Home | Contact Us

Poems On / About PARIS  8/20/2014 9:21:43 PM
Search For Poems & Poets:
• alone
• america
• angel
• anger
• baby
• beach
• beautiful
• beauty
• believe
• brother
• butterfly
• car
• change
• chicago
• childhood
• cinderella
• courage
• crazy
• dance
• daughter
• death
• depression
• dream
• family
• fire
• freedom
• friend
• funny
• future
• girl
• god
• graduation
• greed
• haiku
• hair
• happiness
• happy
• heaven
• hero
• home
• hope
• house
• husband
• identity
• joy
• june
• kiss
• laughter
• life
• lonely
• loss
• lost
• love
• lust
• marriage
• memory
• mirror
• money
• mother
• murder
• music
• nature
• night
• paris
• passion
• peace
• pink
• poverty
• power
• racism
• rain
• red
• remember
• respect
• river
• rose
• school
• sick
• sister
• sky
• sleep
• soldier
• song
• sonnet
• spring
• star
• success
• summer
• sun
• swimming
• sympathy
• teacher
• time
• together
• travel
• trust
• truth
• war
• work


Best Poems About / On PARIS
<< prev. page

Page: 1 10 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 50 60 70 80 88

next page >>



In The Beauty Of A Lower Heaven

Autumn in Paris is like summer in a lower heaven.
Sycamores and chestnuts paint the air,
Pencil-thin branches sketch the city like Utrillo,
The Seine sets leaves in moon-glass.

We caught the metro at Bir-Hakeim
Near Vel’ d’Hiv, the Nazi detention center.
Cyclists went flying into fire and ash
In the beauty of a lower heaven.

Something grotesque in the accordion
Like a fascist playing Mozart.
Something hypnotic in the sound,
The bellowing of giving birth to terror.

In the beauty of a lower heaven
All the people are lovelier, tranquil,
Even at rush hour music tames
The writhing beast of megalopolis.

Goodnight Paris, bonne nuit,
Your accordions are like history
Repeating the music and the horror
In the beauty of a lower heaven.

Goodnight Roseline, Simone and Eliana…
We will meet again, Aviva…
The doors of the trains are opening
In the beauty of a lower heaven.
Salvatore Ala

Read more poems from Salvatore Ala >>>



France is for Lovers

It's Paris in the Springtime
as the fluers de lis flower
Singing hymns to the fresh new floral scents.
Paintings hang in the monuments
to great men and their moments
showing oils and acrylics trapping hymns.
And that architectural marvel that is called the Eiffel Tower
towers over sights and smells and sounds of spring.
It is here that you lay your head to rest now.
It is here that you bring other heads to rest.
It is in Paris in the Springtime that is for lovers.
And if I could afford the plane ticket over
you would have to see me regardless
of all the child support you try to make me pay.
John W. McEwers

Read more poems from John W. McEwers >>>



It Is Raining In Paris

It Is Raining in Paris
Written by: Wilfred Charles Mellers, Thursday, February 23,2012 @ 6: 38 PM

The lights has gone out over Paris
Venus is no more an affectionate zealous
To my adoration I was honest
Promises kept I worked my hardest
Vanished gladness for I've misplaced my heart
The radiance has gone out over the rampart

The sun has gone out today
Hands stretched texture to find my way
Uncertain I am for skies are gray
Gone now are livelier days

Bouncing into obscured walls
Never looked out for the pitfalls
Collapsed into an empty pit
I am no longer quick with the wit

Seldom things remind
Are my eyes inaccessible or am I blind?
So many thoughts run through my mind
My hand separation to sign
Beaten down by the daily grind

So unkind mankind I find
Who cares for the hour draws near
For impending days are filled with fear
Nowhere to run and hide
No love sits by my side
For the love inside has died

I sit and pine for days to rewind
The plans treacherously designed
And to all things combine
The heart pays the heaviest fine
Wilfred Mellers

Read more poems from Wilfred Mellers >>>



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

Read more poems from Charlotte Peters Rock >>>
<< prev. page

Page: 1 10 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 50 60 70 80 88

next page >>


BEST POEMS:  (Click on a topic to list and read the poems)
• angel poems
beautiful poems
death poems
friend poems
• girl poems
home poems
hope poems
kiss poems
• life poems
loss poems
love poems
music poems
• nature poems
rain poems
school poems
sex poems
• soldier poems
summer poems
sun poems
war poems
(c) Poems are the property of their respective owners.
All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge.. 
Contact Us | About Us | Copyright notice | Privacy statement

Poems On / About PARIS