Best Parisians Poems
The spiral staircase made her high heels sing, the metal tips on her heels dinged on the metal steps.
The sound reminded John of bullets ricocheting on a tin roof he had heard two weeks before.
She reached the stage and joined the other dancers and then one of the girls sang Brahms lullaby.
John was enjoying a day’s leave at the hotel, last week it was full of German soldiers, Paris was now liberated and the look of joy on the Parisians was evident on their faces.
Tomorrow his regiment was being deployed, to where he did not know, it was just after midnight when they got back to their camp; a couple of miles from the hotel.
At the briefing the next morning the orders were given to assist US forces at a town called St Louise, It was 04.00 as they drove up a steep hill and from here the city churches pierced the mist.
They arrived at the town and he could hear sporadic bursts of machine gun fire, an American captain signalled Johns regiment to keep their heads down.
He soon found out why as the whistling of artillery shells hit their target at the far edge of town.
Silence now, and then they began a sweep and search operation going from house to house.
Then he heard music, cautiously he entered and at the far end was a young girl of about ten
John approached her and she smiled, he picked her up and she was still clutching the music box.
He went outside and in case of snipers he closed it and now smiling crossed the square.
There was a field ambulance by the fountain and John handed her over to the medics there.
He started back to join his patrol and then the girl opened the music box which started playing, yes of course he had heard it before, the unmistakable sound of Brahms lullaby.
Written on Wednesday 6th June 2018
For one nine and sixteen poetry contest sponsored by Viv Wigley
We all need sun, O white pulp
Pineapple and soft light, mango
Me first, then the policeman, then Solène,
We need a long Brazilian nap,
in Bahia or on the fine sand of Copacabana.
The tanned skins are full of secrets,
Vitamins, pulp and sunsets
The tanned skins know our defects,
The erotic dreams, you liked so much,
I pray my Sweet that the time amazes you,
We all need sun, O white pulp
Pineapple and soft light, mango
Lyonnais as Parisians with glasses, need it
Acidulous slowness and charming apricots,
Come on, friend, let’s go to Brazil.
On a tous besoin de soleil, O blanche pulpe
D’ananas et de lumière douce, de mangue
Moi le premier et le gendarme, puis Solène,
On a besoin d’une longue sieste brésilienne,
à Bahia ou sur le sable fin de Copacabana.
Les peaux tannées sont remplies de secrets,
De vitamines, de pulpe et de couchers de soleil
Les peaux tannées connaissent nos défauts,
Les songes érotiques , vous ont tant plu,
Je prie ma Douce que le temps vous étonne,
On a tous besoin de soleil, O blanche pulpe
D’ananas et de lumière douce, de mangue
Les lyonnais comme les parisiennes à lunettes,
De lenteurs acidulées et de charmants abricots,
Viens l’amie, embarquons pour le Brésil.
Oh how very earnestly pleasing
I do so find
The wide, sun splashed avenues
Of grand residential Worthing;
Where the old poets
Announce each and every corner;
So neatly squared and turned
By thoroughly conceived Victorian
Order.
Quiet sonnets reside here
Seeking haven from weary
travels,
Sustained by appetizing foreign
aromas,
Loitering amidst the long drawing
shadows;
Clinging to the flinted garden walls,
Dallying with the scented Jasmine
From where hidden finches call.
Finding yourself gently led down
And into narrow, high walled
streets;
That delightfully converge upon
Bustling open spaces
Where the multi-nations meet;
And greet with quarrelsome gulls,
Strutting and yarking,
Barking like little dogs
Around our feet.
Here we can absently sit,
And make like carefree Parisians
Separated by an English sea,
Whilst contentedly sipping scalding
coffees
Of exciting continental styles;
And forgetting our mundane
troubles...
Smile and laugh, for perhaps,
Just the shortest of whiles.
Cappuccino café
Leila Alaoui
Why does one have to die?
So that we can see the bold and noble heart
That used to beat with passion, why?
Her smile now, heaven sent from the sky
Her beauty would have fooled most men
For it was not her, but through her lense
She observed the burdened and tormented souls
Shining light on their toils, her only goal
Why do they seek Parisians martyrs?
Killing for the sake of hate seems all that matters
Can you slaughter such a beautiful vision?
Or will she hide inside a cameras transmission?
Leila left parts of her all over this earth
Each Photograph of our souls she took
She buried herself in the smiles of hands she shook
Eyes dancing, we saw her photos of beauty… worth
She met her fate at Africa’s door
Coffee and baguette her last meal that sad day
Evil men laughed at the blood they did spray
Her camera fell then to the ground
Her memory shall brighten all of your tomorrows
With her photos and kiss,
We stand silent in sorrow
One day, the camera, another shall borrow
MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE 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
BACKSTREETS OF PARIS - MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE
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 wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
A stilled summer sky saturated and scattered with god song
watches a way fared soldier - whispers to a wary widow.
Creamy clouds canopy the concord of a moment. Minutes become
mercurial - they manifest and meander as the seconds slip by.
Sailboats slice through streams of idle indigo.
A ripple somersaults and softly settles into serenity.
Cooing couples cuddle near clusters of cockscomb.
A lass lightheartedly leaps. A comely colleen crochets -
moment by moment - darning daydreams into days.
Parisians promenade past a proficient painter’s palette.
Social classes collide amidst color and contour and calm.
A smorgasbord of strangers isled and idyllic - spruce a
stippled sanctioned salver, as sanguine seconds smoothly
sweep past the subtle, symphonic swells of the Seine.
Sunday
fun day
elders
brothers
from church
they search
warm place
wide space
for folks
need jokes
chill out
burnt-out
tired knees
'neath trees
19 April 2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
2nd place
Notes: A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte (French: Un dimanche après-midi à l'Île de la Grande Jatte) was painted from 1884 to 1886 and is Georges Seurat's most famous work. A leading example of pointillist technique, executed on a large canvas, it is a founding work of the neo-impressionist movement. Seurat's composition includes a number of Parisians at a park on the banks of the River Seine. It is in the collection of the Art Institute of Chicago.(Credits: Wikimedia and Wikipedia).
Oh Paris,
Your tragedy interrupted my heart's song
And now
Not a single word of joy can pronounce
For
Hundreds are your innocent victims that fell
Thus
Time must it take off, your attackers to denounce!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
14 November 2015
PARIS —A series of attacks targeting young concert-goers, soccer fans and Parisians enjoying a Friday night out at popular nightspots killed at least 150 and injured more than two hundred people in the deadliest violence to strike France since World War II. President Francois Hollande condemned it as terrorism and pledged that France would stand firm against its foes.
Marianne (Bearer of Tricolour)
Marianne, the Goddess of Liberty and bearer of Tricolour,
Triumphant French Republic revolutionary figure,
Evokes solidarity with breasts exposed and barefooted,
Wearing a Phrygian cap and armed with a bayoneted musket.
Personifier of liberty and reason for the French citizen,
Symbolizing wife, mother, and emancipated feminist.
From atop dead Parisians, she leads victory’s charge;
« En avant les citoyens, la guerre n'est pas finie:
Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité; la démocratie prévaudra! »
(“Onward citizens, the war is not over:
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity; democracy will prevail!”)
“Sing! Let ‘La Marseillaise’ reverberate throughout France!”
Le 14 juillet, la Fête Nationale (Bastille Day, the 14th of July);
« Vive la France libre! » (“Long live free France!”)
***
A Paris night,
There is nothing more
beautiful.
Late night walking
through small streets.
The metro, underground
is dark and mysteriously lovely.
Up into the nightlife
emerges spirit from
all.
Twinkling in spots all
around, the music
of the Parisians
sounds.
Like happiness wrapped
in a starry bow
but with wide awake yet
sleepy eyes.
It watches us slowly
wind down
into a café espresso and a
“Bonne matin, madamoiselle."
Parisians were enjoy a lovely evening
and their Joie De Vivre was radiating
form every eye in the Music Hall and cafes;
The Eiffel Tower and
Parisians were enjoy a lovely evening
and their Joie De Vivre was radiating
form every eye in the Music Hall and cafes;
The Eiffel Tower and
Olivia spent four hours a day ignoring her huff,
she stitched her dress by hand since there was no sewing machine;
why did she choose a green color to honor a monarchic regime,
or was it undying hope to sustain her lonely life?
Her sweetheart had gone to invade Russia expecting delusion;
was Napoleon Bonaparte to blame for her sorrow and trepidation?
Would Philippe return to France and marry her in Notre Dame's Cathedral at daybreak?
Would she wear her laced green dress even though he would die in a violent snowdrift?
Olivia stitched and stared at The Arch of Triumph from her wide window,
dreaming of seeing her sweetheart walk beneath it with that soldier's pride,
making all Parisians hail him as their hero as every cathedral's bell would chime...
she would be the happiest belle wearing that green dress in the crowds below.
Only one hundred thousands soldiers returned to France, many died on Russian soil:
tattered, deluded and defeated, they crossed the Seine River without a chant...
Napoleon's imperial plan had failed: heart-wrenching was the death toll;
Olivia's face was drenched in desperate tears...imagine her discontent!
and so it begins
can we ever feel pain over pain? a lust for the grave? we shall see
it has become an obsession of late that the suffering of angels that cannot
escape
the tourture of mortals and slayers of debt
come as visions throughout the day to disrupt the dimensions of time and space
to dismember the ocntents of the human race
dream my child as best you well as when you wake in the depths of hell
parisians weep in the winters musk as vampires dawn as it reaches dusk
a fear and hatred storms the skies clouds disintergrate with a betryalls lies
the lust for more the need for power grows and grows with every hour
a broken smile with hate inside at lust for blood from a virgin bride
sweet red nectar from broken flesh drained and acepted to repay a debt
a debt of destruction from a siars fangs i yern for a stake from a humans hands
two hundred years i wish no more just my final ashes on the floor
we are what we are souls lost of found, but we all end up beneath the ground
am i the monster you wished youve been despatched by sunlight with a slient
scream