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Details | Paris Poem | |

Memo for Destroyer Poet A LINDA: 3 20 p m, 23rd April 2013 Paris, France

MEMO for Destroyer Poet A Linda: 3. 20 p.m., 23rd April 2013 – Paris, France
  
If you are Red   I am Brown
If you’re not 
Then as one concrete painter using phonemes 
                 to another

Now we speak in the common-denominator tongue
Of those who went across oceans
Yours you took across the Bering
From the frozen solid roof of the world
The common step-mothering-tongue
And the common heel-bone

Take this memo down I tell myself
For my long-lost sister
Now weary with chilblains
And walnut warts from the long trek

Tell her you’re sorry
You took so long
Tell her you read excerpts of her outpouring
In a lone-lost cave overgrown with moss
							lost without cause
Mixed with the growls and coughs of shaggy beasts
And the lone mountain lioness’ scowling howl at the stars
In a dry season

Tell her you’re sorry not to have returned the compliment
For this’s the Way of the Community
That each rushes to fulfill a sacrosanct duty

Tell her
I read your spiraling lyrical threnody
	of the Soul’s age-old Odyssey
 through the bony interstices of breast-beating moans
and groans 
Right there where it hurts most 
in the guts

I saw how your people lifted themselves
							on their fists
   after their arms and knuckles looked gnarled
I saw the claws of the lone eagle clutch your soul
							in one fell swoop
	down concertina centuries
And make you swallow your tongue
	wailing in cloistered valleys of lilacs and magnolias
  to the rhythm of crescendo stamping feet
  and besetting winds 
          cacophonous through wildly flapping wigwams
I felt the ancient beat of your pulse
	in the huskily refined whisper of your verse
   come seething harpies
			unleashed at my throat
I saw wild stallions
	sleek and shoddy	manes aloft 
     come steaming and fuming down mountain sides
          your fathers tamed
I saw generations of silent sturdy women
	kindle fierce fires 
  while brawny braves rode away on bare-backs
	to bring the venison back

I now hear your gentle voice
	in dulcet drops tinkle down waterfalls
		of your manifold genres

Yet I do not hear you cry
Nor do I wonder why
You are made of that stuff of breed
That can traverse ice without steed
And scale Himalayas down continents
To reach the other side of impediments

And lest I forget let me tell you this
Your lyrical voice will linger long in bliss.

    Every good wish.		

         Sincerely,
			T. Wignesan  
  







 
 

Details | Paris 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




Details | Paris Poem | |

PARIS, MON AMOUR

"when the Gods want to punish you, they answer your prayers"
                                  --line from the film "Out of Africa"

She stopped, transfixed, a breathless 
butterfly pinned to a board, and she said, 
"That is So beautiful!" Then, turning
to her husband as they stood in my kitchen 
before an aerial photograph of L'Ile de la Cite' 
shaped like a ship in the beating heart of Paris,  
(young Yuppie wife of entrepreneurial architect 
who owned half the houses on the street 
where I lived), she asked with pleading eyes, 

"Could we go someday?" Knowing the appetite 
for that which lies beyond Beyond: Paris, 
La Cite' Emeraude, or wherever is the personal
Shangri La, I wished I could have shared 
what I've known: a second floor apartment 
in an historic building in the 12th--its 
circular staircase royally carpeted in red,
enclosing a tiny lift, depositing us 
to a storied paradise, its rooms extending 

beyond glass doors of an antechamber into 
a formal salon, two stately bedrooms 
with balconies, and a "bureau," birthplace 
of poems, diaries of dreams, and in the interior 
courtyard beneath our common windows, 
open to the Paris bleu, a caged canary sang, 
lusting for open sky in mornings filled 
with the perfume of freshly baked pastries 
and baguettes from the patisserie below.  

Once, I was besotted with a man who told me
after lovemaking, "I never knew how 
much yearning you needed."  He divined this, 
and for a time he fed that soul hunger in me, so 
that it was hard when he left, and they always leave.  
Ships seeking harbor, leave in their wake
a yearning in the corners of your life, which will 
surely bring back Paris and everyone you have ever 
loved, which will somehow, somehow, against 
all odds, satiate the supplicant heart.

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

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.

Details | Paris 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

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

Details | Paris Poem | |

Beauty in Paris, France

(french)
Le Soleil se couche derriere les Eiffel
                       De la promenade J’admire
                            Une memoire pittoresque
                            
                            *
                            *
                            *
                            *
                            *
                            *
                            *
                            *
                            *
                            *

(english)
**Sun sets behind the Eiffel
              From the boardwalk I adore
                                 A picturesque memory


Haiku
Miranda Lambert 
4/8/2011

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

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

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?

Details | Paris Poem | |

All

Daniel JR search where do the wind goes 
Well you do
I want a kiss from you 
Twice softly and sweetly Mon Amour 
How will your father coquettishly do  
Came in if you have a chance, something pops up- thanks for trying
Cabs are yellow silver and blue
White Grey as your Eyes
Be good no lies
Us is Us 
Yours Heart Mine Is 
Be,
There's no fines for
AMOR
only in mailing
I am stuck on thy beauty
and classy Catherine SR nurturing 
All Lucky
All

Details | Paris Poem | |

michelle



                    Michelle ~
                        my sister we have been through life suffered loss
                 you making conscience effort to make amends for past

                         Je Taime Cheri  ~
                Michelle~                
                    my sister finding her own path without orders 
                 never have I left your side knowing in time you will see

                   
                             so proud to be called yours 
                    Michelle ~my sister
               Loving you always unconditionally 

              we all stubble and fall on this ridged road 
                      Michelle I love you 
                                    not enough told ~

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.

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"

Details | Paris Poem | |

FRENCH GIRLS

                                                    FRENCH GIRLS  


                                                  Thru the eyes of an
                                                          innocent 
                                               17 yr old American Male

 

                                                   Midwestern American
                                                        Sweet naive
                                                   Raised in sheltered armed
                                                   Where twin beds blessed marriage
                                                   Where no good girl kisses---
                                                   Unless it's dark.

                                                   Young American
                                                   Adored in sheltered arms
                                                   Adorned usually in sweat suits...
                                                   Where demurely mini skirted knees touched--
                                                         &   Pouting cold lips occasionally smiled--

                                                   Where he
                                                   Secretly dreamed
                                                        of Red Sexed lingerie....

                                                         Young American
                                                         wrote long letters Home--
                                                         Said he loved Paris
                                                                  For the Eiffel
                                                                  For the Louvre
                                                                  For the Seine
                                                                  For the wine.

                                                         But 
                                                         He never left Paris---
                                                         For the Come Hither
                                                         Black laced panties
                                                         Barely hiding
                                                         Knowing smiles
                                                         led by
                                                         Whimsical strides in
                                                         Short tight skirts.


Victoria Anderson -Throop
rev written from poem of 2012

Details | Paris Poem | |

THE 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 sleeps 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.

Details | Paris Poem | |

A Paris Love Affair - Monsieur L'Vampyre

     A Paris Love Affair - MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE 
I must confess to nights of indiscreet
but Madam, my intent was having fun,
and now your eyes tell me, as sure they meet,
what you desire is more than love has done;

does not your heart lean to a burning flame
as much as what your life's accustomed to?
For any fool to play this losing game,
they've got to need the bite as much as you;

and so you choose to look so very deep
to raise the heat in me, and make me know
that what you want's a love you will not keep
more than a night or two--and then you go.

   What is it you desire? I must submit,
   or all my life I'll be regretting it!
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet

Details | Paris Poem | |

Magnolia

You whispered good morning
Late within your voyage, where fate blinded us
Your neck is covered in crosses
Devotion to the hereafter
Where you know one day
We shall meet

Gothic black, veiled for your special day
When pleasure and pain shall join us
In a soft summer breeze
As we caress in the graveyards' playground 
Black roses blowing in the wind
Pearls from deep below, I bury with you

Mardi gras in the south of France
Behind our masks we massaged our facades
We were entwined in passions embrace
Yet we never once met
Until red lipstick ran down your face
The tears fell upon lost yearnings

Magnolia's bloomed

Details | Paris Poem | |

A Trip to Paris

A Trip to Paris

By Elton Camp

On the shuttle bus from de Gaulle airport
Is the first thing candor requires to report

Body odor was no doubt that horrible smell
In the city we could often detect urine as well

Seeing the French with their dogs was a delight
But their manure littering the sidewalks is a sight

But when nature calls for the humans it’s a mess
They clean their toilets once in a while, I guess

Another strange thing about toilets that I must say
If you want to use them, then be prepared to pay

And the car drivers are just as reckless as can be
Besides that, many obnoxious scooters you see

Scooters often go the wrong way down the street
And even on sidewalks you are likely them to meet

But the main thing that really makes me quite mad
Some don’t speak English and others only very bad



Details | Paris Poem | |

Limerick: Once Cute Pute in Gay Paris called Miel

Limerick: Once Cute Pute in Gay Paris called Miel

Once Cute Pute* in Gay Paris called Miel*
Plied her trade around a Ferris Wheel
Rode them roller coaster
Spun them on wheel later
Got lush cut on fines for police squeal!*

•	Pute: stands for “prostitute” in French
•	Miel: for “honey” in French
•	A new French Bill, dated December 7, 2011,
proposes the fining of prostitutes’ clients. French law,
by and large, tolerates the profession, even if overt 
solicitation, procuring, and prostitution of minors 
IS NOT. According to French law, sexual maturity
is recognised at 15, but for prostitutes 18 is the 
legitimate age. Prison sentences range from 2 to 7
for related offences, and fines can run up to €100,000.

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013

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!

Details | Paris 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

Details | Paris Poem | |

Paris by Day

Meandering silently on this warm sunny day
Past the artists with easels perched.
Oil paints, scenery, still life, it all,
Taking it in, on the Rive Gauche.

The brush strokes capture the beauty
While life on the left bank goes on.
I wander past, hands in pockets,
Appreciating the beauty of Paris’ sun.

The nightlife in Paris is as they say;
Burlesque, lively, bon vivant.
But, Paris by day, walk face to the sun
Shows a side more intelligent than fun.

Appreciate the art, the culture, the joie de vivre.
It is here for all, the Louvre, Notre Dame, la Tour Eiffel.
Take with you your thoughts as you wander the city.
Leave, then, with more thoughts and culture as well.


Details | Paris Poem | |

A Girl from france

THERE ONCE WAS A GIRL FROM FRANCE WHO DANCED ON STAGE WITH NO PANTS SHE SHOWED OFF HER TUSH BUT NEVER HER BUSH SHE LEFT THE CROWD IN A TRANCE