"frou" poems
Though I wear no crown of decadent jewels pressed down around my brow,
It can be said that I am beautiful.
Needing no assistance from a mask of make-up and every hair doing as it pleases,
I am told that I am beautiful.
Without the burden of corsets, push-ups and garters; no cocktail dress draping my shoulders,
I look in the mirror and am satisfied.
I wear blue jeans, t-shirts and tank tops; tennis shoes, flip-flops and high-tops,
And still my legs are long and lean; my shape curvy and full.
And while I walk by, a southern sway in my step, you know you take more than a cursory glance.
I have attitude, and bluntness inherited from my line of honest folk.
I am country. I am bold. I am ruthless.
I am simple in the way that diamonds are simply compressed carbon.
I am beautiful in the way that only a southern girl can be.
I am a huntress with my 243 across my lap in a camo blind.
I am an actress as I smile and say “Bless your heart.”
I am a lover if there ever was one.
I am a fighter when the chips are down.
I am my father’s nightmare and my mother’s dream.
See me with my mut from the pound that’s better trained than your frou-frou, AKC registered pom-poo.
Join me as I sing the hymns my granny sang with the same tone and inflection.
I am educated with my poor country grammar I use only to spite those who think I’m ignorant.
I know more about tracking a blood trail than I do about propriety,
But I’m studied in the art of being couth.
My southern charm is mixed with brazen straight forwardness.
I am proud. I am American. I am beautiful.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 12:50 PM UTC
Sonnet.
Je m'en allais, les poings dans mes poches crevées ;
Mon paletot aussi devenait idéal ;
J'allais sous le ciel, Muse ! et j'étais ton féal ;
Oh ! là ! là ! que d'amours splendides j'ai rêvées !
Mon unique culotte avait un large trou.
- Petit-Poucet rêveur, j'égrenais dans ma course
Des rimes. Mon auberge était à la Grande-Ourse.
- Mes étoiles au ciel avaient un doux frou-frou
Et je les écoutais, assis au bord des routes,
Ces bons soirs de septembre où je sentais des gouttes
De rosée à mon front, comme un vin de vigueur ;
Où, rimant au milieu des ombres fantastiques,
Comme des lyres, je tirais les élastiques
De mes souliers blessés, un pied près de mon coeur !
1.3k
Peroxide halo,
with heaven's noble ladder
propped up lazily
against nylon stockings,
(stretching to God knows where...)
doubt sanctuary lies
'neath her frou frou
scarlet skirts,
bleached remnants
(urgent disguises for many a walk
down red carpet's alley)
unashamedly worn
like badges of honour
polished for this
make-believe
beautician's début!
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 1:58 PM UTC
Tuned to the local classical station
I dont know what has become of me
All the other mid twenties at work
Listen to new **** and love to dance
I like lou reed and tom waits myself
And now im stuck on this classical
Binge
I suppose i will always try to escape
The crowds
Whether it be beneficial or not
This string quartet #8 "Razumovsky"
Finishes up and i drink my 7th beer
And say
In my best classical DJ voice
"That was Frou Frouflau" with his "Twa de La La in B minor"
And i laugh alone
In a dim lit room
Staring at paintings of a dim lit man
Me
And I start to feel
This is the right place
But the wrong time.
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 12:54 AM UTC
C'est le chien de Jean de Nivelle
Qui mord sous l'œil même du guet
Le chat de la mère Michel ;
François-les-bas-bleus s'en égaie.
La Lune à l'écrivain public
Dispense sa lumière obscure
Où Médor avec Angélique
Verdissent sur le pauvre mur.
Et voici venir La Ramée
Sacrant en bon soldat du Roy.
Sous son habit blanc mal famé,
Son cœur ne se tient pas de joie,
Car la boulangère... - Elle ? - Oui dam !
Bernant Lustucru, son vieil homme,
A tantôt couronné sa flamme...
Enfants, Dominus vobiscum !
Place ! en sa longue robe bleue
Toute en satin qui fait frou-frou,
C'est une impure, palsembleu !
Dans sa chaise qu'il faut qu'on loue
Fût-on philosophe ou grigou,
Car tant d'or s'y relève en bosse
Que ce luxe insolent bafoue
Tout le papier de monsieur Loss !
Arrière ! robin crotté ! place,
Petit courtaud, petit abbé,
Petit poète jamais las
De la rime non attrapée !
Voici que la nuit vraie arrive...
Cependant jamais fatigué
D'être inattentif et naïf
François-les-bas-bleus s'en égaie.
361
I feel I have to be
bigger than life
flinging myself into
the arms of the world
with total abandon
Lest I be swallowed up
by unnoticed detail
****** into the eye
of the storm
that place of no happening
ringed by my frenzy
I have to be the one
who supplies enthusiasm
who lights candles
decorates
tries to make packages
pretty
with curly ribbons
fancy paper
maybe even sparkles
The frou-frou stuff
If I didn't
what then?
For holidays
we'd eat
at a naked table
(and I don't mean
picnic fare)
our food on paper plates
without
a single eyebrow
raised
it's tough to be
outnumbered
"outgunned"
by testosterone
though over the years
I've toned down
the frou-frou just a bit
I smile
do what I can
and live my life
like the Little Red Hen
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 1:40 PM UTC