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Poems On / About PARIS  7/10/2014 10:26:18 PM
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Californian Poppy

My mother wore Woolworth's perfume
Californian Poppy sweet and heavy
Soir de Paris heady in the afternoons

Her evening spent with my baby brother
in the nursing chair
its low legs concealing the runt puppy
our fingers itched for

Ce soir mon frere ne mange pas
Born after a fall on the beach
after the Irish Ginger Women put her fist
right through our front door glass
he wasn't sure about life

Delivered into my drawer in summer
he had a winter skin For years
when the week-long vest was changed
he wore his clean one on top

When mother hauled him up
for inspection she also found
two jumpers two shirts two pairs of socks

He cried a lot more than the runtish puppy
Wouldn't eat Couldn't sleep
If chips and Heinz Baked Beans
and sweets had not existed
he'd have died

My mother did not lead a Californian Life
Her flowers were the weeds that grew
a tree lupin split by Mrs Riley
and one glorious summer the blue and pink
of cornflowers from the packet I bought
for her birthday Something right

She didn't know about Paris
Her evenings were spent sitting at home
three of us asleep upstairs

My brother in her lap she gazed
at smoky flickers of dying firelight
as the slack in sugar bags collapsed
Wondered if my father would come home

12Aug1996 CPR
Charlotte Peters Rock

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Summers In Paris

each summer i go to paris to write
and each trip i make you greet me
as though you haven't seen me in ages
then you tell me i get more beautiful
with each passing year
but i'm just getting older
and it's really men not women that
get better looking with age

i pose for you by day watching your brush
as it whisks over canvas
nights are spent in quaint restaurants
where we eat only the finest foods
chasing it down with the best of the wines

later in the night i try to write
but you won't let me
you're too busy teasing and tickling me
it's impossible to concentrate
you never cease tempting me into your bed
you tell me i will be famous
once your masterpiece is complete
then when i come to paris
everyone i pass by in the city will know me
Faith Elizabeth Brigham

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How Vain And Arrogant...

Why am I always sad when I’ve read about
Paris Hilton, when people argue that she
is pretty and empty-headed, yet
what chance did she ever have
of filling her head with anything else
than sunshine and boredom and glamour -
Why do people blame brats when
it is those in charge of their education
that should really be taken to task,
how could she become anything else
with no NEED to work, no desire ever
unfulfilled – it reminds me of
a book by Agatha Christie – about
a special agency arranging to fulfil
people’s strange fantasies – such as
a rich person dreaming of poverty
and overcoming the challenges of it,
the book was a treat – so why
cannot Paris be led to such an end,
how can she ever know anything
if she has never known anything else –
Don’t blame her, I feel such sorrow
on thinking how boring life must be
when you are totally free without
any guidelines on how to make use of it
to benefit yourself or any others
and the motivation to work on
a great, overpowering passion…
How would YOU and I have managed
such a difficult challenge? I shudder
to think how vain and arrogant
such money and power would have
made me – and you?
Margaret Alice

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Where the glistening glow of your love spells out Paris,
like the lights that shine upon it's midnight sky.
Fear not that place but take me there with you- tonight,
so we can spend all of eternity holding hands.
Side by side.

Let's live this moment:
right now, right here.
Under the moonlit roses as the flakes of them rain on us.
Paris is the city that mends all love sores,
so let's make all things wrong between us turn to right.
Marta Xoxx

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Poems On / About PARIS