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Poems On / About PARIS  9/3/2014 2:01:16 AM
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Best Poems About / On PARIS
 
 
 
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  117.     

God's Yield

In the field
Of God's Yield
You're the One that stood out!
You're not the prettiest
The tallest or the slenderest
Or the most graceful,
But my heart chose you
The way your mirror chose me
I never cared for my dull reflection
For with life's shades I've been darkened
But your light chose me
In this instant of neutrality
Made all the difference in you and me
There is no effort here
Just pure flow!
Love is truly blind
We know not why we love
But when our eyes locked
It's bliss beyond measure
You're the Sun of my moon
I am the Moon of your sun
You're the romance of my love
I am the love of your romance
I cannot exist without your light
My mirror would be a very desolate place
You're my Paris, my Champs-Ιlysιes, my Tour Eiffel
You are the sparkle in my eyes
That lights up my Paris, my Champs-Ιlysιes, and my Tour Eiffel
Let love flow freely
My river opens in the arms of your ocean
The more my Poem will glow
Vive L'amour!
 
Leaking Pen

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  118.     

A Tomato Juice in Paris

On Thursday I will drink a tomato juice in Paris,
I'll hope for rain.

I want traffic lights reflected across windshields
of double parked citroens.

weather to fit my mood; the half-shut eyes
of a midnight cocktail shaker alone at the bar.
I'll visit Monoprix where you first bought
espadrilles.

Paris was crazy for Le Hot bebop;
girls two-steped with each other in cellar clubs.
I'll try to exorcise ghosts 20-years old;

your packed bags by the door, a drained juice glass
drying in the sink; a taxi sounding its horn.

I had on white shoes, it was that long ago.
 
Bernard Henrie

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  119.     

The Ruba'iyat Of Creteil Lake - Part Four

Lovers stroll down her nubile spine blithely to pubic isle
Where under linden boughs and mulberry spread connive smile
Old and young keep parading swathed in bundles of fur wear
While children romp around on tri-cycles with befuddling guile

Leon Blum lyceens cart on bulging backs their home-worked chores
While their waddle with rollicking bums speak of runaway mores
And boys groomed fast to mature men cast lewd eyes on women
Teens no more stop to listen if the Lady of the Lake snores

Colonies of campers come to barbecue on her tresses
And watch some husbands kick the balls through two stumps of
dresses
While strained and starved-looking dames escort and watch children
play
In a Bordeaux and yellow toy-land sandy circus wine-press

The Grande Armιe of the sporting fishing clan pitch their tent
On her soft flanks for solitary siluroids anglers hunt
The bashful toothless mammoth lost in nightmarish dreams
While cameramen stalk their every gesture in contempt

At her itchy feet where Pompiers de Paris come to train
Rinse uniforms, flush cisterns and fly over crested main
Pigeons grumble wobble while crows flap razor-sharp tailcoats
As tourists from nearby trysting hotel blink in disdain!

© T. Wignesan – Paris,2013
 
T (no first name) Wignesan

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  120.     

The Idler’s Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. March

A WEEK AT PARIS

When loud March from the East begins to blow,
And earth and heaven are black, then off we hie
By the night train to Paris, where we know
Three windows set to the meridian sky,
A third floor in the Rue de Rivoli.
There we will stop and see the fair world move
For our sole pleasure past us, you and I,
And make pretence we are once more in love.

We need not fret at loss of pence or time,
Though Father Bignon's smiles are paid in gold.
This life in idleness is more sublime
Than all our toil and all our wealth twice told.
We need not fret. To--night for us shall Faure,
Sara, Dupuis, or L'heritier unfold
New stores of mirth and music, and once more
We two shall sup, and at the Maison d'or.
 
Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

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