Best Antoinette Poems
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 the doylestown poet
She wore velvet and satin
Pampered as the poor rebelled
She lost her head, bleeding red
Marie Antoinette
Entry for Francine's Red Contest
April seven is joined together in two special ways
My wife and Carol Brown were each born that day
In so many ways, they remind me of each other
For each one has the heart and soul of a mother
Like a great big clown riding a little bitty bike
Antoinette and Carol are the type we naturally like
Two separate women who hold pieces of my heart
Although, each one holds a completely different part
Antoinette was able to see what no one had seen
Inside of this nightmare lived a very beautiful dream
Carol’s beautiful heart was able to help me to see
Poetry Soup was exactly the place I needed to be
Two very different women with two similar souls
Played significant roles in my reaching my goals
One helped me piece together my shattered heart
The other helped me keep it from falling back apart
I think I’m truly about as lucky as any man can be
There are so many different people care about me
Carol is just one of many I love here on the soup
I’m lucky to have landed in such a beautiful group
Carol, never doubt the truth in these words I say
This is the highest complement I could ever pay
To be written alongside a poem with my wife
Means “I Love & Respect” every drop of your life
You’re the very first to have landed in this spot
Old friend I reckon that means I love you a lot
April seventh I’ll proudly find my knee’s and pray
You’ll have a wonderfully blessed special birthday
i wanted to write Carol a Happy Birthday poem
but I wanted to give it special meaning. Anyone
who knows how much I love, admire, and adore
my wife; knows that for me to place someone in
a poem alongside her, is the highest complement
I could ever make. Carol thank you for the love,
friendship, support and prayers you have given me
over the years. I'm very honored to be your friend.
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
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
It all started with a bet
Inside a launderette
Over a cigarette
With a brunette
I hadn’t yet met
Her name was Marie-Antoinette
As she said it she did a pirouette
And wow what a silhouette
Coquette she wore an amulet
Feared nothing short of a bayonet
Forgot the laundry it was still wet
I got hungry and craved an omelet
Asked M-A to join me in my Corvette
Drove to the closest luncheonette
Ordered baguette and anisette
We talked right until the sun set
She showed me a statuette
She dreamt of a trip to Tibet
So we jumped on a jumbo jet
Me her and the rest of the jetset
Across the aisle was the oddest duet
He played the clarinet she the castanet
While Marie-Antoinette rhymed the alphabet
Dancing and waving with a serviette
Try and imagine this strange vignette
Marie-Antoinette Marie-Antoinette
Forever in her debt
Not so easy to forget
I only have one regret
I left Marie-Antoinette back in Tibet
Submitted on November 14, 2022 for contest 2022 POETRY MARATHON MILE 20 sponsored by MARK TONEY
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Originally posted on February 17, 2018
Marie Antoinette
A crowd she upset
To guillotine was led
They cut off her head
5/30/15
THE EXECUTIONER --Death Of Marie Antoinette
The raving of the night is everywhere,
you lie in candle-light; you brush your hair,
while Paris lulls to sleep, the storm goes on
more promises to keep, before the dawn.
More lightning gloats your room, you shake your head
and thunderous, the gloom would raise the dead;
in shadows from the sound, where devils wait,
you feel them all around, but it is late;
and so you put aside those things you think fear,
the feeling someone's died, and very near.
he sees you in the glow and flashing light,
from where you do not know he waits tonight,
behind the closet door, it creaks ajar,
he waits to see some more of who you are;
so beautiful in dreams, he's always known
your look is what it seems, and his alone.
He's put it in his head, his mortal sin,
your 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.
Outcast from all of life, he's died before,
and waits there on this night, to die some more,
not caring it's your fate; the guillotine;
his love will come too late, to save his queen.
You'll die tonight again, it's all been planned,
from time, you don't know when, nor understand,
he's every man you've seen, but never known,
and everything between, love and alone;
from lonliness, and hate of every man,
you've ever met too late, since love began,
from loving one who lied, and cut you deep,
not caring how you cried yourself to sleep;
the cyclone rages on, the storm is great,
your beautiful has gone to be your fate,
and you, the only queen he'll recognize,
are all his love has seen with his own eyes;
if only he would kill, and get it on,
perhaps you'd sleep until your sleep is gone,
but shadows hide your death there on the wall
until your final breath, to sleep you fall,
and that is when you feel what no-one knows,
there in your mind, but real, the wind that blows
to end the shadowed night, before you sleep,
and snuffs the candle light, you try to keep.
Your guilliotine awaits, there is no cake,
to share with anyone, your big mistake,
and so his glove is steady on the bar,
delivering his shiny blade to who you are.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE for love 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 arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Beautiful distinguished young Lady of Austria,
destined to be the Queen of France and Navarre,
fourteen years old, must follow Royal criteria,
take role of consort, to become France's shining star,
King Louis Auguste's marriage to Marie Antoinette Beautiful distinguished young Lady of Austria,
destined to be the Queen of France and Navarre,
fourteen years old, must follow Royal criteria,
take role of consort, to become France's shining star,
King Louis Auguste's marriage to Marie Antoinette
a marriage not made in heaven was apparent,
leaving her homelands she did immensely regret,
she became disobedient, extravagant,
palace of Versailles her pleasures and her curse,
French died of starvation, in extreme poverty,
their Queen lived in comfort, finery, wealthy of purse,
parties, fine clothes, committing adultery,
full of life, luckily her future couldn't be seen,
peasants of France started to revolt, heads would roll,
Marie Antoinette sure to meet madam guillotine,
peasants ate cake as she said, then they took control,
her good looks and resolute never disputed,
but this wife, mother, Queen destined to be executed.
Austrian princess taken from her home,
stripped of everything that she ever known.
Her mother arranged a political marriage,
sending her to France with a horse and carriage
Off to Versailles to meet her destiny,
To take the Dauphin's hand in matrimony.
At the age of nineteen she was crowned queen,
too young to reign, too clueless and naive.
A lonely queen by the name of Antoinette,
also referred to as Madame Deficit.
She spent money careless and haphazardly,
while the people of France were starved and hungry.
Attending masked balls, donning lavish gowns.
Flaunting her way through the Parisian crowds.
Her neck always dripped rare jewels and expensive diamonds.
Posh pastries and champagne consumed with no stipend.
The tax on grain to make bread was outlandish.
The people of France were malnourished and ravenous.
"We are dying from hunger, please help us!" they pleaded.
They felt forsaken, robbed and cheated.
"Let them eat cake!" was the queen's supposed reply.
Perched on her throne with hair ten feet high.
She paid no mind, she kept expending,
Oblivious to what was really happening.
Desperate were the French, so they started a revolution,
holding her prisoner, creating their own constitution.
She was put on trial and the jury found her guilty.
The sentence was death, the maximum penalty.
Some say she was a victim of circumstance.
A political pawn, she never stood a chance.
Her fate was met that day, with the guillotine,
becoming just another tragic figure of history.
Story books have got it wrong
Step mothers are the greatest gifts of all
Antoinette you are a blessing on my family’s life
I am so happy you are my father’s wife
Michaela is the sweetest girl, glad she’s my sis
You’re my family I truly miss
God truly blessed us when he brought you around
Hope your birthday is full of love, laughter, and songs
Because you gave me the greatest gift of all
It is because of you I have my father back
You are our cornerstone the brick that keeps us up
Thank you for all of your unconditional love
Happy birthday to my mother, friend
My angel sent from God above
May you know you are truly loved
I was lost but found when I first saw your silhouette-
A masterpiece of charcoal I shall never forget.
I was caught and unbound from the moment we met-
Now I live in your embrace, my beloved Antoinette.
I was up but down when I first saw those amber eyes-
Doe shaped yet saddened when the deep optic cries.
I was fed up but the resound of passion never lies-
Now I live in a tender world where the white dove flies.
I was a pebble in the ground when I first saw your curves-
Artwork on an easel in which my mind will preserve.
I was in trouble on the rebound feeling I'd never deserve-
Now Antoinette, for only you my heart will always reserve.
October 19, 2016
If I could write you but a single line;
A verse to end my whole writing venture;
That pleases you as much as you please me;
I would write you an entire trilogy.
There are some things in life we reserve;
Our heart; for loved ones we hold most dearly;
Our minds; for those whom we trust with our scars;
And our souls; for those with whom we are one.
To you; I give you my whole heart and mind;
For a soul like mine could never match yours.
Yours; kind, honest and truly beautiful.
Restoring faith; love; one act at a time.
Your very touch is seraphic; pure;
In times of horror you shine; a bright star.
Though you have no halo, you give me wings;
At my lowest you make me soar once more.
If I could write you but a single line;
I'd tell you I love you, forevermore.
FOR LOVE 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 the Doylestown Poet