Poetry competition CLOSED 23rd March 2019 11:01pm
Page:

Through the Alphabet--The Letter "F"

poet Anonymous

Poetry Contest

Use all the words in the list below, in a poem
Here we are with our next letter , F, in the alphabet series! Below, youíll find the words to use in your poem , same rules as before:
One poem per poet, no collabs , any style /length poem, 2 weeks to enter, winner decided by vote. Have fun!

Hereís the words :

Favor
Finery
Fickle
Frost
Furrow
Fugitive
Fable
Fascinate
Flood
France

poet Anonymous

It was in your Favor
-----------------------------------

They say artists are
Known for their Finery
Fickle winds mourned
Frost bitten shores  

France held a promise
I remember him
A fugitive from
further than the caspian sea

His hair had a sepia tone
Hour glass composing
As I listened to him preforming

My sould sensed a flood
Swiming streams sailed between us
Green were his eyes

Deep were the lines
On his brow,
I said "you fascinate"
As I rested my hand
slightly upon his

A deep furrow formed
Mending the open space
within

I let the fable free
as a bird
knowing
once

it will be returned
to me




poet Anonymous

De Vence Morning

All through the frost
of a hard English Winter
I dreamed of France
ringing her catholic bells
calling all to mass

hymns clinging gently
inside a furrow of dawn
as Father sun awoke,
breaking his fugitive chains
to win favour with our skin.

Thereís nothing
the sweet limes of St. Paulís
could not fascinate,
as I watched through
a flood of glass
villagers soaked in worship
dressed in all their finery
to win favour with God.

Such fickle mornings
are surely a fable
of my imagination,
yet even now
I taste citrus in memory,
associating daybreak
with prayer.


poet Anonymous

Bouquet Taboo

We come to Paris, France our secret place,
Where lovers favor darkened corner booths.
To sip the wine d'amour bouquet taboo,
In embrace, our fable City of Light.

Mon cher escorts me in a horse-drawn cart,
Wrapped in my finery against the chill.
In winterís slightest gust of evening frost,
We ride into the park under the trees.

For though there is a driver at the reins,
We seem to be the only two alive.
The fickle moon is nowhere to be seen,
A fugitive from love and loversí light.

We hug & kiss & hope the dawn sleeps in,
So that the sun wonít furrow thruí the night.
The driver clicks his tongue and off we go,
To fascinate at Eiffelís dazzíling flood.
poet Anonymous

Fermentation

The magnum was uncorked and the froth it poured forth
made from the grape, on the hills that faces north
in France the champaigne floods into the glass
and we toast each other with the eyes of love steadfast

The finery of this gesture grand
is this the favour that is just so underhand
just to fascinate and lie to take her heart
a frost of charm from first to last

A fugative thats honour hidden deep
the fable was it Blanc or Brut
the furrow where the vine roots creep
the bubbles cling and release on palate of deciet
poet Anonymous

Whilome

A fable of old to fascinate and tease,
worthy of Chaucer when at his best.
With a fickle Princess in finery and pride,
with a favour seeking Prince fugitive to love.
Frost of her heart flood of his woes.
Furrow your brows, France is where it starts ...
poet Anonymous

A Long Lost Romance

A long time ago, when he journeyed overseas,
He met a beautiful girl who was from France,
And while at first a friendship flourished,
Theirs is a fable of a long lost romance.

She had a lovely accent with soft inflections,
A finesse thatís sure to fascinate and captivate,
Then a flood of emotions furrowed their way
Into his heart assuring him that this was fate.

She loved his carefree and sometimes fickle ways,
She admired his kindness and favor toward others,
But when the war came he was called away,
To fight in the frost along with his brothers.

After the war he wasnít able to find her,
He went to the small town where she was from,
But sheíd disappeared like a fugitive in the chase,
And it broke him for many years to come.

But in 1993 as he was travelling abroad,
He and his wife walked into a small finery shop,
The old owner reminded him of her,
When the woman said "bonjour", he came to a stop.

It was her accent, her lilt, her soft inflection,
After fifty-two years he recognized her voice,
As he stood there smiling she didnít remember,
Reminiscing of young love as he kept his poise.

Page:
Go to: