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"noir" poems
the electricity runs through our veins and past the street signs we rumble by in the car you stole, we go fifty above the speed limit, the roof of the car is the noir sky above and the midnight rain pelts our upturned faces the dancing drops of water drip onto our smiling lips the sound of the sky collapsing echoes the flashes that streak the sky, the flickering light casts paved roads with a brief brightness (as if god were wearing light up sketchers) the lacy brallette that wears me gives me the bravery to stand up in the speeding car the velvet pants that ripple with the wind drink up the nighttime rain and the rare headlights race past us, heading into homes and hearts the mellow playlist that connects the aux cord to our ears blasts so loud, we can no longer hear our insecurity the mascara that once clung to my eyelashes now streams down my face. on a two way street, we drive down the middle unafraid in the face of direct dangers so unaware of the towering empty skyscrapers and instead highly exhilarated from the street signs we drive by too fast to read the blocky lettering the road signs glint, smiling as we wave and reach towards them the cigarettes you smoked are thrown through the open window, still smothering slightly. i can still taste the smoke on your lips and your hand tucks my hair behind my ear and as the wind objects and inhales unreal in the hazy a.m. car trip the tunnel rushes towards us, and we both hold our breaths, as if breathing would contaminate us. the lights that glint, cast a yellow-white glow and for once, i see you for who you are a boy too buzzed to feel a kid who only felt "sort of" a person who couldn't heal and a lover who could never give love
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Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 3:34 AM UTC
Noir
the electricity runs through our veins and past the street signs we rumble by in the car you stole, we go fifty above the speed limit, the roof of the car is the noir sky above and the midnight rain pelts our upturned faces the dancing drops of water drip onto our smiling lips the sound of the sky collapsing echoes the flashes that streak the sky, the flickering light casts paved roads with a brief brightness (as if god were wearing light up sketchers) the lacy brallette that wears me gives me the bravery to stand up in the speeding car the velvet pants that ripple with the wind drink up the nighttime rain and the rare headlights race past us, heading into homes and hearts the mellow playlist that connects the aux cord to our ears blasts so loud, we can no longer hear our insecurity the mascara that once clung to my eyelashes now streams down my face. on a two way street, we drive down the middle unafraid in the face of direct dangers so unaware of the towering empty skyscrapers and instead highly exhilarated from the street signs we drive by too fast to read the blocky lettering the road signs glint, smiling as we wave and reach towards them the cigarettes you smoked are thrown through the open window, still smothering slightly. i can still taste the smoke on your lips and your hand tucks my hair behind my ear and as the wind objects and inhales unreal in the hazy a.m. car trip the tunnel rushes towards us, and we both hold our breaths, as if breathing would contaminate us. the lights that glint, cast a yellow-white glow and for once, i see you for who you are a boy too buzzed to feel a kid who only felt "sort of" a person who couldn't heal and a lover who could never give love
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43
Seduced by clichés of love, We signed on for wedding doves, Being at those wedding receptions, All clichés of norms' conventions, Having a cream puff wedding day, An expensive way of getting laid, All clichés for the bridal industry, Trite cant, and hypocrisy, BUT--the appliances outlived everyone!! Wedding gifts when once were young, On film noir weddings I ponder on, As these golden years I wander from, All that phony hypocrisy, Cliches and norms of society, D.I.V.O.R.C.E. (Who didn't hate going to the in-laws for tea?)
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Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 10:23 PM UTC
CLICHE, CLICHE, CLICHE.
Two people both alike in character Of the opposite sexes Sit across a candlelit dinner In a lovely, fancy restaurant The room is incandescently lit With a dimness that balances between ever so bright and ever so dark Allowing for a gold tinge to envelop the restaurant But not gold enough to take away notice of the lit candle set upon the White table cloth The waiter appears and asks the couple What they would like for dinner The couple order the food and drink Much to the waiter's delight the food and drink is expensive The waiter returns shortly With a bottle of their finest Pinto Noir And pours the blood-red wine slowly Into each of the couple's glasses And leaves the couple to sip upon their sweet sin delicately The food is laid out Triumphant in its debut A vast smorgasbord of entries Including frog legs, crab, and delicious ****** steak The couple prepare their silverware for the battle that is eating The man stabs his knife into the ****** steak Cutting it open and spilling the juices all over his plate He stabs the meat with the fork and guides it toward his mouth And slowly but surely chomps upon it with the strength of his fine jaw And swallows the meat into the unexposed mystery that is his stomach The woman begins to mutilate the frog legs with her knife Cutting into the once moveable limbs And stabs the limbs with her fork and brings it to her mouth And delicately bites the limbs and politely chews And swallows it into her fine and precious insides The couple then split the crab legs Using their bear hands they split the shells open And remove the meat or **** it right out of the shell They swallow it whole and do nothing with the shell Leaving the shell aside to be as still as a carcass The waiter arrives and asks how the food was The couple obliged him with their satisfaction The bill is handed to them and the couple pay it Leaving a hefty tip They then leave the lovingly dimly lit restaurant To enjoy the night that is ahead of them
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May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
A Dinner
Two people both alike in character Of the opposite sexes Sit across a candlelit dinner In a lovely, fancy restaurant The room is incandescently lit With a dimness that balances between ever so bright and ever so dark Allowing for a gold tinge to envelop the restaurant But not gold enough to take away notice of the lit candle set upon the White table cloth The waiter appears and asks the couple What they would like for dinner The couple order the food and drink Much to the waiter's delight the food and drink is expensive The waiter returns shortly With a bottle of their finest Pinto Noir And pours the blood-red wine slowly Into each of the couple's glasses And leaves the couple to sip upon their sweet sin delicately The food is laid out Triumphant in its debut A vast smorgasbord of entries Including frog legs, crab, and delicious ****** steak The couple prepare their silverware for the battle that is eating The man stabs his knife into the ****** steak Cutting it open and spilling the juices all over his plate He stabs the meat with the fork and guides it toward his mouth And slowly but surely chomps upon it with the strength of his fine jaw And swallows the meat into the unexposed mystery that is his stomach The woman begins to mutilate the frog legs with her knife Cutting into the once moveable limbs And stabs the limbs with her fork and brings it to her mouth And delicately bites the limbs and politely chews And swallows it into her fine and precious insides The couple then split the crab legs Using their bear hands they split the shells open And remove the meat or **** it right out of the shell They swallow it whole and do nothing with the shell Leaving the shell aside to be as still as a carcass The waiter arrives and asks how the food was The couple obliged him with their satisfaction The bill is handed to them and the couple pay it Leaving a hefty tip They then leave the lovingly dimly lit restaurant To enjoy the night that is ahead of them
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An abstract gait Surrounded by coils of binary and luminescence. Suave, purple suits clasping to morphed skin. Electrical vibes, transistors atomically sized. Brain dives, the concept of thought diluted. She can only wish it was palpable. In a mirror mirage, Static fumbles, Repos the limelight. Cyberpunk gen, neo-noir, A relevant memento. Deciphering the metaphysical is Unattainable. ***** it all, Maneuver the landscape. Might as well enjoy the sights In the nick of a quivering snap.
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Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 6:00 PM UTC
Bombastic Edison
Spanish Debout sur mon orgueil je veux montrer au soir L'envers de mon manteau endeuillé de tes charmes, Son mouchoir infini, son mouchoir noir et noir, Trait à trait, doucement, boira toutes mes larmes. Il donne des lys blancs à mes roses de flamme Et des bandeaux de calme à mon front délirant… Que le soir sera bon.. Il aura pour moi l'âme Claire et le corps profond d'un magnifique amant. English Forsaking my pride, I want to show the night The inside of my cloak, plunged in mourning for your charms. Its infinite handkerchiefs, its handkerchiefs black and black, Piece by piece, tenderly, will drink all my tears. The night lays lilies upon my burning roses And cool cloths upon my feverish brow… How good the evening will be! It will have, for me, The luminous soul, the profound body, of a magnificent lover.
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6.7k
Debout Sur Mon Orgueil Je Veux Montrer Au Soir
Blueberry lemon juice Gangly goose Cruel brew moon Roam Soft lovely Mary Sailor Taylor Your lord, sinking sored Vagon Ford Virginia east coast roast Most test Chest, mess Darling Dublin Idaho, Ioawa Cine noir Lullaby Mistic bee Free my blue at the noon Moaning soon And the ring mostly seen Chase my word Siren fog Heaven myths Lick a lip
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Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 10:44 PM UTC
The Dublin gangly goose rooster trooper troop
Night witches own the dark, as they sweep the skies on their knotted broomsticks. They take to flight, in pairs, under waxing or new moons, when the sky is darkest, the stars at their dimmest and gloom the deepest. They steal souls, drink warm blood, gather teeth and fresh, human meat. They drift, smoke-like, with noir-intent, chewing their charcoal treats in that imperfect silence that prickles with all the sounds of the earth: growing plants, creeping insects, rustling leaves, and shivering birds. Although their stygian laughter is frequently mistaken for cat fighting, they are soundless, becoming the shadows that disturb, that draw startled glances from the periphery of vision. In their dark-passing, a mother will check her sleeping children one more time - dogs will whimper and fathers, the hair on their neck standing, will check already-locked windows. Are you meandering out this night - to walk the dog or check the mail? If so, look to the sky. A little decision can be the worst mistake of your life.
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Feb 15, 2022
Feb 15, 2022 at 9:31 AM UTC
the night witches
There was a pirate who came from afar Who sank his ship for a h'penny o' tar He had a scar on his cheek, Gold in his teeth And like Prabhu, a thing for the noir There was a vicar from Kent Who gave up religion for lent He enjoyed a spree Of being un-holy Nobody knows where he went For the tourists to impress She wore traditional dress She liked the grass skirt And the flowery shirt But the coconut bra caused distress One of the tourists she knew Was really enjoying the view He bought her a drink Tickled her pink And said may I remove it for you? The limerick man was on top He was writing such a lot The barrel he dredged He lost his edge And didn't know when to stop
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Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
Pirate, Hawaiian, vicar, and other limericks
Tes yeux sont si profonds qu'en me penchant pour boire J'ai vu tous les soleils y venir se mirer S'y jeter à mourir tous les désespérés Tes yeux sont si profonds que j'y perds la mémoire À l'ombre des oiseaux c'est l'océan troublé Puis le beau temps soudain se lève et tes yeux changent L'été taille la nue au tablier des anges Le ciel n'est jamais bleu comme il l'est sur les blés Les vents chassent en vain les chagrins de l'azur Tes yeux plus clairs que lui lorsqu'une larme y luit Tes yeux rendent jaloux le ciel d'après la pluie Le verre n'est jamais si bleu qu'à sa brisure Mère des Sept douleurs ô lumière mouillée Sept glaives ont percé le prisme des couleurs Le jour est plus poignant qui point entre les pleurs L'iris troué de noir plus bleu d'être endeuillé Tes yeux dans le malheur ouvrent la double brèche Par où se reproduit le miracle des Rois Lorsque le coeur battant ils virent tous les trois Le manteau de Marie accroché dans la crèche Une bouche suffit au mois de Mai des mots Pour toutes les chansons et pour tous les hélas Trop peu d'un firmament pour des millions d'astres Il leur fallait tes yeux et leurs secrets gémeaux L'enfant accaparé par les belles images Écarquille les siens moins démesurément Quand tu fais les grands yeux je ne sais si tu mens On dirait que l'averse ouvre des fleurs sauvages Cachent-ils des éclairs dans cette lavande où Des insectes défont leurs amours violentes Je suis pris au filet des étoiles filantes Comme un marin qui meurt en mer en plein mois d'août J'ai retiré ce radium de la pechblende Et j'ai brûlé mes doigts à ce feu défendu Ô paradis cent fois retrouvé reperdu Tes yeux sont mon Pérou ma Golconde mes Indes Il advint qu'un beau soir l'univers se brisa Sur des récifs que les naufrageurs enflammèrent Moi je voyais briller au-dessus de la mer Les yeux d'Elsa les yeux d'Elsa les yeux d'Elsa.
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5.8k
Les yeux d'Elsa
Tes yeux sont si profonds qu'en me penchant pour boire J'ai vu tous les soleils y venir se mirer S'y jeter à mourir tous les désespérés Tes yeux sont si profonds que j'y perds la mémoire À l'ombre des oiseaux c'est l'océan troublé Puis le beau temps soudain se lève et tes yeux changent L'été taille la nue au tablier des anges Le ciel n'est jamais bleu comme il l'est sur les blés Les vents chassent en vain les chagrins de l'azur Tes yeux plus clairs que lui lorsqu'une larme y luit Tes yeux rendent jaloux le ciel d'après la pluie Le verre n'est jamais si bleu qu'à sa brisure Mère des Sept douleurs ô lumière mouillée Sept glaives ont percé le prisme des couleurs Le jour est plus poignant qui point entre les pleurs L'iris troué de noir plus bleu d'être endeuillé Tes yeux dans le malheur ouvrent la double brèche Par où se reproduit le miracle des Rois Lorsque le coeur battant ils virent tous les trois Le manteau de Marie accroché dans la crèche Une bouche suffit au mois de Mai des mots Pour toutes les chansons et pour tous les hélas Trop peu d'un firmament pour des millions d'astres Il leur fallait tes yeux et leurs secrets gémeaux L'enfant accaparé par les belles images Écarquille les siens moins démesurément Quand tu fais les grands yeux je ne sais si tu mens On dirait que l'averse ouvre des fleurs sauvages Cachent-ils des éclairs dans cette lavande où Des insectes défont leurs amours violentes Je suis pris au filet des étoiles filantes Comme un marin qui meurt en mer en plein mois d'août J'ai retiré ce radium de la pechblende Et j'ai brûlé mes doigts à ce feu défendu Ô paradis cent fois retrouvé reperdu Tes yeux sont mon Pérou ma Golconde mes Indes Il advint qu'un beau soir l'univers se brisa Sur des récifs que les naufrageurs enflammèrent Moi je voyais briller au-dessus de la mer Les yeux d'Elsa les yeux d'Elsa les yeux d'Elsa.
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(French) **luminosité tout autour, rien ne peut vous voir, la seule chose responsable, C'est l'obscurité dans vous et moi ..** (English) **brightness all around, nothing can you see, the only thing responsible, is the darkness within you and me..**
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Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
noir à l'intérieur../black inside..
It’s dusk Lustful grapevines curl around my ankles And I’m thankful it’s wine season, the pickers should be around shortly to save me And bathe me in last year’s crop to scare the grape vines into submission It’s a decision they have to make Do they care about a perfect stranger enough to waste Roads of trucks of crates of bottles of red velvet Or white sunshine Or do they allow this ensnarement and turn a blind eye whilst I sink While thinking; pondering the fertility of the soil under my feet I’ll wait for the pickers, just to see how they view me And in the meantime the vines are spinning yarns around me Crawling up my skin, holding me tight while telling me bed time stories Once upon a time there was a vineyard struck by a drought Caused by unrelenting calm, and clear blue skies with no clouds And they resisted, rationed their water between them, And it seemed then that everything was fine The crop was harvested and won best wine, but failed to mention how many vines Died in the making of their own blood Morbid and dry, a pinot noir fashioned out of pain and scars And tears in flesh, not human flesh, but the flesh of the landscape I didn't smile But it did make me sleepy I couldn't fight their grasp Addicted to their emotions I let them take me down into their fertile ocean And when the pickers came to discern the source of the screaming A new grape vine had sprouted and was teething
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Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 2:19 PM UTC
Grapes and Wandering
i was reborn, like a phoenix but without all the glory. i didn't set the hospital on fire; i struggled to pull myself from the ashes of a former prodigy, one entwined with madness in all the right ways laced with misery like a noir heroine, so sexily depressing- whereas now i am just empty i did not emerge unscathed, no, not like the fledgling, i am covered in scars and faultlines from where the sorrow tried rip itself from my sorry body and the crimson glue holding me together replenishes itself more diluted each time before i died i swung through technicolor episodes of scarlet, rose, ecstatic white, and the sapphire blue to haunt my dreams waking and at night but the color leached away, the antiseptic began to pervade, refilled my veins and purged me of everything but grey. before my death, i reigned over the darkness, banished it when it did not suit me, manipulated reason, lived in a waking dreamland, in complete control of my life- but now, when i am fragile as eggshell, it's the only place i can hide, a haven where i can act like the lack of light masks an imagined vivacity and not a skeleton in flat black and white, disguises and emboldens me, allows me to be whole again, to forget the borders, my limitations indiscernable in dusk i used to cast my own light- now i am my own shadow and in the dark i fumble for what i used to be, reconnect myself with the world throw myself from the cliff and hope to find my wings again
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Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 3:41 PM UTC
4/04: error: page not found
~~~@ **a maze of tunnels under blacktop a poesy of lilies dark as dusk a bette noir drawn on charcoal paper an elephant's carcass sans his tusk the negative without a cipher the poem written in the dark the Good Book without a cover the human blood that draws the shark as i sit here twilight's falling i'll sit here in the failing light i'll sit here looking at black rainbows til my heart bleeds its last goodnight**
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Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 10:43 PM UTC
black rainbow
...It's the sensation your heart feels after watching an old film, That lingering emptiness and intense nostalgia for the 'simpler days.' The desire to have your personal 1940s Film Noir lover, Or to have a love story worthy of an art-house vintage film. Longing for someone to dance with you , slowly and gently, When God has promised you a man of faith, You also pray that He is also, A gentleman...
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Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 7:52 AM UTC
longing
Je suis exatlé de voir dans ce ciel de nuit, Auquel je dois cette plaisante fortune. En compagnie d’étoiles clignotantes, Subjugué par ce spectacle, j’admire ma Lune. Lave-moi dans ton eau argentée, translucide. Sois près de moi lors de mes blanches nuits. Veille sur moi tel un garde sans faille. Enveloppe-moi de murmures, un calme répit. Ô comme tu guides les flots ardents de mon âme! Baisse les yeux, les eaux abordent ma plage… Érode le fardeau qui étouffe mes écueils brûlants, Des sables noyés, oppressé, tendres otages. Peu de nuits à présent… Épris alors que tu t’en vas. Des brins épais et sombres de cheveux en cascades, Dissimulent ton visage d’une manière séduisante. Il n’en reste qu’un croissant, qui s’efface dans le noir. Les nuits s’écoulent… Maintenant la lune se délite M’en laissant qu’une moitié; la nuit le veut ainsi. Reste encore, plus longtemps; ne pars pas si tôt, Je ne me sens pas prêt à être anéanti. Je lève la tête sans dire un mot, alors que les nuits passent. J’ai vu mon amour lunaire se dissoudre dans l’espace. My coeur, aussi, déchiré bout par bout… Enfin, elle était partie; partie, sans laisser de trace. Depuis, chaque nuit abonde de vide et de souffrance. Je supplie les étoiles d’apaiser le vide en moi… Mais ils se contenteraient de briller, indifférents… Même suite à tous mes appels, mes émois. Desormais je suis incertain sur le nombre de passages. Les nuits n’amenèrent que l’assaut des étoiles moqueuses. Cependant je joue des promesses celestes, Pour le retour de ma folle quête amoureuse. Je sais que c’est frivole de penser que je suis le seul… C’est vrai, ils languissent; ma souffrance est la leur. Mais c’est moi qui désire le plus ton fameux regard, Car nos coeurs ont chanté dans toutes les couleurs. Ma détresse à son zénith, emplis, presque brisé, Lorsque soudain j’entends une belle chanson, lointaine. Une chanson pareille à celle que l’on prononçât, Encore garnie d’argent translucide, je soupire avec peine…, “Te voilà....”
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Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC
Lettre de ton Astronome
Je suis exatlé de voir dans ce ciel de nuit, Auquel je dois cette plaisante fortune. En compagnie d’étoiles clignotantes, Subjugué par ce spectacle, j’admire ma Lune. Lave-moi dans ton eau argentée, translucide. Sois près de moi lors de mes blanches nuits. Veille sur moi tel un garde sans faille. Enveloppe-moi de murmures, un calme répit. Ô comme tu guides les flots ardents de mon âme! Baisse les yeux, les eaux abordent ma plage… Érode le fardeau qui étouffe mes écueils brûlants, Des sables noyés, oppressé, tendres otages. Peu de nuits à présent… Épris alors que tu t’en vas. Des brins épais et sombres de cheveux en cascades, Dissimulent ton visage d’une manière séduisante. Il n’en reste qu’un croissant, qui s’efface dans le noir. Les nuits s’écoulent… Maintenant la lune se délite M’en laissant qu’une moitié; la nuit le veut ainsi. Reste encore, plus longtemps; ne pars pas si tôt, Je ne me sens pas prêt à être anéanti. Je lève la tête sans dire un mot, alors que les nuits passent. J’ai vu mon amour lunaire se dissoudre dans l’espace. My coeur, aussi, déchiré bout par bout… Enfin, elle était partie; partie, sans laisser de trace. Depuis, chaque nuit abonde de vide et de souffrance. Je supplie les étoiles d’apaiser le vide en moi… Mais ils se contenteraient de briller, indifférents… Même suite à tous mes appels, mes émois. Desormais je suis incertain sur le nombre de passages. Les nuits n’amenèrent que l’assaut des étoiles moqueuses. Cependant je joue des promesses celestes, Pour le retour de ma folle quête amoureuse. Je sais que c’est frivole de penser que je suis le seul… C’est vrai, ils languissent; ma souffrance est la leur. Mais c’est moi qui désire le plus ton fameux regard, Car nos coeurs ont chanté dans toutes les couleurs. Ma détresse à son zénith, emplis, presque brisé, Lorsque soudain j’entends une belle chanson, lointaine. Une chanson pareille à celle que l’on prononçât, Encore garnie d’argent translucide, je soupire avec peine…, “Te voilà....”
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3:8:15 - Kosher pinot noir toasts the snowflakes that the eider brings, just as the Ash bows ache; naked and starving. Hurdling through old bedroom windows, giving those reasons why pennies are wished first into window wells. Smoggy gawkers, locked into an image shaped by organic lines and gestures. The two smoker- cure their hours reconnoitering in skyrise stairwells, discussing recipes for fixing wounded hearts without the peaceful frequencies she speaks into two styrofoam cups with strings pierced through their innards. Much like the story of how two people meet within the timespan of the living. Even the Moon Men eat space cakes to loosen their chests, from the apathetic laws that began to govern their personalized truths. Not a mug with a name on it bought after an almost very cool free-art reenactment of Pirates of the Caribbean. Love is not a sentence I can choose not to awaken. It's the difference between having a one night stand rather than keeping a toothbrush at each other's places. Even on a Saturday night, we could fasten ourselves to one another. Even if it's only you and I, who are you to say it's not a party.
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Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC
BREAKING NEWS: Mandy Patinkin May Be Black
i am talking about her, dressed in black silhouette, painted with montage, i can feel her presence, rubbing across the tips of my tongue, salsa through my hair. her jet black soul piercing into me, a rembrandt only time is seduced to. i am talking about her, noir necklace, twelve beads, wild heart, fantasy that teases my seclusion. i am talking about midnight, her winds  her flair, her grotesque, everytime i close my balcony door, at 1am in the morning hoping the seduction ends and reality sets in on this papercup life.
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Oct 16, 2021
Oct 16, 2021 at 4:17 PM UTC
Seduction
Il était très **** dehors était noir Comme un maudit soir Qui allait porter: angoisse et tristesse Pour une mère soudainement tombée en détresse Les escadrons de l’obscurité viennent d’exécuter Son enfant de vingt et une années Il avait prétendument un couteau en main Et l’innocence d’un jeune matin Fatal dans sa pensée. La technologie Peut, par hasard, améliorer ou détruire la vie Plusieurs cartouches tirées, le jeune homme est tombé Criblé de balles réservées pour des condamnés Les assassins nocturnes ont abattu une autre victime Ce qui est pire, c’est qu’ils ne vont pas payer pour cet horrible crime C’est abominable, le noir est souvent injustement ciblé Le racisme est un cancer qu’on doit éradiquer La mère est inconsolable Ses douleurs implacables Ses larmes intarissables Et ses peines incommensurables C’est triste et amer, la mère va enterrer son enfant C’est drôle, affreux, criminel et méchant Les malhonnêtes « foliciers » sans remords Viennent de causer un autre mort Ils ne connaissent pas les souffrances Endurées par une mère pour donner naissance A un bébé en bonne et parfaite santé Quelle tristesse! Quelle calamité! C’est une autre tranchée forcée C’est vraiment déchiré un cœur jadis farci de fierté Voir une mère pleurer dans une telle condition Est écœurante pour toute la famille Et les amis Qui brûlent dans un enfer imbibé de pénibles émotions L’ignorance et l’immaturité sont deux plaies Qui jamais ne sèment ni l’amour, ni la paix Les pleurs de la mère sont intarissables Ses douleurs inimaginables Ses peines incontrôlables Et la mère inconsolable. Copyright© March 2011, Hebert Logerie, Tous Droits Réservés Hebert Logerie est l’auteur de plusieurs recueils de poèmes.
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Sep 4, 2025
Sep 4, 2025 at 11:02 PM UTC
Les Pleurs Ou Les Larmes D’Une Mère
Il était très **** dehors était noir Comme un maudit soir Qui allait porter: angoisse et tristesse Pour une mère soudainement tombée en détresse Les escadrons de l’obscurité viennent d’exécuter Son enfant de vingt et une années Il avait prétendument un couteau en main Et l’innocence d’un jeune matin Fatal dans sa pensée. La technologie Peut, par hasard, améliorer ou détruire la vie Plusieurs cartouches tirées, le jeune homme est tombé Criblé de balles réservées pour des condamnés Les assassins nocturnes ont abattu une autre victime Ce qui est pire, c’est qu’ils ne vont pas payer pour cet horrible crime C’est abominable, le noir est souvent injustement ciblé Le racisme est un cancer qu’on doit éradiquer La mère est inconsolable Ses douleurs implacables Ses larmes intarissables Et ses peines incommensurables C’est triste et amer, la mère va enterrer son enfant C’est drôle, affreux, criminel et méchant Les malhonnêtes « foliciers » sans remords Viennent de causer un autre mort Ils ne connaissent pas les souffrances Endurées par une mère pour donner naissance A un bébé en bonne et parfaite santé Quelle tristesse! Quelle calamité! C’est une autre tranchée forcée C’est vraiment déchiré un cœur jadis farci de fierté Voir une mère pleurer dans une telle condition Est écœurante pour toute la famille Et les amis Qui brûlent dans un enfer imbibé de pénibles émotions L’ignorance et l’immaturité sont deux plaies Qui jamais ne sèment ni l’amour, ni la paix Les pleurs de la mère sont intarissables Ses douleurs inimaginables Ses peines incontrôlables Et la mère inconsolable. Copyright© March 2011, Hebert Logerie, Tous Droits Réservés Hebert Logerie est l’auteur de plusieurs recueils de poèmes.
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42
where is that Dettol cream to soothe these burns tearing up my fragile skin can’t handle these children in conversations, at the dinner table, like Pinot Noir a stain on the embroidery, what has happened to the Panadol on the twelfth shelf of the walk in pantry we’re all going to throw a ***** it’s all plasters, plastercine playdough, dresses with cheap cliché’ commercial slogans - such a numb drum melody, the top shelf of every pantry is a ***** might as well lend a little helping hand, sponsor a child charity
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Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 2:59 PM UTC
superficial
The Quantum Poetry Theorem from a long time ago, a thousand poems a priori. **Dedicated to you, Albert Einstein and the cast of TBBT, special thanks to the OWS movement., But especially to the few, the brave, geeks who write poetry in word and in equations.** Scruffy, yet ennobled, my own 99% invade and occupy all my senses, in my eyesight encamped sensing opportunity, the 99 demand that each shutter eye snap, all nominal exhalations, every quantum minutia perception, be live streamed, direct tv to you Everything I witness, transformed into an acoustic guitar rocking vision, a levitation of poetic expression,   set to a primitive three-chord rock & roll overture, and my iPad, appointed Recording Secretary, compiles exhalations as ecrivations a preservation society of the verb, strings of words emanating non-stop within my head, from a guitar playing twenty four seven, ironically, expressed mathematically Street strolling, busy brasserie bar, a Pinot Noir arrives, a large pour of stanzas and a napkin upon to scribble mind in ferment but A Capella smooth cool, my bossy brain requires incident reports, a "write me down, please," and no matter how much I drink, ain't anti-matter enough to stop my eyes from seeing every human interaction as a poetic, probabilistic, verbal equation, quantum expressions of sensory upload The brain revels and reels from overload,   no mas, no more, poetry fatigue incurable, caplets and ointments, string theory, can't cure or explain the compulsion I feel, and the 1% of me protests my overtaxed mental capacity, and hear the, see the, masses, the shouts, the placards, outside my home, shut it down, no one cares, no one wants your transplanted mechanics in their eardrums Huzzah, found in my gut, a Grand Unifying Theory to coordinate, gauge  and harmonize my internal asymmetries, yes, a coupling factor required, but still, one equation that explains everything! my fatigued, pointy, index finger refuses to tap any more, my Theory of Everything, and my poetry, forgot, overlooked. in my library buried, black holed, forever silence-stored
0
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
The Quantum Poetry Theorem
The Quantum Poetry Theorem from a long time ago, a thousand poems a priori. **Dedicated to you, Albert Einstein and the cast of TBBT, special thanks to the OWS movement., But especially to the few, the brave, geeks who write poetry in word and in equations.** Scruffy, yet ennobled, my own 99% invade and occupy all my senses, in my eyesight encamped sensing opportunity, the 99 demand that each shutter eye snap, all nominal exhalations, every quantum minutia perception, be live streamed, direct tv to you Everything I witness, transformed into an acoustic guitar rocking vision, a levitation of poetic expression,   set to a primitive three-chord rock & roll overture, and my iPad, appointed Recording Secretary, compiles exhalations as ecrivations a preservation society of the verb, strings of words emanating non-stop within my head, from a guitar playing twenty four seven, ironically, expressed mathematically Street strolling, busy brasserie bar, a Pinot Noir arrives, a large pour of stanzas and a napkin upon to scribble mind in ferment but A Capella smooth cool, my bossy brain requires incident reports, a "write me down, please," and no matter how much I drink, ain't anti-matter enough to stop my eyes from seeing every human interaction as a poetic, probabilistic, verbal equation, quantum expressions of sensory upload The brain revels and reels from overload,   no mas, no more, poetry fatigue incurable, caplets and ointments, string theory, can't cure or explain the compulsion I feel, and the 1% of me protests my overtaxed mental capacity, and hear the, see the, masses, the shouts, the placards, outside my home, shut it down, no one cares, no one wants your transplanted mechanics in their eardrums Huzzah, found in my gut, a Grand Unifying Theory to coordinate, gauge  and harmonize my internal asymmetries, yes, a coupling factor required, but still, one equation that explains everything! my fatigued, pointy, index finger refuses to tap any more, my Theory of Everything, and my poetry, forgot, overlooked. in my library buried, black holed, forever silence-stored
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79
I remember the first time I discovered poetry, bolts of electric affluenza coursing through soft fingertips and into the skinny blue lines of fascination meaning nothing at first, yet transforming into the spillage of emotion, the invention of color, the budding metamorphosis of the artist’s apprehension. I remember telling everyone about the honey-tainted metaphors that exhaled yellow pigment through our film noir madness of ravaged years cementing over irises and I remember the revelation, saucer eyes and trembling hands after discovering the faultlessness of magic that tore at heartstrings and furrowed brows, the mumbled prayer of stitching entire blankets of words together to keep our souls warm even as the frigid ice of Time burned in desperation to freeze our heartbeats. You are a poet but to the world, you are wasted opportunity you only know of words that slip through tied tongues like silk and mending excuses to make up for heartbreak You are a poet but they never stop reminding you to keep your feet glued To hollow ground, shaking To find something that tastes of reality, the human flesh sweat of long lost longing You have to stop living in your head In the spaces where you breathe life into promises You are a poet But that has never been enough. The poet is used to this-- the knowledge of failure always shoved under the doormat numbers that collect under crumpled paper, the rotten look of misunderstanding as they wonder where the science of living went missing When did art decide to invade your insides, Leaving no room to calculate meaning with mathematics? Oh, but only the poets understand That there is no formula to meaning No theorem to calculate suffering, Only words that get stuck and disintegrate into whispers only all-consuming madness, write me a storm That rages through afflictions Write me an ending where We are older, in the house we dreamed of, buried Under blankets in the forgotten fog of Decembers Write me an ending where my voice is steady Instead of constantly wavering past the silence of goodbyes hellos heartaches Love me And I will love you Lose me And I will turn you into poetry stretch your bones into feelings, follow the lines in your palms into futures Where we end up together I will hold up your eyelids so they will never feel heavy at the sight of destruction I will shelter your heart to keep it beating As we watch as the words I could never say flutter at your fingertips like moths with broken wings The world does not understand love nor the poets that create it.
0
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 8:27 PM UTC
TO BE A POET / A Slam Poem
I remember the first time I discovered poetry, bolts of electric affluenza coursing through soft fingertips and into the skinny blue lines of fascination meaning nothing at first, yet transforming into the spillage of emotion, the invention of color, the budding metamorphosis of the artist’s apprehension. I remember telling everyone about the honey-tainted metaphors that exhaled yellow pigment through our film noir madness of ravaged years cementing over irises and I remember the revelation, saucer eyes and trembling hands after discovering the faultlessness of magic that tore at heartstrings and furrowed brows, the mumbled prayer of stitching entire blankets of words together to keep our souls warm even as the frigid ice of Time burned in desperation to freeze our heartbeats. You are a poet but to the world, you are wasted opportunity you only know of words that slip through tied tongues like silk and mending excuses to make up for heartbreak You are a poet but they never stop reminding you to keep your feet glued To hollow ground, shaking To find something that tastes of reality, the human flesh sweat of long lost longing You have to stop living in your head In the spaces where you breathe life into promises You are a poet But that has never been enough. The poet is used to this-- the knowledge of failure always shoved under the doormat numbers that collect under crumpled paper, the rotten look of misunderstanding as they wonder where the science of living went missing When did art decide to invade your insides, Leaving no room to calculate meaning with mathematics? Oh, but only the poets understand That there is no formula to meaning No theorem to calculate suffering, Only words that get stuck and disintegrate into whispers only all-consuming madness, write me a storm That rages through afflictions Write me an ending where We are older, in the house we dreamed of, buried Under blankets in the forgotten fog of Decembers Write me an ending where my voice is steady Instead of constantly wavering past the silence of goodbyes hellos heartaches Love me And I will love you Lose me And I will turn you into poetry stretch your bones into feelings, follow the lines in your palms into futures Where we end up together I will hold up your eyelids so they will never feel heavy at the sight of destruction I will shelter your heart to keep it beating As we watch as the words I could never say flutter at your fingertips like moths with broken wings The world does not understand love nor the poets that create it.
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63
The neo-noir carnival The black light circus Is pulling me into uncertainty Stretching me like spaghetti While their ******* defense Goes twinkle twinkle on the patio And I'm still on the fence About everything As Andromeda collides with the Milky Way The people below think it's just A very bright day
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Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 8:42 PM UTC
Neo-Noir Carnival
I want to be the Ginger Rogers to your Fred Astaire the rocks of ice in your Jameson glass, I want to be the girl you sing about or the lit cigarette your lipstick marks Chanel rouge noir, I want each embrace you encounter to touch me too through the spaces, I'd even be the words in the book you lift to read at night, I just simply want to be every single missing piece you've ever felt or ever needed, I want to be Cupid stealing your heart selfishly for my own pleasure, oh what toil and trouble a girl unhinged her unbalanced mind bursting bubbles of blood through her boiling passion deep within the skin. © Sia Jane
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Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 7:25 AM UTC
Jealous
C'EST PRESQU'AU BOUT DU MONDE..." ( IT WAS ALMOST TO THE END OF THE WORLD ) She believed that deep deep inside her the flame of a femme fatale burned brightly. Could imagine herself stepping out of some classic Film Noir. Cultivated herself to look like Marie Windsor opposite the dangerously gorgeous John Garfield. But her life it seemed had her stepping into an Edward Hopper. The isolation and the paint still wet. The lonely lady glimpsed in an hotel window from a passing train autumnal rain. Still she acted always as if she was in her own movie l walking around her tiny flat naked except for red stilettos red earrings...red lipstick. Making up her own snappy lines to some imaginary leading man. "Are you decent?" "Yes"" "But you're....you're naked!" "You only asked if I was decent!" The mirror laughed catching the reflection of who she could have been given half the chance. She never stood a chance. She threw a cigarette up in the air caught it between her lips her one and only party trick. Lit or unlit. Searching for middle C on a battered piano her mind off key abandoning it the piano's yellow smile. She watched the sunlight carve a block of time out of the dividing wall. fading the wallpaper roses. The bed that was always empty...always unmade. She danced to Weill's Youkali Tango. Put it on again...again. Scratching an already scratched record. The needle gathering fluff. The porcelain milkmaid...dust. She disliked the way sweat gathered under her ******* They were always a little too large. Hated men staring so hard. Ahhhh the faded romance a sunset heart attack. Couldn't have wrote herself a better script. Staggering in her dance gasping that all too unsubstantial air as if trying to catch time the presentpastfuture falling out of her hand. The wooden acorn of the tattered blind tapping against the ***** window pane. Neon going green. Then red. Now blue. And then green again.
0
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 3:16 PM UTC
"C'EST PRESQU'AU BOUT DU MONDE..."( IT WAS ALMOST TO THE END OF THE WORLD )
C'EST PRESQU'AU BOUT DU MONDE..." ( IT WAS ALMOST TO THE END OF THE WORLD ) She believed that deep deep inside her the flame of a femme fatale burned brightly. Could imagine herself stepping out of some classic Film Noir. Cultivated herself to look like Marie Windsor opposite the dangerously gorgeous John Garfield. But her life it seemed had her stepping into an Edward Hopper. The isolation and the paint still wet. The lonely lady glimpsed in an hotel window from a passing train autumnal rain. Still she acted always as if she was in her own movie l walking around her tiny flat naked except for red stilettos red earrings...red lipstick. Making up her own snappy lines to some imaginary leading man. "Are you decent?" "Yes"" "But you're....you're naked!" "You only asked if I was decent!" The mirror laughed catching the reflection of who she could have been given half the chance. She never stood a chance. She threw a cigarette up in the air caught it between her lips her one and only party trick. Lit or unlit. Searching for middle C on a battered piano her mind off key abandoning it the piano's yellow smile. She watched the sunlight carve a block of time out of the dividing wall. fading the wallpaper roses. The bed that was always empty...always unmade. She danced to Weill's Youkali Tango. Put it on again...again. Scratching an already scratched record. The needle gathering fluff. The porcelain milkmaid...dust. She disliked the way sweat gathered under her ******* They were always a little too large. Hated men staring so hard. Ahhhh the faded romance a sunset heart attack. Couldn't have wrote herself a better script. Staggering in her dance gasping that all too unsubstantial air as if trying to catch time the presentpastfuture falling out of her hand. The wooden acorn of the tattered blind tapping against the ***** window pane. Neon going green. Then red. Now blue. And then green again.
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82