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.
I am light and fluffy
spun in a mixer with a bit of vanilla
I knew I was not going to be a common omelet
I would be an omelet du fromage
something good enough for Parisians and kings
Chef added tomatoes and pepper jack cheese
I was popping and kicking with excitement now
the people served were amazed
she smells wonderful! They told the chef
The chef and I both beamed
Glad to delight.
Let me tell you of a journey- from The Parthenon to Paris
in the springtime - of which real year, no one knew
Riding on an ostrich guided by a gilded leather bridle
traveling back roads dressed in mysterious disguises
using signals only ostrich riders do.
The endurance of the ostrich was as equally surprising as
the smoothness of its gallop on the road.
It needed very little in the way of daily edibles
while the softness of its feathers made a very comfy saddle.
Now an ostrich made an eerie sight in swaying fields of daffodils.
Its three-pronged feet so admirable for climbing alpine hills.
It handled every mountain as well as any Hannibal
with eyes adept to guide a sleepy rider while he slept.
The gallop into Paris was singularly memorable –
No wildly cheering crowds of proud Parisians-no-one knew-
No showers of cherry blossoms sprinkled from the Eiffel Tower
in praise or celebration of this epic ostrich rider.
What evidence is there, then? What memory endures
Perhaps a photograph or witness tells the tale
If the novelty is forgotten and the mists of time have passed
Could fields of daffodils remember or perhaps the Cherry blossoms?
The cat dreams,
To whom? To What?
Not at Mount Fuji
That he has never seen
With green eyes.
The cat dreams,
To whom? To What?
Not at the Eiffel Tower,
Too bright,
Of lacquer and paint,
The cat dreams,
To whom? To What?
Not to the Parisians,
Who believe themselves superior
To the people here.
Not at the speakerine
Blond-haired
So arrogant,
That she carries on her,
Chanel number five.
The cat dreams,
To whom? To What?
Pink-starred
From Morocco or Crete,
To the whiteness of milk,
The cat dreams,
To whom? To What?
No one knows,
except .
He’s not so crazy
That many of us.
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.
Two beauties were not quite flappers
But Parisians, so almost that open
Servicemen approached them cautiously
Pulled up two chairs, flirted a bit.
They humored them before sending them packing.
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.
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).
The men are handsome in their suits and ties
The women casually nude
picnicking in Paris in the 1860's.
This must be the new way
Parisians are cultured
Perhaps this is what we should all be doing
I stare at the freedom of the women
They are the lucky ones.
I kick off my knickers; I pull my dress over my head
Loud yelling commences
A museum guard runs up and covers me in a hazmat suit
He leads me into a room with other women who are all nude
Apparently we all saw the same canvas
What is culture
Watching “france24” one would think culture was invented in Paris.
Well, it wasn’t
The Parisians are rude and live on onion soup.
The reason Paris became famous as an art place
Were cheap rent and poor painters and writers flocked there
Well, it is not cheap anymore.
Culture is to show respect for other nations and language
Of which the French sadly lacks.
Anyone who has taken the underground in Paris in the morning
Can testify to this.
There once was a penguin, got lost in France
Had to sing for his supper or else dance --
He decided to squawk
At which Parisians gawked --
He hit a high note and down came his pants
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!”)
***
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
Nortre Dame Cathedral,
ancient and regal
devoured by smoke and flame
history lost, stones crumble
who is to blame?
water and flame fight
deep into the April night
Parisians in the streets
watch the lady's defeat
mournful songs fill the smokey air
in the morning, hearts in mourning
will the Grand Dame of Paris still be there?
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
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.