Submit Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best Paris Poems

Below are the all-time best Paris poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of paris poems written by PoetrySoup members

Search for Paris poems, articles about Paris poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Paris poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:

New Paris Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Paris poems are below this new poems list.

Paris Floods by vaso, arthur
Paris, 13 November by Taylor, Kevin
Unquotable quotes: Paris the last week of the August reprieve- XXXV Part Two by Wignesan, T
Unquotable quotes: Paris the last week of the August reprieve - XXXV Part One by Wignesan, T
Bad Paris Weather by Smith, Julie
Juozas Miltinis Learning Years in Paris by skendeliene, ruta
The Catacombs of Paris by Bdosa, Vee
Paris Sonnet by hansen, jan oskar
Paris Sense by Ward, Julia
Heart of Paris by vaso, arthur

View all new Paris Poems

The Best Paris Poems

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Letters from Paris

I wrote a letter
With teardrops from my heart
I walk the streets of Antoinette
My mind dances with Baudelaire
Love flutters as the pigeon’s wings on statues
I see them, so close and feel the emptiness
Like the cold stone upon which their wings rest

My wine glass is empty
Then full
Then empty
My veins are red like bloodshot eyes
I am tired
Confessions made
I cried

As I walk across the bridge of god
Over the seine
Notre dame stares back, am I insane?
Have I been alone all this time?
Perdu, in time, perdu inside my wine
Hidden words and lost letters
You shall never see
Tossed thoughts in salad dressings
Away away as the river decides to run

I look back inside black and white photos
How did I become this way
How did I become the stray?
Fallen spirit, burning heart
Completely and utterly torn apart

I stare at the Eiffel tower
A mighty spear, that pierces me
Into the million lovers of gay Paris
Angels weep, pain flows
The blood of time, the blood that becomes the wine
The pain, inside of me
For all the lost letters
Mother and father never did see


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Leaves of the Dead

Leaves of the Dead

Les feuilles mortes 



They fall like dead soldiers
Dreams knifed in the dead of night
It is as yesterday
Once more
Where love was kissing my cheek
Where hopes had dreams
One could see the blossom of loves desires

Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates


Ah now I am holding a cane
I have all but forgotten yesterday
I have no lovers
My friends have all but gone
To their designated places in the ground
Piano keys in soft lit lounges
I remember the vodka stingers and sultry singers 
Telling me life was jolie oh so jolie
If only there was love…

Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates

At 3am, with burnt cigarette butts
If only there was love
When the metro finds it’s unwitting end
Reality and cubes make ugly paintings
There are only drunks
Dreamers and bums
Thief’s picking pockets of your final instructions

Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates

If you can sober up and face the poverty
Of your empty aspirations of hope
Come to the bois de Vincennes
Where Kings and Queens danced and dined
What better place
To splay the butter
So that the knife slides smooth
Whilst the sun fades kissing the seine
Autumn leaves will fall
Dead again

Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

May I Caress Your Heart

Alone, in Paris
The flowers sing
Le jardin du Luxembourg
I look at all the pretty ladies
Which one of them pray tell 
Is you
The one who wishes for that sweet caress
The one whose painting hangs on the wall
The one who knows beauty runs deeper
Than a river running to kiss the oceans swell
The grandest of castles with candles dim
There in the damp night would bonds begin
If only you would listen to my whispers deep
Forgiving the scars I have suffered
As in the night I have wept
Napoleon marched forth across great lands
I the knight have lesser demands
If only you, whoever you are
Would take hold of me
As we dance away our eternities
Sur le pont de Avignon
Where the river flows
Like poetry


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Puzzle

 if you are reading this with a face non-pale.
       and you think of nothing to tell or to re-tail.
                      not a plan to go to Paris or Shanghai.
                      not a voice in your head, annoying buzz
              asking you why?if you keep mixing tea and cola.
                                              if you don't care, a bus or cab.
                                  nor about that poor who might you stab.
                                                you ain't welcome to read my tale.
     I'll find someone who's worth the breath, who's worth my death.

                                  if you are reading this with a face non-pale
                                  and you think of nothing to tell or to re-tail
                                           not a plan to go to Paris or Shanghai
                                      not a voice in your head, annoying buzz
                          asking you why?if you keep mixing tea and cola
                                                      if you don't care, a bus or cab
                                      nor about that poor who might you stab
                                                you ain't welcome to read my tale.
I'll find someone who's worth the breath, who's worth my death.


ebrahimsharifat@yahoo.com





Copyright © EBRAHIM SHARIFAT | Year Posted 2013

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Death - Remember me Tomorrow

Death – Remember me Tomorrow

Votre amour est tout ce que j'implore
Angels took us from France's shores
To the promised land of lady liberty
Hollywood glitter enticing us lovers with mystery

Living the past in a cinematic telling
Ironic that love was sourly spurned
By Bogart’s charming quilted misgivings
Madeline, later would sadly sing

La Marseillaise, while lovers embrace
Paris after dark, they disappear with no trace
Trains to death and boats to freedom
As Casablanca tells of romantic tales

Je suis vieux, est je suis seul
The beautiful one misses the past and you
All the ships have sailed and gone
It’s the cemetery now where I rest under lawn


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

There is always a Next Time


There is always a next time...

Sometimes we lose a change
Sometimes we miss an opportunity
    Sometimes we fail to achieve the target
    Sometimes we lack in honesty

We try our best to reach the target
we make efforts to complete our aim honestly  
     Yet we have to give up for some reason and
     We look at the lost chance very seriously


We decide in emotion 
 Not to try again in the life time
      But we forget the fact that..
      There is always a next time.

One lost chance 
 should not affect the future 
       Prepare yourself for the next time
       Which will prove to be much more better


  Try to overcome the weakness
  and do the hard work honestly
           put in that extra effort,
           so you don't require any sympathy

  We forget that whatever happens
  it happens for good and happens fine
          Give another try for the efforts
          because there is always a next time.





Thanks and regards,

Prasad Korade


Copyright © Prasad Korade | Year Posted 2013

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Pour Juliette Girardot

Note: This is not a poem, just a riddle :)


Pour Juliette Girardot

Si vous me donnez 1000 essaie
Si vous me donnez 1000 valses
La réponse que je donnerai
Ca sera toujours la même
J’ai besoin mais une seule essaie!
Jacques Brel

La chanson "La Valse a mille temps"

Je pense qu'il n'y a pas un poème lyrique française, ou un poème, ou sonnet dans toute la République française, que je ne sais pas!!!!

Maintenant, une énigme pour vous!

Je suis un Steak
Je suis originaire de Bretagne en France
Je suis le père de la romance
Je me suis cassé le bras à Niagara Falls au Canada
Mais je suis mort, un pauvre homme à Londres
Les paroles que je parle
Sont d'outre-tombe
Qui suis-je ?


Copyright © Etienne Lariviere | Year Posted 2015

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Friday Thirteen --Paris Attacks

Yes, they too believed in love,
Yet became victims of hate,
Men hungry for destruction,
And with vicious mindset,
	Fired deadly bullets around,
	Lifeless bodies fell on ground.

Pain touched every heart,
For some, life won't be same,
Laughter transformed to cries,
Happiness changed to grief,
	Merciless sinners did it all,
	At concert, café and football.

Flesh and blood piled on roads,
Obedient bodies stayed silent,
Many were counted dead,
Others were counted wounded,
	And some waited for last breath,
	Paris mourned the gruesome death.



written on 17 November, 2015.
Any Poem Meaningful To You - Poetry Contest 
Sponsored by: Broken Wings
(Received FIRST PLACE in the above contest)
Contest Judged on:  20 April, 2016.

First Place Only - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Laura Loo


Copyright © Meenakshi Raina | Year Posted 2016

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

aphrodite

pink lips, golden hips,
this beauty makes me power trip.
i am aphrodite at the after party
sipping golden apple martinis by the pool.
chosen by troy, i am the fairest of them all.
 
even your best friend called me a goddess.


Copyright © Evelyn Rose | Year Posted 2016

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Disneyland Paris

We went on a trip from Telford to France
By car and by shuttle the views did enhance
An enjoyable trip to Euro Disney then home
To take our grandson Kieran on a trip just over the foam

Stopped in a hotel with a grabbing machine and a shop
Play till you win then drink loads of pop
Disneyland Paris great fun for a child
All the characters there so gentle and mild

We saw the duck the my grandson and me 
I don’t know which on of us was filled with more glee
At Disney land Paris Kieran saw them all
Got photos and autographs had him a ball

Bought a Mickey Mouse hat and a bag full of chews
Went all over Disney enjoying the views
A bus to travel to and from the park
Back to the hotel for our food before dark

The characters I can remember not all but a few
I wonder dear grandson how many can you
There was Mickey and Minnie Daisy and Donald
But highlight was finding a Ronald McDonald

The Chipmunks, Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum
Geppeto, Pinocchio just to mention some
Buzz light-years experience shooting laser Guns 
But I think you found best the McDonald’s burgers in buns

This poem was for my grandson who passed away five years ago, Oh how we miss you Our Little Angel, a memory of a happier time.


Copyright © Owen Yeates | Year Posted 2012

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Little Paris

Petite Paris

A little love
A little kiss
A little death
In the arms of a lover

Un petit café
Along the Sienne
How I dream
How I wish for just a little

Of your love


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Gertrude -- Gertie -- Gertrude Stein

-- Re:  Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, Rue de Fleurus #27, Paris --

What would Gertrude.What Gertrude.What, Gertie?Have thought.Have thought what
thought?Thought thought driving,forward,remorselessly.Remorseless Remorse?Forward.Never reverse;no reverse.No.No remorse.Remorseless,spurning reverse,seated.High!Seated high in Auntie.Then in Godiva seated. Looming.Enormous.
Looming enormous.Unsinister presence. Certain presence.Definite.Definitely not sinister.  Positively looming;enormous in brown.Brown,in brown corduroy,driving Paris.
In Paris,through Paris.Looming high in Paris in Godiva.With Alice, quiet beside her.
Quiet; always, Alice.Alice always. And zipping, about -- coming to Rue de Fleurus 27.
Zipping to Rue de Fleurus.To 27. And Alice so able.Able Alice, each a.m. transcribing.Able Alice typing.Automatic Gertrude.Typing Gertrude.Great Gertrude.GeniusGertrude.Talking Gertrude.Genius talking.Great brown Gertrude;Gertie to Alice.
Absorbing, talking, buying art --- buying Matisse.Absorbing Matisse.Showing Matisse.Banishing Matisse.Selling Matisse,collecting Picasso.Great Gertrude -- genius Gertrude at court, holding court at Rue de Fleurus 27.And Leo.Gone Leo.No Leo at Rue de
Fleurus.Not at 27 After Leo, after Mr. Stein, after brother Leo.But there was Alice.Alice
was there Among Braques.And Cezanne.(Not Matisse.)No longer Matisse, but Picasso.And Picassos, Picassos, Picassos!And Alice; alongside, was Alice.Next to, was Alice.Alice
next Gertrude,Gertie, G. --- Gertrude, Miss Stein. Genius Gertrude Stein Quiet Alice
always.And a great Gertrude.A great brown Gertrude.A leviathan. A passing ship; a
great leviathan.Gertie, a genius.A hugeness.A shibboleth.But to Alice, just Gertie.


Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2012

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

PARIS, I DREAM

Although I seem distracted, my concentration is keen.
I'm telling you I have it LICKED on this SUBJECT. I 
HAVE NO NEED OF RHYMING LINES TO ASSIST MY
PENMANSHIP.  

BUT LATELY I'VE BEEN thinking OF a trip... to 
PARIS. HOW GRAND would that be? But CONCENTRATION
IS KEY! And PARIS is so distracting, with its SACK OF 
BRILLIANT SIGHTS TO SEE. THE EIFFEL TOWER I  FEEL
THE POWER OF POETRY.

PARIS' S. Splendidness, I ADMIRE.  BUT SOLITUDE IS A
TASKMASTER TO WHIP MY PEN ACROSS THE PAGE RESULTING
IN my own unique creation. THEREFORE I will not engage in such
A trip. IN SPITE OF THAT, I will LEARN FRENCH INCH BY INCH.
AND PARIS WILL REMAIN A DREAM.


Copyright © VAL BROOKLYN Rogers BLK PANTHER | Year Posted 2014

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

A Somewhere Paris Cafe

A haze… 
Languorous oft in summer days 
Where sundrops drip 
From melting skies 
Onto city grind 
And parasols shade the cobbled grays

Across back alley lanes 
Trains and trolleys tip toe by 
As a fool in love forever waits 
Among a noon bistro Paris crowd 
For his girl, who is always fashionably late 
Outside a sidewalk somewhere café cityscape

Young beauties amidst a mid-day stroll 
Becomingly, become ever respectively 
The flowers that line the picket way 
Or some frilly prize ponies 
Beneath carousels about avenues of Torrid place

A testament to this… 
The carriage horses that turn their whiny heads 
And then, when I turn mine 
It’s to witness boots of cavalier instead 
That step to one side 
For moments languor has left 
As my own prize has made red carpets rise

Those flutter lashes like shotguns glint blasts 
And soon the white dove makes its notorious descent 
Where the gentlemen, unbeknownst to them, become like minded ruffians 
As they dive into madness for her precious handkerchief

“Oh” this women of mine, she has her perculiar ways 
Just like all the silly rest 
My damsel mademoiselle never enters into throes of distress 
Longer lace invites mischievous about a button down dress
And her kisses offer smiles and arduent waves 
With utter love contempt to them, but my hand is her biggest praise

I guess it’s the thrill of the game 
And she’s the tigress and I her willful prey 
Opening up the Gazette, coffee I incredulous sip and purposely hide my face 
As my sweet flora strolls my way
And lands into her lover's arms
In a somewhere summer Paris afternoon café


Copyright © Michael Smith | Year Posted 2013

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Spring Waltz

Flowers
Fragrances and bouquets
Morning dewdrops
The rising sun
Throwing promises
As Gaiety sings
Young lovers kissing 
As the rose buds bloom
Rain drops caressing
Memories floating
Past and present meld
In the coming of spring
A butterfly
Plays with my strings
Éclairs to savor
As eyes kiss eyes
I take hold of you
Dear spring
We twirl you and I
Young and old
Musical chairs 
Lovers wed and bed
I smile at the sweet scent
Cane in hand
Off I go
A blind man
Who waltzes in the spring

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KmzFDEu2RoA


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Catacombs of Paris

    THE CATACOMBS OF PARIS
Their skeletoned remains, in disarray,
are numbered more than any count can say
and from their numbers, Paris grew
to be what she has grown into,
each stone's been cut and raised from where it lay.

Down in the dark, beneath each cobblestone
there lays a death that no one should have known;
and their remains are dried, to last;
to be reminders of the past,
lest we forget what's raised the cornerstone.

And what has made all Paris so discrete
is every stone they raised up to the street;
and every bone that's stripped and bare
by time that's left them laying there
in their sarcophagus beneath our feet.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet


Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2014

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Death Of Marie Antoinette

 THE DEATH OF MARIE ANTOINETTE
 (MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE)
Songwriters set their words about her style
and artists make pursuit to paint her smile
but all the light that's Paris, shows,
her heart and soul to only those
who come to fall in love for just while.

But knowing this, my wondering still lies
as I recall Marie, her face,her eyes,
and she is just a memory
though what I'd have to always be,
if time was mine and not a thing that flies.

I trace my blood and line of ancestry
down through some troubled times of history
or is it that I've journeyed long
from when my life went all so wrong
but it's so far removed, my mind can't see?

These questions rake my mind and leave me cold,
Am I my father who's still growing old;
and who is she, to go away
to deju vu--to yesterday,
or has she layed our love to times' unfold?

I guess I'll find her on Champs Elysees,
or in the Champ de Mars, where children play
or where one day the guillotine
cut life away, and cut it clean,
but this is now, and that was yesterday.

O! I would lay my neck under the blade;
if there would ever be a diff'rence made
to end the pain she left in me
and stop the love for my Marie
but love--this love for her can never fade.

And so, as other loves they come and go,
as Paris says, and Paris makes it so,
I wait and wander by the Seine
but know not where, and know not when,
for love of my Marie, she'll come, I know.
© RON WILSON aka vee bdosa


Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2012

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Heart of Paris

I am from another galaxy 
all a romance in the heart of Paris 
all a mystery without desire 
all a lost phantasm 
all a film of being 
where art is in the spiritual thread 
so that every love to be eternal


Copyright © Milan Georges Burovac | Year Posted 2014

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

VIVE LA FRANCE - visual 4

Vive La France - visual #4

Weeping
half staff – full heart
stiffened - resilient 
proudly applauding freedoms voice
she speaks.



1/14/2015

For Andrea Dietrich – An American Beauty Poetry contest





Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2015

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Death of A Rock Star - Jim Morrison

     DEATH OF A ROCK STAR (Jim Morrison)
There's a man all alone and his name is well known
but he thinks all the world is a den
of the poor and the weak and the too dead to speak
for themselves, it's a game they can't win.

He's a little bit high and he'll be til we die
it's too bad that his heart is so black,
but he knows how to sing to a crowd and to bring
out the love that they've been holding back.

It's a game that he plays with your life and he stays
just as long as the music goes on,
and he'll make you to smile if it's only a while,
then he goes where the devil has gone.

All the girls that he's had think it's not all that bad
but the glitter's too much for their mind
so they leave him to sleep where no angel would keep
anyone for there's not one to find.

He could write every word of the songs we have heard
and he's led every daughter astray
to be part of his past and a love that won't last
into light of another new day.

Now he looks for the cause of the reason he was
Though he's died, he's still misunderstood,
but the dream's been too dead for too long in his head
and his heart's turned to stone as it should.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet


Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2014

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Lost in Paris

my soul undresses
in view of the blue world
this virgin sky
our eternal sea
and the forest to inspire
oh my sad desert
i've lost my way


Copyright © Milan Georges Burovac | Year Posted 2015

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Secret Love of Marie Antoinette

    SECRET LOVE OF MARIE ANTOINETTE
The raving of last night is everywhere,
she hopes in candle-light; she sets her hair,
while Paris lulls to sleep, the storm goes on
more promises to keep, before the dawn.

More lightning gloats her room, she shakes her head,
and thunderous, the gloom would raise the dead;
in shadows from the sound, where devils wait,
she feels them all around, but it is late;

and so she puts aside her greatest fear,
the feeling someone's died, and very near.
he sees her in the glow and flashing light,
from where she does not know. He waits tonight,

behind her closing door, he's never seen,
he waits to love her with his guillotine
so beautiful in dreams he's always known
her look not what it seems, but his alone.

He's put her in his head, his mortal sin,
her love is just as dead as he has been
all of his life and time, eternally,
and love can't be a crime, if meant to be.
© ron wilson aka ron arbuthnot
aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet


Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2015

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Perfect Painting

It does not exist
The Louvre lusts for such a work of art
Napoleon and Louis both depressed
The perfect painting does not hang
There may have been an artist one day
Capable of such a feat
I tell you now, this was not to be
Nothing perfect in those decrepit paintings of history
The perfect painting will come to pass
When the stars of fate align
You shall fall with in my sights
As I turn my charm into woven gold
I will have you in my arms so close
I shall create a palette of rainbows
As I paint my love for you
Then my lass you shall see
The perfect painting 
A mirror of beauty bestowed 
Hung on the halls where angels sing
Divine is the statuesque
The perfect painting
Of you


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Parisienne Walk

 MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE Parisienne Walk
One spring and sunny day I set my sight
behind my darkened lenses, feigning night,
so I might stroll in my own way
and see what's life in light of day,
my thread put to my back, I travelled light;

when Paris comes to all its greenery,
there's not a sight that means so much to me
as flowers holding to the hair
of Mademoiselles out ev'rywhere,
and laughing children, that's how life should be.

The beat of Paris leads a steady pace
and if you stop, you're holding up the race
there's not enough time in a day
to walk all of Champs Elysees
and so you miss the smile of ev'ry face.

But there are places few would care to go
with streets so narrow, darkness is the glow,
where yesterday's not in the past,
but here and now, and here to last,
with cobble stones laid many years ago;

a world of silence, far from natures care,
a place of echoes, snapping here to there;
the signs of life flow past your feet
and to the Seine, just down the street,
but leaves its scent, it's with you ev'rywhere.

This is a time, more than a place to be,
the soul of Paris few can ever see,
the very secrets of her heart,
where light of Paris had its start,
and left here for the very likes of me.

You hear her whisper in the mid of day,
or you might hear a concertina play,
but all that's Paris surely lies
right here for you before your eyes,
and it's the dream Parisians want to stay.
© Ron Arbuthnot


Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2015

Details | Paris Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Paris Blues Singer

     PARIS BLUES SINGER
Her voice is dreams, out through the fog and mist,
behind a concertina's mournful sound,
through halos made of light streetlamps have kissed
as Paris goes to sleep with dreams it's found.

She sounds as if her song will make her die,
there in the cabaret before she's done,
while patrons stare at her, and have to cry,
forgetting this, their night for having fun.

A man, in a pissoirre, out on the street,
has heard the song so many times before,
but still she makes him moan, and wet his feet,
that's why he must return, to hear some more.

There's lovers near the Seine, who've lived the songs,
and cannot ever shake them from their minds;
they keep each word of them where it belongs
hid deeply in a heart nobody finds.

A taxi driver, waiting for a fare,
finds little hope, but listens to each word,
he knows his life's not going anywhere,
just like the saddest song we've ever heard.
© Ron Arbuthnot


Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2015