
that’s a verse I’ve heard many too times before,
that’s a curse of low majesty, a quatrain too plain,
if that’s your best sally, retreat, say no more,
too simp verses, or ungolden silences, agents of dissatisfying pain
I need the best of your taste
the finest visions that you eyelids occlude,
make haste for my mouth grows exceedingly
impatient for the other senses to do their tandem wooing
slap only my face with the creature comforts others savor,
words of diamonds and pink pearls mined from your breast,
the bejeweled words that will decorate my evergreen,
that never dies, lest, unless and until,
you want my mortal affection suppressed
give me your linguistic promiscuity, wake me from the stupor
of ordinary, arouse me with thy tongue coiling, a bee sting delivery,
a wet poem that makes all my orifices!|offices weep, your mouth,
my souls recouper,
your wizardry bewitching,
answer my inquiry with unbounded festivity
then and after all, the plain simplicity of an “I love you,”
will be edged with sublimity, my mercies, your mercies
our jointed, sharp pointy, introverting, interlocking,
*our futures becoming
our pasts*
11:07am
19-9-30
<>
https://thenewgroup.org/production/cyrano/?gclid=Cj0KCQjwz8bsBRC6ARIsAEyNnvoENpdnWyqeUEwq0avNStgWCf4CocB1i239c2mHdNSFF8gOlWZtfjsaAls4EALw_wcB
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
you are just girl enough,
to be a real man...
so stand by me,
be a, be my man-girl,
shave that leathery face,
close and tight,
so I can kiss it smooth,
in front of everybody.
Go off to war, Cyrano,
write me love letters of
incredible tenderness,
poems as yet undreamt
come to me raggedy-man whole,
just enough girl in my man,
to make us both,
deliriously,
weep publicly.
Go ahead man,
write your beloved,
songs of the wars that worry you so,
that you don't show,
you think, I don't know,
but I am tough man tough enough,
plenty~enough,
to be yours,
not just the
woman, but that woman,
your beloved.
that bulge in your rear pocket,
not your wallet,
it's just some pocket tissues
you've been saving
for our reunion.
if you are afraid,
be not, be relieved,
you are just
girl enough,
to be a real man,
and I,
*well, I am tough man tough enough,
plenty~enough,
to be yours,
not just the woman,
but that woman,
your beloved*
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
i extract poetry from your facebook chats
and tenderness from your skype calls
this: the compromise of a romantic heart
in the face of modern ephemera
since i cannot scale your balcony
like i memorize your wall
(o sweet o lovely wall
thanks courteous wall)
nor can i woo you or ****** you
without google as my cyrano
i worry for the endurance
of a love without tree-carved initials
and sigh over perceived corruption
caused by emoticons over emotion
though i’m sure if mr wilde could text
or byron could bbm
they’d not forego their lovers’ notice
for the sake of pure romance
they’d embrace any fleeting mention
with disregard for rose colored glasses
not moon over the glare of history’s glance
they’d kiss them with x’s
and serenade them with youtube
and covet any moment not spent
with them on their mind
so my conflict is resolved
and my star-crossed thoughts soothed
when they caution most ominously
that anything on the internet
can never truly disappear.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 7:54 AM UTC
Poets are writers of infinite truths
Shamanistic travelers exposing fear
Paper and pen prophets rousing the obtuse
Quasi-harbingers of new frontiers
Politicians and their paid speechwriters
Lifetime career prostitutes of lies
Cyrano de Bergerac shysters
Writing pledges they will deny
Poetic outlaws of verse redefining
Societal boundaries of acceptance
Brigands of rhyme rocking the boat
Poems with intended disturbance
Every society needs outlaws
Rebuff the system
Fight back
Or
Withdraw
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 11:44 AM UTC
I always carry a pen in my pocket.
I watch I Love Lucy reruns when I’m upset.
Chocolate is my obsession, my “péché migon.”
I listen to quiet chatter and music without lyrics when I’m trying to focus.
I am far from a picky eater, but I cannot stand ketchup or licorice.
Watching Gilmore Girls religiously for five years taught me that life is too short to talk slowly enough for people to understand you.
I find the world hilarious.
Making it easy for people to laugh with me is my goal.
I ogle over Ducky from Pretty in Pink with my best friend every time I need a reminder that not all boys are ****
I want to walk down the aisle holding a bouquet of stargazer lilies, as my mom did before me, and I lose myself in Degas’ “L’étoile” every so often.
Burt’s Bees honey lip balm reminds me of my childhood Winnie-the-Pooh scratch-and-sniff book.
Every cup of Constant Comment tea, pair of jeans that fits perfectly, night spent listening to rain hit the roof, and run through damp grass with bare feet reminds me that life is beautiful.
Once, I ate so much pineapple I burned the lining of my mouth.
I cried the first time I heard “Save Us” by Cartel and saw the ending of Cyrano de Bergerac in French.
I am going to marry the genius who invented cinnamon brown sugar Pop Tarts.
Everyday, when I leave the house, I blow a kiss to the picture of Walter Payton my dad hung above the doorway to our garage.
When on vacation, my family and I buy pastries and coffee and walk in front of a jewelry store, attempting to recreate the scene from Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
Life should be a little crazy most of the time.
I may seem difficult to live with, but I’ve shared a room with my little sister for fifteen years, and she only hates me sixty-three percent of the time.
I hope that you are up for a few good laughs and an extraordinary year.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:37 PM UTC
Oh Cyrano, dear Cyrano
Monsieur, de Bergerac
Your nose was big, yes really big
Immense, “la tabernac”
You stuck it in, a love affair
And wrote, Roxanne some prose
She fell for it, to the extent
That then, she Christian chose
All those years, you pined for her
And wrote Christian, some more
But in the end, it wasn’t him
But the letters, she’d adore
So you were left, without her love
As if, it was to be
And it’s your prose, which did you in
How stupid, could you be
Before Roxanne, realized you lied
A log, did hit your head
You sadly came, to your demise
And your love, remained unsaid
And so, the moral of your story
Now, comes sadly to its close
Remember to be careful
Where you stick, your big fat nose
BOEMS BY JA 74
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 10:04 AM UTC
“give me your linguistic promiscuity”^ Cyrano to Roxane
trifle me not with sugar and spice,
give me salt, and everything not nice,
Campari, with a spritz of lime bitters, doubling,
the bitter sexiness of your taste buds
on the private parts of mine mind
the body’s parts held a conference,
who is the most important of us all,
all spoke, touting their unique servicing functionality,
at last, lastly, the tongue spoke
“none so powerful as this itty bitty muscle-me,
for with a chosen-few, well claimed, words whispered,
can put all of us in a prison cell to rot collectively,
utilizing my linguistic promiscuity, enticements seductive
so beware the disastrous dissatisfied tongue,
needy for 24/7 accoladed attention,
fail to worship can result in bee stinging poetry,
and jealousy
my love is bitter, my taste buds glory in this wondrous horror”
except for my Roxane
<>
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 10:48 AM UTC
The first time I saw
Betty Grater swoon
and heard Ms Arnault sigh
in expectation
I knew I had found the answer
that all young men seek
Instead of good looks
and the scent of money
I realized that the tippled sound of Thomas,
the piston drive of Cummings,
or shroud and mystery of Rimbaud
could accomplish what fumbling
postures never could
They could make a button come
undone and stay that way
part a leg and have it
remain languid
see an arm brushed
and not pulled back
Ah, but women are not
so easily wooed
You see, poetry is but a beginning
once is never sufficient
and Cyrano found
he was forced to return
and return
to keep those fires burning
Soon you discover it is not enough
to merely sing another’s tune
and you must learn the art
whose muse is not so
easily tamed
So the new poems to Emily or Mary Lou
are steeped in ignorance, stumbling tongue
and emotion that knows only extreme
a Dickinson hodgepodge of flowers,
spring-rain and metaphor trampled
by testosterone expectation
And as these women grow
you discover the magic is fading
that they have learned these lures
and their virtue will not part quite so easy
Ah, but art is ever inventive
and for those hard to dissemble
there are the more obscure songs
of Baudelaire, Jefferson and Yeats
these will free even the firmest
of corset-strung objections
But to truly reach the promised land
there is need to create one’s own
to wrestle the evening with nature’s muse
and tease a line between the sheets
Then, if you've still a mind
you can glance to see
if her clothes have been shed
But the sad and beautiful truth
is that poetry’s muse will suffer no others
rarely will that graceful form stay the course
she will leave to find yet another
that can keep them
coming
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
FRENCH KISS
*Such buttery lips
Sweet cream-silks, wrapping our tongues,
Je patisserie.*
Le VALENTINE
*Red rose and sweet prose
Cyrano DeBergerac's
Moonlit balconies.*
DESIRE
*Burning in goose flesh
Yearnings with caldera-thirst
Your kiss is like rain.*
DEBONAIR
*Dean in gabled suits
Eloquent body, jazz-smooth
Sweeps her off her feet.*
METEOR SHOWER
*Friday night space lights
As we caress the hours
Streaks across the sky*
ORIGAMI
*The creases of us:
Tales of dragons and white ships
Neatly folded sheets.*
VEGAS WEDDING
*Romance thru sun roofs
"Hallelujah" honeymoons
Marriage number two.*
BON VOYAGE
*Like wide sails that cup
The high winds of this marriage
I'm at Love's mercy.*
NAPE
*Warm whispers my lips
Down smooth meadows of your neck,
Sweet familiar bed.*
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 5:40 PM UTC
Like Cyrano
I spoke the words
lightly capturing your heart...
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 6:42 PM UTC
Le VALENTINE
Red rose and sweet prose,
Cyrano De Bergerac 's
Moonlit balcony.
MmMmMm
Heart-shaped chocolates
Each a bite-sized "petite mort"
Lifetime on the hips.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
Part Three
WALKING AT MIDNIGHT (IN THE DARK)
_______________
METEOR SHOWER
Friday night space-lights
as we caress the hours
streaks across the sky.
FULL MOON RISING
Brilliant face will shine
against curtains of the dark
evening super star.
CROW
Observant shadow.
Recalls the faces of your
jet black ***** deeds.
Le VALENTINE
Red rose and sweet prose,
Cyrano De Bergerac 's
Moonlit balcony.
MmMmMm
Heart-shaped chocolates
each a bite-sized "petite mort"
Lifetime on the hips.
A QUERY (OWL)
"Who?" rather than tweet
in the dark, keenly will see
all her nameless prey.
I DREAM
Sleepless and lovelorn
wishful, pining for the truth
hoping vividly.
A DREAM
To keep promises
enthusiastic as war,
men at last needless...
IN SLEEP
Cradled in silence
a loud mind coelesces
with the universe.
APPARITION
Bold soul from death glows,
in the dark should fear nothing,
up the long walk home.
LIGHTYEARS
Space is Time is Light
its speed can measure ages'
infinite distance.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 4:38 PM UTC
It's not even worth my time
anymore to try and track
where the Rose is going to
grow when the thorns are
all I can harvest even
in the midst of a kiss.
The wind used to blow
a certain swirl that
made you my world
that now just makes my
stomach curl even when
you're genuine but
we know I'm Cyrano
and all he endured were
low blows and, oh my,
look at that nose,
even in the best pose
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 2:56 AM UTC
Coming home, turning on the Mac, tuning in the radio, expecting to see, hear the installation of the President-elect, I read instead “Miguel Ferrer Is Dead”. Priority is clear. Dear Mr Ferrer takes precedence.
God Bless You Mr. Ferrer
God bless you Mr. Ferrer
Where’er you are.
‘My Father’s house – many a mansion’:
That you’re somewhere I am certain.
One remembers José, powerful as Cyrano.
Now we shall remember you;
Compelling, formidable in all your roles,
You unintentionally stole the roles
Becoming one with each.
And one is sad! Nigh inconsolable!
Sixty-one! So young these days!
No phrase of admiration, value and esteem can reach you,
Few can match you, rate you high enough.
And I, engulfed in loss,
No grading high enough
Shall miss you.
Coming home, turning on the Mac, tuning in the radio, expecting to see, hear the installation of the President-elect, I read instead “Miguel Ferrer is dead”. Priority is clear. Dear Mr Ferrer takes precedence.
God Bless You Mr. Ferrer 1.20.2017
Special People, Special Occasions; Birth, Death & In Between II;
Arlene Corwin
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 11:52 AM UTC