What “Woman” means to me.

Suprise! Here’s a new poem in honor of International Women’s Day!

In case this wasn’t clear, this blog is pro-feminism and pro-choice. I hope this poem emulates this properly.


(credit: Summit Kids [summitkids.ca])
An original poem by 
Coeur d’un poète.
Author’s noteHappy International Women’s Day! I hope you stand in solidarity with women across the world! Cherish them and defend their rights, because they are a big chunk of the world’s population, and we do need both genders of humanity to be strong to ensure global prosperity!”

A woman is not weak; she is strong.
She is the symbol of strength in endurance,
in the face of perpetual misogeny and patriarchy;
she is the present, and future, face of humanity.

So what does the word “woman” mean to me?
Absolutely not the absolution of a sexual essence,
but a being of choice whose voice carries weight
beyond the slander and sexism that sounds an imposition.

Beyond her skin, she’s a nation of personal choice,
that chooses when and where to lend her voice,
whose freedom is the key to common prosperity,
who defines her own self, and finds her own way.

She is the mother of life, the essence of wisdom,
that endures strife and spite to shine in her freedom.
For the world would be much less the greater
without her conviction that the world will be better.


(credit: Yoga Goddess).

To be a poet

It’s me again! I wrote this poem in response to a discussion I had with a friend a long time ago on how poems should be written.

I come from a background which studied romantic (not that kind, sorry) period poetry which was heavy, but dealt with many themes on humanity.

I believe that our poems should reflect the holistic nature of our existence – that is, that it should tell about the world in its’ entirety. Therefore, no subject should be scorned upon or labeled “too dark”. Authors only type – the words have their own life.



(Credit: http://wwno.org/)


An original poem by Coeur d’un poète.


To be a poet is to write about the world
as a whole, in beauty as in darkness.
Life and death aren’t opposites, but perspectives
in the middle path between warm and cold.

Being a poet is about being both wrong and right,
to see life in all its light, both day and night.
It’ the holistic art of walking a fine line
and setting one’s sights in a mind beyond fine.

Darkness and light are perspectives, not endgames;
poems strive to present, far from those names.
What matters is the message that musters meaning
to the human that masters true meaningful wording.

To be a poet is to be the bard of balance,
bringing the brightness of equality to unity.
Whether light or dark, words must feel of justice,
tell signs of balance and share the depth of humanity.

What is love?

Suprise! Here is a poem on relationships – specifically, moments in a date when a hopeful guy like yours truly thinks about what the future can hold for himself and his date.

As I always believe, a poet needs to write about life in all its’ forms – not just the positive moments. So if this poem feels sad for you…well 1) I don’t think you’re not reading the poem properly, and 2) don’t shy away from things that make you uncomfortable.

Concept of love and coffee


An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète.

Is this a collision course
we’re on,
or just a near-miss?
I’ve burned myself so often
on love
when it had barely begun.
I’ve long seen my friends
sharing their hearts
while my ticker stayed whole.
All that time, the question
“what is love”
lingered through my soul.

Is this ambition for real,
or a fiction
inside my reserved mind?
In this fast-paced century,
am I really lost
in the length of a lonely journey?
I am only as capable
as the core
of the parts of my whole.
Yet love is so foreign
that I’d be mistaken
in acting of desperation.

Is the sum of courage
enough to win
you over to my side?
In this day and age,
so shallow is faith
in the health of human hearts.
What’s this ideal of love
if not the fear
of crushing solitude?
Are you the one heir
to my heart, the
start of an awesome pair ?

Desert Exile

Here is a poem about the desert, and it’s duality in regards to progress. Fill your boots (not with sand, though)!


(Photo Credit: Declan McCullagh Photography – http://www.mccullagh.org/photo/1ds-4/sandstorm-sahara-desert)


(This is the first segment of the poem.)


Once again, the exodus has begun.
I march through the desert,
straight into the unending sea
of sand, heat and sweat.

It is a cycle the world runs through
from year to the next, town through towns,
a constant stream of peaks and falls
and sand flowing, filling bodies in drought.

This time, my host cast me far and out,
my views not obeying the trend of doubt,
of renewing hostility to the one true progress,
all hell breaking loose to match with this madness.

I march through this hapless desert a dire outcast
with strong sentiments of brotherhoods that last.
My progress is the source of modestless division
in this cycle of cruel, renewed racial scrutiny.

See here, I march alone, in search of my home
more permanent, prevailing through time everlasting,
in a sea of dry heat, filled in constant duress
where men’s hopes and dreams are all but useless.

I’m an ideal of the people’s endless potential
and I  cultivate growth on solemn, barren lands.
But through the endless strife and clearless direction
I failed to found the brightest men’s ambitions.

The fears of the day fostered gross eradication,
people’s base passions festered and unleashed.
They chose the status quo of violent somberness;
and I vagabond on, filled of hope so fully besieged.

I now travel around, from town to town
looking for permanence, for a prosperous home.
I am a refugee, forced from my people,
unfortunate victim of an unbearable cycle.

Suspicion and divide are the talk of the land
where I march on, resolute in my progress.
This sahara of a desert is the soul of the void
where evil’s essence would have me destroyed.

This is the struggle that I brave to master
in the hopes of finding the greener pastures.
In a world where the past keeps rising far faster,
I dream of tomorrow, a prosperous future.

People are my temple in the sand withstanding.
Without them, my temple is all but nothing.
I am nameless, an ideal with no face,
a faith that alone, knows not it’s own place.

(End of part 1)

Of Life and living.

One of my favourite original poems written to the style of poets of old. I hope you enjoy this latest addition. 🙂


Credit: NOAA

An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète.


Herein lies the unsung truth of life
I have learned, and impart unto you –
that life, like plants, withers without substance
as living in action is like water and sun.
Without nourishment, the soul cannot but wither,
shrink and weaken, like a spiritual winter.
Living is to life as walking to a toddler –
the key of growth and path to prosper.

The being impervious to life is a hardened shell
who rings hollow of wisdom or knowledge.
They are widowed ones, once married to lives,
now bereft of passion or discharged of ambition.
Their gifts are fruitless, and hollow as night
when the lively ones are but radiant light.
Life, like these gifts, is a contrast of substance
but neither is never, nor ever shall it last.

Seize the day that is, not that was,
nor one that may never come to be.
This grand anthem of opportunity, for you and me
must never go unsung, and never not passed on.
Herein lie the unsung truths of life
I have learned, and imparted unto you.
Let the echo of action sound the anthem of ambition
and live the life you were born to be living.


I wrote this one a few years back when I was feeling a little more down and doubtful about my place in the world. It is our responsibility to constantly revisit the dark corners of our minds and accept who we were, who we are. While these thoughts are not mine now, I had serious doubts when I wrote this.

This poem is inspired by the classic poem “Do not go gentle into that good night” by Dylan Thomas, which was featured in the Christopher Nolan movie “Interstellar”. I hope you enjoy this poem, but remember: don’t let the darkness within yourself grab a hold of you.


Artist: Rockwell Kent, 1926. ©deYoung.



Is this the end?
Have I reached my twilight,
my silent good night?

The clock struck midnight
in utter void of life
and suddent end of all light.

Is this the edge
of the cliff,
the end of the
shortened script –
the gap between
my time and the space?

I seem to have gone
as far as I
could possibly go
on this winding road
to the edge
of the night.

Is this all there is
to what is my journey
where no more time is given?

This is the judging night
before the unlikely sun sight,
a wrong that shades a right.

Is this the end,
that feared edge –
is this all there is?
The clock strikes midnight.
Have I reached my twilight,
my silent good night?


An original poem by Coeur d’un poète.

The Arrow

I dedicate this original poem of mine in the name of my favorite hero from DC comics, Green Arrow. This is written based on the interpretation by the CW show Arrow. I hope you enjoy the poem.


Poem based on the CW show Arrow. Photo credits belong to the CW.

I am a broken human being
fighting my demons and deceptions,
and taking on my tameless darkness
without a thought of the cost of what I’ve lost.

I thrived and lived in my darkness
minus the things and those I truly needed,
thus living alone amongst the loneliness of others,
brothers and sisters that never wondered.

I took their demons on my own
to tackle and take on alone.
But an only man simply cannot win
without assistance from blood and kin.

I am reborn, the thorn of the evil
and the emblem of the fair and free.
To be me is to take on the sins of many
and to be the key to boundless hope.

While I hold the darkness in my heart,
I hold on to hope and the dreams that be,
that I can save the people of my city,
and be the man I know myself to be.

Land of the Trees

Here is a poem I posted on another blog that I have a lot of pride for making. I hope you enjoy it.

Originally posted on Weekly Writing Prompts on 02/27/2017.

An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète. 

The green sight that soothes my eyes
slides between the shades of sunlight.
I followed the last chain of footsteps
into this forest full of radiant flora.
Breathing in the air that bears of calm beauty,
I let conscience and calm wash over me.
Within the sights and sounds of sweet serenity,
there’s no path on which I’d rather be.
There’s no time lost that’s not regained
in a space both a distance and a center.
I place my hand on the tree’s periphery
to feel the duality of presence and absence,
lost from thought but present in the beat,
finding fullness that felt absent on old paths.

This is the land of dreams, a landscape of life
that lives a pace alone, and paces along.
These are the trees that stand beyond many,
that endure duress and the tests of time.
Theirs are monuments to moments long gone
of a nature sans master or needs to nurture.
I ventured in a forest of purest foliage,
in a voyage through time; a Man-less memorial.
As I march on the path of pride and resilience,
I reflect on the endurance that’s passed on to me.
Tree leaves dance in the music of the wind,
but trunks stand still, unbeaten and eternal.
I am in a hall so timelessly natural
that outlives all that rises and falls.

The foliage revives the life in my lungs,
the pure air cleanses the senses within.
I recall immediately the necessity of these trees,
yet I remember that they do not need me.
Leaves dance down and fall to the ground.
In them is found the beauty of no sound.
I take a breath as the path goes on,
and fauna feigns presence in this living forest.
Sound sets their stage where sight does not,
their voices resound in a musical mosaic.
I am grounded, matured on this land,
communing with care in the core of my nature.
In the home of fathers and ancestors distant,
I am present and thriving with the Trees.


by Coeur d’un Poète.


This short poem I wrote is based on a popular misquote by Plutarch.

You can read the misquote here:


Photo: Copyright © 2017 500px.



And so, I sat,
contemplating the end
of a path
without much substance.
So I wept,
for there was
no time remaining
to explore it.

I mourned the death
of the man
I could have been
instead of building
on that which was
but won’t be again.
Thus, I wept once more
for what I am not.

I wept for them;
the hearts I loved.
Had I shared
and opened mine too…
I wept for them,
the undiscovered countries
and the buried stories
that could have been
but never were mine.

And so, I sat,
contemplating the shallowness
of my domains.
Thus, I wept,
for I understood then
that there was little
I truly did conquer.


Here are three quick rhyming shorts for you. Three varying themes.

  1. If silence could speak,
    then words would be wasted.
    Truthfully, silence is louder than words
    when nothing worthy is said.
  2. Patience is mightier than the sword,
    and yet, is a sword in itself.
    While the impatient weaken with rash action,
    the patient stay strong and undaunted.
  3. Modesty is unbecoming of dishonest men
    who disturb the honor of modest men.
    For false modesty is no modesty at all
    if there be hidden motives to the honest man.

    by Coeur d’un Poète