Best Marie 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
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.
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
Louis the Fifteenth, king of France,
Adored Madame du Barry.
His royal ardor was not bound
To the person he did marry.
His paramour was hard to please.
The king brooded day and night
On what act of loving kindness
Might appease her appetite.
One day he called his jeweller,
Whose face turned pale, then green,
When told to make a necklace
The likes of which no eyes had seen.
Vanity of vanities! Let nobody forget:
All humankind proposes yields to a Higher Will.
For the king lay dead and buried
When it was time to pay the bill.
They asked:' Who has got the money?
Who is there so rich
As to settle payment
And haul us from this ditch?
Louis the Sixteenth was now king,
But not long on the throne.
To purchasing the necklace
He himself was prone.
His wife strongly objected.
She thought the whole thing crazy.'
'We need to spend on self-defence:
More vessels for the navy!'
Now Cardinal De Rohan was a worldly priest,
Not averse to 'oo la la.'
Especially not in the matter of
Jeanne de la Motte Valois.
As a young girl she was naughty,
But she confessed in style.
The priest let her off counting rosary beads
All for the sake of her sweet winning smile.
Jeanne told the cardinal
They could have a sales deal signed
As friends at court had signaled
That the queen had changed her mind.
The queen and cardinal soon met
And the queen signed with aplomb.
De Rohan was too befuddled
To sense something was wrong
The queen received the necklace
But the queen was not the queen.
Charming though the lady was,
Who knew where she had been?
The necklace was picked to pieces
And sold off part by part.
O woeful desecration
Of this glorious objet d'art?
The cardinal faced the music
A victim of delusion
'Gullable, not guilty,'
came the court's conclusion.
Madame de la Motte Valois
Had no basis for a plea
And she was branded on both arms
With the letter V.
This letter stood for 'Voleuse,'
Meaning in English 'thief.'
Somehow she got to London,
And there she came to grief.
When fleeing from her creditors,
She fell from an upper floor.
Those creditors she did escape,
But only at death's door.
During her interment
Wagging tongues spoke of her guile
But someone chirped in her defence:
'But she had such a sweet winning smile.'
Marie Antoinette
Quite the coquette.
Beautiful French queen,
She met the guillotine.
1/27/12
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
They don’t call this summer month “July” anymore.
There is a new name for it. They call it “Thermidor”.
How many changes are we going to see?
People are shouting “Death to King Louis”!
Paris inhabitants don’t show the least bit of regret.
They also want to see the killing of Marie Antoinette.
She was told the peasants did not have enough bread.
What a terrible thoughtless thing she said!
This is going to cost Marie her head.
Outraged citizens want the queen dead.
Responsibility was something she would not take
when she said to her court “Let them eat cake”
The guillotine is assembled in the public square.
To witness the event, there are people everywhere.