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Letters from Paris by vaso, arthur
aging prostitute on a golden chair, paris by Buck, Stuart
Paris forever by Burovac, Milan Georges
A lie in Paris by Burovac, Milan Georges
paris dreams by junor, mark
Green, in Paris by Ward, Julia
Lost in Paris by Burovac, Milan Georges
the madhouses of paris by amitin, michael
Paris by Learjet by Schumacker, Earl
Catacombs of Paris by Bdosa, Vee

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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

More great poems below...


Details | Paris Poem | |

Old Woman With A Faded Pink Shawl

There is no moon tonight. Wine fills me with melancholy. Movement of boats on the Seine sooth me like choral music. Illuminated torches excite nostalgia. The sound of an Aurignacian flute can be heard down the boulevard, or maybe only the glint of a memory. Worn feet ache. Tired lines tell the story of a life of curiosity in a weary smile. An old woman knits. She wears a faded pink shawl to cover her years. Flour from the morning’s baking lightly coats her wooden shoes.


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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 | |

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.

More great poems below...


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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 | |

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

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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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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.

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

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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

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 | |

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




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 | |

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.

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

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Paris good soul

Paris is not an abstraction
Paris is more than my tea
Paris is now one theory
where I hold back my cry
because its heaven is not me
just a self-control
good soul