Long Paris Poems
Long Paris Poems. Below are the most popular long Paris by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Paris poems by poem length and keyword.
It's Friday, yay! The final weekday of my academic immurement.
On Friday nights we go out - we’re up late - so late that it’s early,
but it’s ok, we’re young and dumb.
But if you think you’ll find me sleeping in on a Saturday morning - you’d be wrong.
On the weekends, the richest part of Paris mornings involve neighborhood street-life - which are invitations to sensory abundance - and it all happens before lunchtime.
The sensorial joys of the “sun-south” flower market stalls, overflowing with fresh lavender, peonies and powdery-sweet Violet blooms - tulips from Holland and roses from Kenya - that cool the air with fresh fragrances compete and mingle with savory baking aromas from local boulangeries (bakeries).
The dueling scents define mornings in the Marais (ivy-clad streets) or along the Seine.
Hit the snooze button and you can miss it (and trust me, napping later can be fun).
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Songs for this:
Young And Dumb by The Bird and the Bee
under the milky way by the church
They looted, they pillaged, plundered and raped,
Till you stood in the cold all alone,
In your beautiful city with love as a theme,
They took whatever you owned,
Your paintings of passion just walked out the door,
Museums of art were stripped nude,
All around your magic was torn from your heart,
Your free loving peace was removed,
But you stood your ground unflinched, unafraid,
You stared down the hate and the rage,
You proudly stood still overlooking them all,
Whilst all that you loved was erased,
And beat them away till they cowardly fled,
They fled from your beautiful might,
They left you alone to rebuild the love,
You’re the Tower in the City of Lights.
Doesn’t it seem preposterous, absurd and certainly a little odd
how we spend so much time arguing about religion…and fighting over our Gods?
Whether worshiped in a mosque, a pagoda, a church or a synagogue
New York City, rural Oklahoma, Beirut, Paris or Prague.
Whatever we choose to call him…or her…God’s history is long…
as is the fact so many are convinced their God is the right God
and all the other Gods are wrong.
Proof of a God or spiritual entity is all around us…spread out across the Earth.
the flowers, the trees, the lakes the mountains…the miracle of childbirth.
The birds that fly, the winds that blow…the changing ocean tides.
wherever there is beauty and innocence…that’s where God resides.
If those who believe in God…believe their God is benevolent…
a God who preaches love and justice and mercy…
then why is there a problem…why all the controversy?
If we all strive to be more like the God we worship…
If we believe from this God kindness, acceptance and generosity sprout…
Where is all this hatred coming from…and what in God’s name are we fighting about?
And if you believe your love, your kindness and acceptance comes from a God
or is more spiritual and comes from somewhere deep within
it should not matter a person’s gender, who they love, or the color of their skin.
It’s interesting… if we all strive to be kind, loving, accepting and generous
in the world we’re trying to create…
there would be no room inside our hearts for prejudice and hate.
If hate is part of you…or your religion…
then look at the people in life you’ve disparaged, abused and offended…
look deep into your heart and ask yourself?
Is this what your God intended?
lookbacks
It’s the time of year to look back - so let’s look back at 2025.
I made some mistakes this year
Like wearing a pristine white dress on the dirty, crowded, metro
and another time, I tried glittery four-inch heels on Paris’ cobble-stone streets. That last was a tragic idea - think romanticized cigarettes.
There were sad things
A champagne flute full of Dom Pérignon Rosé, deserted on a studying student’s desk (it was test week) and I had to say goodbye to my favorite, threadbare, Miraculous-Ladybug pajamas.
There were beautiful things too..
I saw a light, late-night snow, in early November Paris,
several Louis XV gilt-crystal chandeliers dangling, like angels, in a ladies' restroom, and thousands of white Christmas fairy-lights, strung across the top floors of a fog-covered construction site - giving it the look of heaven.
And little miracles
Like Michelin-star meals served on a paper plates and Yves Delorme lace table-cloths draped over plastic folding tables.
Those last two were here - at 6th street - this very weekend.
My Grandmère and the archdiocese of Paris, have little holiday lunches for orphan groups every weekend in December. The group I saw were 70 little-ones from Sudan and Gaza. I doubt that I ever saw so much cuteness in one place - so I mingled.
I sat at one table where a five-year-old was gawking at the lavishly decorated ballroom.
“Who do you think lives here?” I asked her, before joining in and pretending to gawk-around.
A nun, chaperoning the table, translated my question to Arabic.
“Hanan,” the girl replied excitedly, before lapsing into wide-eyed silence.
I looked to the nun who explained that Hanan, in many Arabic fables, was ‘the Sultan’s Daughter.’
I couldn’t stay long, and as I left I looked back at the happy little faces.
“I want one”, I said, half to myself.
An elder-nun, who I suppose was guarding the exit, said, somewhat indignantly, “We don’t sell them” - as if I’d been serious.
(I’m not in a position to own a cat).
“I don’t want to buy one - that would be morally bankrupt,” I answered with equal indignance.
“I want to steal one,” I added, before leaving her there with her sour face.
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A Playlist for this:
daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_25.mp3
There will be times
A brilliant sunset
when I will
A microphone
see something,
The scent of lilacs
smell something,
A roaring fireplace
hear something,
A starry sky
taste something,
A full moon
touch something...
A big snowstorm
reminders of you...
A walk at the seashore
a memory
Americana music
of something
Boho
we talked about,
Bm chords
a memory
Acoustic guitar and female voice
of something
Nashville
we did,
Jeans and boots
a memory
Red pants, red lights, red coats
of something
A certain day in April
we dreamed about,
The Neighborly
of something
Sarah and Sara
we shared,
Brooke and John
of something
Anne and Gilbert
we read,
Thomas and Elsa
of something
Coffee
pretty,
Cheese
something
Combos
special,
Robert Frost
something
Klimt and Rodin
funny,
Knitting needles
something
Clothes stores
solely Bluebird and Troubadour
Craft markets
And if I add up all of the
Wind chimes
somethings
Lancaster
I will realize that their sum thing equals
Shoofly pie
everything
Bridges
And when I dream about you
Bluebirds
I won't rush to the kiss
Airplane rides
because some dreams
Paris, France
are just too perfect to rush
Lake Annecy
And as I walk the road of my life
Reading books
I will walk towards the hope of
Doing Crosswords
someday,
Wordle and Connections
the day when I can finally,
Sundays, Wednesdays, Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas
once and for all time,
Bookmarks
come home to you
I‘m a pigeon
Free in flight
Circling blue skies up above
Somewhere in the world
Makes no difference to me
Taking no particular pride
Whether I hover over Paris
Rainforest of Brazil
Sunset at the Eiffel Tower
Las Vegas or Bombay
I find beauty everywhere I go
Not particularly vain or ambitious
I love my freedom
I can’t be bought
The open skies are
Where I roam
Be they over works of art
Or mundane monstrosities
I hardly notice manmade wonders
I’m happiest when
On a sunny day
I land on a picnic table
Near some busy chipwagon
AP: 2nd place 2022
Submitted on April 14, 2020 for contest STRAND NO.730 sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 2ND
Today, an uneasy quietness settles awkwardly upon the world,
a restless aggravation tosses inward feelings on a raging sea.
In hidden acts of inner desperation voices sing and cling tightly
to unsettling silence as minds and bodies ache
with frustration and pangs of restraint at forcing life to go on.
The secret fear shared by all remains self contained as aftermath.
Yesterday, when all the world was happily busy
moving and living at a restless pace
Paris paused within the silence of our selfish dreams
holding vision of children’s minds and vague memories
of endless happy days and peace, no longer meant to be.
There beyond the shadows grow promises made and unkept.
What seem hopeless dreams drift on in dimming midnight rays,
lingering in search of futures of peace once burning bright
now only small embers on the fire.
Tonight, while the world soundly sleeps drowning in its solitude
time will pass unnoticed in tears, fear and sorrow.
Shadows of a singular light capture the imagery of life,
its game playing in the interludes of lie and truth,
between the darkness and the light
Can anything be surely known?
Tomorrow, perhaps this foolish endeavor of jihad will disappear
as life continues on its race, searching better ways to peace,
in forgotten promises once made and never kept
fulfill your children’s dreams,
have faith for tomorrow and today.
Je déteste les attaques ISIS vendredi,
Ils etaient ignoble, dégoûtant et le mal,
Au nom de Dieu pour la religion,
Avec les mentalities és dans l'oubli
nous devons justifier structures démocratiques,
En défense, en tuant tous les terroristes
Et la question de l'acceptation de Dieu,
Avec les valeurs humanistes personnes.
Il ya de tout dans la liberté,
De pensée, de parole et d'expression,
Et si vous ne pouvez pas accepter cela
Vous devez apprendre la leçon.
English translation:
I hate the ISIS Paris attacks on Friday
They were vile, disgusting and evil,
In the name of god for religion
With mindsets in oblivion
We must justify democratic structures
In defence, by killing all terrorists,
And question the acceptance of god,
With humanistic people values.
There is everything in freedom
Of thought, word and expression,
And if you can't accept that,
You need to learn the lesson.
About the ISIS attacks in Paris on Friday 13th November 2015
When I was a girl we lived near railroad tracks,
at night I loved the sound of the train whistle blowing;
it was such a haunting, lonely sound,
and I wondered where it was going.
Oh. how I longed to hop on that train and go places.,
I would sit by the window and imagine I was on the train;
the huge diesel locomotive pulling us,
I would have dreams of Paris.
It was whimsical and fanciful there with the Eiffel Tower,
and Notre Dame and the Louvre, then a quick stop in Vienna;
home of Mozart and Beethoven, and many others,
all these places I visited on a whistling train.
And then, we would sway along to Rome with a clung,
I wanted to say hello to the Pope- we went to England;
and I introduced myself to the Queen,
soon, we would be chatting over tea.
In my reverie I was not alone, never ever alone,
for I had brought along my sweet little Odele;
she was a kitten tucked in my pocket,
now, off we go on my train . . .
to some dreamy places . . . .
_________________________________
October 28, 2019 (Re-write from 2015)
Poetry/Narrative/Dreamy Places
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1191-939-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to FTI Blog Series 11 - places
Brian Strand
Podium Place 1
My deep roots,
Oh, so precious my blood and roots,
yesterdays shadows creep and cling;
odd, I have the same attributes . . .
The past lays icy hands to bring,
me my foundation;
and my formation,
and from the long past and the dust of time;
I have been told sweet stories sublime.
Father's ancestors came from France,
with dreams of life- in a green land;
they came by boat to take a chance.
Grandpa worked hard as a farmhand,
and his father, too;
under a sky of blue . . .
One day to Paris, France I will journey,
to find some names on tombs ferny.
Grandma was Ojibwe, First Nation,
these are people of many tales;
and I hear the drum vibrations,
since a child told things and details,
I embrace the call;
I want it all-
all the teachings, the history;
the tapestry and beautiful mystery.
To my family thanks for all your truths,
and mom for guiding me on this path;
and for all those twisted routes,
since a child I followed the Indian flutes.
speaking to my heart;
of tales that will not depart-
I say thank you to my family for this all;
and for my deep roots.
__________________________
May 17, 2017(Edit Dec 9, 2019)
Poetry/Bio/Family Roots
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1206-440-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonyn.
Submitted to FTI Special Family
Brian Strand
Podium Place 1