Long Parisians Poems
Long Parisians Poems. Below are the most popular long Parisians by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Parisians poems by poem length and keyword.
Parisians were enjoying a lovely evening
and their Joie De Vivre was radiating;
every joyful eye in the Concert Hall, in restaurants, in cafés,
in the Stadium and busy streets captivated stunning images!
A revengeful voice rose from within the young, swaying crowd;
bullets flew to kill them randomly while outside all windows
rattled and glass shattered like crystals! Shot people dropped to the sidewalks:
terror had began! Everywhere one turned there was carnage
by the savages: some fled to safety as gunshots continued!
Chaos spread quickly than fire! Paris the city of " Liberte' " was under siege!
Express your sympathy for the French People who have experienced Hell,
bring your flag and flowers and light a candle where they were shot and fell;
Paris mourns: the Eiffel Tower is darker than the streets that lack their harmony!
Paris is that iconic symbol of Liberty which her brave sons fought for so gallantly!
My poem is dedicated to Paris:
the City Of Lights and Liberte'.
Written on 10/20/2015
past knoxville and idaho city there are a pair of adorable nitwits.
townspeople refer to them as kooky oddballs, a couple of twits.
their name is easy to learn. she is backward ditz; he is fritz.
brown eyes are lop-sided, their glances can be the pits.
watch out! cautions their neighbor, they will bore you to bits.
they showed up one day unexpectedly during a neighboring blitz.
I heard they were parisians, but another told me they are brits.
fritz can do a weird almost-hand-stand, and ditz does the splits.
twits do not put on airs; neither abides by the ritz or any glitz.
they eat bland foods like porridge, oatmeal, and plain grits.
calico cats come to them all the time, presenting them with kits.
their fighting is so common, their eyes are swollen to slits.
fritz likes to knit, so their house is full of junk that he knits.
afghans, scarves, hats, potholders, and unusable oven mitts.
ditz does not wash her hair, so it is full of lice, bugs and nits.
also have zits, and they have performed some really weird skits.
I was talked into going to France by a persuasive friend.
Was not into it until I arrived. It was a magical place.
The Louvre is unbelievably chic and classy.
I truly enjoyed the musee d’orsay
The arc de triomphe is something you do not want to miss.
Luckily you see the Eiffel tower no matter where you are in Paris.
I ended up staying longer than my friend, smelling French roses.
Drinking their wine, trying to learn their language.
Next year I plan to return and stay much longer.
I have put a collage together, representing the highlights.
Made into a bit of a window, it sits above my breakfast table.
Coaxing me back into the world of the Parisians.
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!
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.
The journalists are doing badly,
The journalists are doing well,
The world is going badly,
Our heads are sponges
That they press without remorse,
The children are doing badly,
People are cynical,
People are doing badly,
What will the future be?
The cops are doing badly,
The bakers are bad,
Julie Gayet is doing badly,
My blood sugar is rising,
It’s raining in Paris,
As every day,
The Parisians are doing badly,
The journalists are doing badly,
The journalists are doing well,
The Bretons are doing badly,
The dead are so bad,
Le Goff is going badly
The nights are too long,
who to trust?
Coco Gauff is doing badly,
The poets are doing badly
The French are doing so badly,
As much as the Chileans,
The world is going badly,
The cinema is going badly,
The young people are doing badly,
Only my books reassure me,
I look at them with love,
They are my real friends.
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!”)
***
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
Parisians looked upon it with sadness and awe.
There was plenty of disbelief with what they saw.
Notre Dame de Paris in the heart of the city
was going up in flames! What a pity!
The great church was filled with priceless artifacts galore.
Many of them were destroyed, and will be nevermore.
This eight-century-old edifice played a major role in history.
Coronations and royal weddings held there were many.
With much grief are the hearts of French citizens filled.
However, they say they will get together and rebuild.
From the spot where ashes and charred rubble lies,
a new Notre Dame cathedral shall soon rise.
From various news sources
I wonder if the homes in Venice
Have Venetian blinds;
Or if their window panes are topped
With shades of different kinds?
Are English muffins eaten
By the British with their tea?
Would Parisians recognize French toast?
I doubt they’d answer “Oui!”
If, in Amsterdam, I told you
That our meal would be Dutch treat,
Would a local understand we’d split
The cost of what we’d eat?
I’d be curious, in Leningrad,
If folks would start to sweat,
If I pulled a gun, suggesting
That we play Russian roulette?
In Istanbul, perhaps they’d think
That I was rather daffy
If I visited each candy shop
In search of Turkish taffy.
To Americans, such adjectives
Are charming and unique,
But I wonder if, to foreigners,
They might seem tongue-in-cheek.