"julien" poems
I fooled myself
Thinking I could control my dreams
You are the essence of my daydreams
Just a tiny bit of your presence, makes me complete as a human
I don't think I could ever tell you
Maybe a small part of me wants you to notice it yourself
I guess that's what makes me the fool
That's why I'll keep daydreaming
Just for you're company
{TO JULIEN}
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 4:34 PM UTC
Romance.
Dansez, fillettes du village,
Chantez vos doux refrains d'amour :
Trop vite, hélas ! un ciel d'orage
Vient obscurcir le plus beau jour.
En vous voyant, je me rappelle
Et mes plaisirs et mes succès ;
Comme vous, j'étais jeune et belle,
Et, comme vous, je le savais.
Soudain ma blonde chevelure
Me montra quelques cheveux blancs...
J'ai vu, comme dans la nature,
L'hiver succéder au printemps.
Dansez, fillettes du village,
Chantez vos doux refrains d'amour ;
Trop vite, hélas ! un ciel d'orage
Vient obscurcir le plus beau jour.
Naïve et sans expérience,
D'amour je crus les doux serments,
Et j'aimais avec confiance...
On croit au bonheur à quinze ans !
Une fleur, par Julien cueillie,
Était le gage de sa foi ;
Mais, avant qu'elle fût flétrie,
L'ingrat ne pensait plus à moi !
Dansez, fillettes du Village,
Chantez vos doux refrains d'amour ;
Trop vite, hélas ! un ciel d'orage
Vient obscurcir le plus beau jour.
À vingt ans, un ami fidèle
Adoucit mon premier chagrin ;
J'étais triste, mais j'étais belle,
Il m'offrit son cœur et sa main.
Trop tôt pour nous vint la vieillesse ;
Nous nous aimions, nous étions vieux...
La mort rompit notre tendresse...
Mon ami fut le plus heureux !
Dansez, fillettes du village,
Chantez vos doux refrains d'amour ;
Trop vite, hélas ! un ciel d'orage
Vient obscurcir le plus beau jour.
Pour moi, n'arrêtez pas la danse ;
Le ciel est pur, je suis au port,
Aux bruyants plaisirs de l'enfance
La grand-mère sourit encor.
Que cette larme que j'efface
N'attriste pas vos jeunes cœurs :
Le soleil brille sur la glace,
L'hiver conserve quelques fleurs.
Dansez, fillettes du village,
Chantez vos doux refrains d'amour,
Et, sous un ciel exempt d'orage,
Embellissez mon dernier jour !
1.6k
here we are, facing our fears
here we are facing the crowd
hearing the laughs and sounds
trying not to cry
trying not to frown
here we are
after so much time
the lights shut down
time stands still
i could hear the sound of my heart beat
i could feel the sweat dripping down my neck
i could feel the shivers through the actors
and in the blink of an eye
it's all gone
goodbye fear
goodbye tears
hello to the people
see, i never thought i would do it
see, i never imagined a team like that
i never saw anything quite like this
strangers, maybe
never again
this, now will be of our best memories
and i would like to address a huge thank you
to a guide, a brother and a friend now
Julien
for getting us back down to earth as we were just laughing our way through it
as we were so rarely taking things seriously
for listening to our most insignificant stories
for guiding through this journey
for standing our complaints
for not getting a stroke (pun intended)
we thank you from the bottom of our hearts
it has been a great pleasure working and spending time with you guys
i will never look at you all in the same way ever again
and it's definitely in a good way
one last thing:
thank you
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 4:04 AM UTC
I wish I could write a poem about
how clever and interesting and utterly
human you are; alas, I cannot.
all I can think about is your
******* hair, an entropic tangle of
dying cells and pigment catching solar
rays and background radiation in
every ******* selfy you take and
I am sorry that is what I fixate upon
but how could I not?
my apologies, for usually I am
a far better man than this, yet
even then you are
a far better man than I and
I commend you for it.
stay tubular, young lad.
stay ******* tubular.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
Lying in your arms listneing to
your exhales mixed with the
cracked window stereo
the sound of our busy city
and her calculated pedestrians,
cars, the occasional siren.
You taught me to appreciate the
sound of the street.
Listen to life more
and music less.
I'd lie and stare at your
profile, for hours if given the chance.
Your classic pouting
French lips
that always tasted cold and
fresh, as if you just got done
drinking a glass
of ice water.
The one, long, overgrown hair
that hung down to rest on your eyelid.
I asked if I could trim it,
but your wife wouldn't like it.
"A little salt in the pepper,"
was how you described it,
your thick, dark hair--
as if food analogies
could add comedy to
the situation.
Lucky for you, vieux monsieur,
I don't believe I deserve
any better.
But, my darling, you only
sound bad on paper.
To tell the truth, I loved
every combustible moment
spent with you.
In what universe
is a man like that
single?
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 2:33 PM UTC
I miss Marseille,
today,
though I can still see her,
I know I'll soon be on my way.
The dusty rock,
the hills embrace her,
the wisps of mist,
I miss Marseille,
her way, an understanding that:
if you can't, you don't pay -
prix libre they say -
associations of the worlds strays.
I miss Marseille
and hearing what she has to say,
on walls, from squats,
saying what's often neglected, forgot.
She's frank and clear
and has time for every kind of queer,
I long for her to lead me astray,
to change; I miss Marseille.
Always. The Sun,
the passage of the days,
anticipation at reaching ever corner,
a confluence of culture, Marseille the forum.
Tunis, Algiers; I can smell
the North of Africa,
hear the sails of all the boats
that traffic her,
I see them line the shores
of every bay
that twist and turn along Marseille,
Swigging from my bottle of beaujolais.
**** I miss it.
Just the thought, I can barely resist it,
I could pack it all up and leave today,
For Le Plein, Cours Julien, For alive Marseille
It belongs to all it's people, to us
and if you try to take it
watch the fuss,
the fury and the disorey,
**** I ******* Love Marseille.
Everyone's on the cusp of Love & Hate,
either knocking on or burning down the gate,
all indulging in their collective fates.
Now, a Picon beer with a slow sunset,
please know, I have not one regret,
just lessons from my passions
and ideas from everyday chic/schlague fashion
I will miss your elevator kisses,
your smile in the stormclouds,
the lightning,
so exciting and frightning.
I loved it when you hated something:
The tourists, Men suffocating the street.
I loved seeing how you could eat,
you will always be an inspiration
So, it will be fine, okay?
So long, Marseille,
with your West facing bay,
you are forever blue in my memory, never grey
But, I will miss you, Marseille,
and that's okay.
Nov 6, 2019
Nov 6, 2019 at 6:55 AM UTC
Un étranger vint un jour au bocage ;
On célébrait la noce de Julien ;
Je crus qu'Amour arrivait au village,
Et mon regard s'arrêta sur le sien.
On l'entoura : moi, je restai muette.
Il fit danser l'épouse de Julien.
Le bouquet blanc tomba du sein d'Annette.
Et je tremblai qu'il ne donnât le sien.
Qu'elle est heureuse, Annette, mon amie !
Pour son époux elle a nommé Julien.
Quel nom, me dis-je, embellira ma vie,
Si l'étranger ne m'apprend pas le sien ?
Il m'aborda : Dieu ! que j'étais craintive !
Il me parla du bonheur de Julien.
En rougissant, je m'éloignai pensive ;
En m'éloignant, mon cœur chercha le sien.
Il me suivit : je ne pus m'en défendre.
Il était tendre et plus beau que Julien.
Sa voix tremblait ; mais, si j'ai su l'entendre,
Notre hameau sera bientôt le sien !
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