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Best Paris Poems

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Death In A Paris Pissoire by Bdosa, Vee
Monsieur L'Vampyre and the Black Lady of Paris by Bdosa, Vee
Paris, Syria, the World at Large -- Said the people punished by war by Zaladin, A.
SAID the people of Paris by Zaladin, A.
Place in Paris by Horn, James
In the Wake of Paris by Ward, Julia
Paris by night by hansen, jan oskar
Together We Stand: Pray For Paris by Marbury, Cheyenne
Black Friday in Paris by Hy, Rahy

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The Best Paris Poems

Details | Paris 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

More great poems below...

Details | Paris 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

Details | Paris Poem | |


 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.


Details | Paris 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

Details | Paris 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

Details | Paris 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

Details | Paris 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

Details | Paris 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

Details | Paris Poem | |

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

Details | Paris 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

Details | Paris Poem | |


Although I seem distracted, my concentration is keen.
I'm telling you I have it LICKED on this SUBJECT. I 

BUT LATELY I'VE BEEN thinking OF a trip... to 
IS KEY! And PARIS is so distracting, with its SACK OF 

IN my own unique creation. THEREFORE I will not engage in such


Details | Paris Poem | |

The Death Of Marie Antoinette

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

Details | Paris Poem | |

Spring Waltz

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

Copyright © arthur vaso

Details | Paris 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

Details | Paris 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

Details | Paris Poem | |

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

Details | Paris 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

Details | Paris Poem | |

VIVE LA FRANCE - visual 4

Vive La France - visual #4

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


For Andrea Dietrich – An American Beauty Poetry contest

Copyright © John lawless

Details | Paris Poem | |

Why Can't I Be Young, Rich and Thin

That answer to that is painfully simple: I’m a disabled, thirty-something individual with compromised mobility…and I’m a lazy S.O.B...

But, oh, how I fantasize! And loath am I to torture myself by looking at all the exquisite, fabulous fashion creations by Versace, Comme Des Garcons, Missoni and Vivienne Westwood; elegant creations I will never be able to wear, let alone afford. Though I enjoy being a man and would have it no other way, I envy women and sometimes wish I was one, just so I could wear a Versace gown, even if it were just to take out the trash.

I worship fashion and models; they are my demigods. They embody all that is outwardly beautiful. I don’t mind the shallowness of it. I wish I was Coco Rocha, Naomi Campbell, Janice Dickinson, Linda Evangelista, Tyra Banks, Milla Jovovich, all rolled into one. I wish I could strut and stomp the catwalk; to pound the runway in some outrageous creation by Rei Kawakubo. To jet-set to Paris, Milan, Tokyo, London…! I would die and go to fashion heaven, and see Gianni, and I would be his Muse. Poor, Gianni; why did that bastard kill you? Genius was lost that day and fashion has since suffered in your absence.

I wish I was as skillful with sewing as I am with words; since I’ll never be a model, I’d at least like to design clothes that would echo my influences. A mesh of the sex of Versace, the elegance of Missoni, the insane artistic destruction and anti-fashion of Comme des Garcons and the hipness of Vivienne Westwood; yes, that would be my style, as my poetry echoes Poe, Shelley, Keats and Dickinson. 

But, alas and alas again! For these are all but mere dreams and fantasies that shall never be fulfilled! But a gay boy can dream, can’t he?

Copyright © Just That Archaic Poet

Details | Paris Poem | |

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

Details | Paris Poem | |

paris by night

this morning is falling burning into a sunset an autumn decision you and I will never forget joy by day paris by night i'm there love by the hour Paris is ours evening breeds new life a moment of twilight a horizon of heavenly means I love you like life loves itself joy by day paris by night yes dear i'm there love me by the hour and paris is ours i'm down too often like a child awaiting his scars to soften hopelessly a pedestrian walking a way from traffic it could happen, indefinitely i'll take paris by day and love by night i was there long enough to love you by day and surrender by nightfall "there is joy by day if you can take paris by nightfall"

Copyright © Jerry Golden

Details | Paris Poem | |

Short Poem

I'm trying to make this poem so short
I want to try a new thing of the sort
I don't know if you guys will like it or not
That's up to you, but for now here's a dot!

Copyright © Mohamed Adel

Details | Paris Poem | |


Your lady of the night, if you'd so choose,
counts on the dark within her Left Bank mews
to hide her as she watches from the dark;
she picks the flesh where she will leave her mark
then sinks her teeth to blood her soul can use.

She wonders if forever's ever done
and how it feels to walk out in the sun,
though all her memories have died away,
she still recalls one boy she'd have today
except he'd taken her in just his fun.

With all her heart, she loved, and loved him well
more than mere letters of it ever tell
but she has burned each one she ever penned
and cast the ashes to the midnight wind;
before she layed his body straight to hell.

And for her deed--the cutting of her knife
and drinking of his blood to end his strife,
her fate came to be one of the undead
the hated ones whom all of man should dread
and with such beauty, but no claim to life.

The feature of his face she soon forgot
but not the plight of love, the arrow shot
straight to the heart and still she knows its pain
and longs to touch his mouth one time again;
she lives and breathes to die--but dies she not!

Now you could have her love, if you should please
and for it she has brought kings to their knees!
But if it's more than love she wants this night
you'd best pass down the Seine onto the Right;
and not down on the Left where no one sees.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa

Details | Paris Poem | |

C'est la vie

Left Monterey on Saturday.
Arrived in Paris early Sunday.
Driven to the Somme Cemetery Monday.
Job-interviewed and lunched on Tuesday.
Flew back home via L.A. Wednesday.
Recovered on Thursday.
Back to work on Friday.
Disappointed on Saturday.
Didn't get the job, but spent three nights in Paris at government expense.
C'est la vie.

Copyright © Mark J. Halliday

Details | Paris Poem | |

Paris forever

choose this sun
you will have the body
I will be your skin

your city elsewhere
Paris I tell to him

here with me
Paris forever

us - bread and wine
us - street and air

Paris our love

Copyright © Milan Georges Burovac