"elysees" poems
Fly with me to Paris
and We will climb
the Eiffel Tower
We'll see the Louvre
And walk along
the Avenue des
Champs Elysees
We will walk
alone together
along the great
Seine River
And latch
a lovers lock
upon the bridge
above the water
We can picnic
on the grass
in the grandest
park in Paris
Then embrace
within the shadows
of Notre Dame
Cathedral
Where there
We'll swear
Our love
forever sure
We will seal it
with a kiss
And know We
never missed
The times
and places
that make
A life
worthwhile.
-R.
8.26.17
-LA
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 11:22 PM UTC
The City of Lights
liberty's burning flame
black terror assailed
to despoil her aims
A lamp to the world
illumes liberated pathways
its Arc de Triomphe heart
scarlet droplets stain
the secular graces
of enlightened ages
defiled and condemned
by fanatical excess
civilizations clash
social fabrics torn
Muslims denigrated
republicans mourn
the death of tolerance
spiraling spike of hate
a fractured city
the closure of gates
dark shadows trundle
down The Champs-Elysees
the fraternity of brotherhood
deeply wounded and frayed
republican ideals
will be surely tested
Charlie Hebdo's critical voice
sorely missed, forever rested
Music Selection:
La Marseillaise
Oakland
1/7/15
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 1:49 AM UTC
Hazel wants to put off going home, she
Loves Paris, and being with her maid Dunne
Has somehow made it seem to her that much
More enjoyable, much more than she thought
When she started out from London, but each
Day now, each moment, seems to bring her to
A closeness she has never had with a
Maid before. She watches now as Dunne sits
Beside her outside the restaurant on
The Champs Elysees, the way she holds the
Cup, the head to one side, the eyes focused,
So aware. The clothes she had bought her for
The trip to Paris fit her well, and she
Looks after them as if she were afraid
They might spoil in the noonday sun, folds them
At night so precisely, so carefully.
Hazel sips her coffee, the noon sunshine
Warms her. Dunne examines the menu, tries
To understand the French written there, her
Finger running down the list. Hazel wants
To place her hand over Dunne’s, feel it, sense
The life there in the pulse. When Dunne helped her
Bath the night before, her hands were so soft,
So gentle, her attention to detail,
Her touch. Hazel sighs. Less of a maid now,
At least she sees her less so, seems more a
Companion, yes, that’s it, she says to
Herself, companion. The word seems odd
In her mouth, like saying Doris instead
Of Dunne. A class thing, she assumes, that seems
To separate, putting people into
Different boxes. Dunne sips her coffee
And looks at Hazel. The eyes seem to drink
Her in. Hazel shyly smiles. If her friend
Margaret had not let her down at the
Last moment she would not have brought Dunne; she’d
Have made love to her Margaret in the bed
At night rather than lie there watching Dunne
And listening to her breathing. Yet she’s
Glad now that Margaret hadn’t come, the
Relationship had grown stale. Now there is
Dunne. Fresh, alive, sitting there beside her,
Just a few inches away, bringing a
New dimension to her life, and pushing
To the back of her mind, the desire
Awaking there, a want, and muttering
Silently to herself, looking into
Dunne’s eyes, help me to resist, gazing at
The lips, wanting to touch and to be kissed.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
my world has many colors like the prism;
the blue hues of glistening waters of greece
against the white stucco adobes.
dancing tap shoes of flamencos
while visiting in spain.
autumn hues of russian reds, gold, cobalt, greens, oranges and black co-mingling.
asian tastes of polynesian spices in the philippines.
safaris in africa witnessing the awesomeness
of massive mammals.
sophistication from the streets of champ elysees, sipping cappuccino
and i will have some creme brulee please.
or perhaps go to italy and sit on the spanish steps
with a cup of expresso. i will take along a cannoli
and count the steps.
while back at home reminiscing over a cup of joe
with a friend in tucson arizona.
after exchanging our love for art
i will read my mail from friends afar;
the outback to talk about the love
pocketed in the kangaroo’s pouch and discover
new zealand, the unfamiliar territory.
we share our secrets who have been there.
reading beautiful poetry like never before.
all the while being reminded
i have been blessed by the HOLY ONE.
you see my friends, my world has forever changed
since i have met all of you.
getting up each day having my coffee
welcoming me to another day with my friends
from the east, west, north and south.
upon dusk we say so long, see you soon.~~by lorilynn
copyright*lorilynn 2010
Sep 17, 2010
Sep 17, 2010 at 8:28 PM UTC
A Poor Man’s Love Story:
I met you when I was three
I still remember how scared you were of that slide
Those days when we were so young, careless and free
I hoped we’d never change but life’s a ride
I hoped you’d never get tired of me
When we got a little older
And we became compulsive flirts
And I got a bit bolder
That first kiss under all those fireworks
I think my heart got bigger
I began to love you
It seemed like life was a big, happy game
And when the wind blew
Making the brown autumn leaves dance up Strawberry Lane
And flicked up your long blonde hair
We’d laugh, cuddle, cry and feel no fear
Hold each other till our muscles would shake
Talk on the phone when I was away just to feel near
A dream world where everything but you and me, just felt fake
I hate to see you sad
One day when I’m rich and wise
I’ll take you where you always wanted to go
It’ll be the ultimate surprise
We’ll stand on the Champs Elysees and throw
Bread crumps to the plump pigeons
We’ll gaze into each other’s eyes and not make a sound
Fall down on the rich green grassy banks of a river
I’ll always catch your head before it hits the ground
Ill cover you with a blanket for when you start to shiver
We’ll wish on the shooting stars
The world will just fade away into a distant haze
A pulsating bubble, hiding us away
Time will slow, and bliss will fill our days
We’ll feel young again, happy and gay
I love you my angel
Ill hide away your scars from the world
The cracks and scars that make you so beautiful and real
Keep your passions spread and unfurled
You’ll be with me as long as I can feel
I promise, it’ll be you and me together, forever...
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 9:52 AM UTC
Today, on the streets of NYC
or London, I passed a future president
in his stride, and I passed a disgraced
soldier, discharged for discharging
a round of ammunition on his friend,
I passed a man whose uncle was
Neil Armstrong, and a woman whose
face was drenched in acid by
an evil ex-boyfriend.
I was walking along the Champs Elysees,
today, when I smiled at a man who
is a relative of Gustav Eiffel, perhaps
even his grandson, or more. He was wearing
a suit, a normal, plainly dressed man
blending in.
Today, as I wandered past the skyline of
Vancouver, Chicago, Shanghai, a little girl
cried, and cried and cried. She’s to become the
scientist to cure cancer, the common cold,
or more. She has blonde pigtails and a giant
pink ribbon in her hair.
Underneath the Japanese bloom,
the leader of a gang stopped in front
of me to admire the white blossom,
and I did the same. Perhaps we
shared a word or two, me not knowing this man’s
crime. He not knowing mine.
Underneath all bloom in all the world,
seven billion future presidents,
seven billion disgraced soldiers,
descendants of astronauts,
acid scoured people,
seven billion Mr or Mrs Eiffels,
seven billion cancer curers,
and mob leaders walk their walk
and talk their talk.
No beacon shines upon them
and no beacon ever will.
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
Ilsa's hair blew like silk in the soft Parisian breeze.
Rick looked 10 years younger driving his sportster
down Champs-Elysees. Arc de Triomphe was in the
distance. Young, radiant, Ilsa was the most beautiful
woman in the world. Every man who ever saw her
instantly fell in love with her, myself included. The
German army was only a day from entering Paris,
but that didn't stop Rick from proposing to Ilsa in
La Belle Aurore as Sam played AS TIME GOES BY.
That Ilsa didn't meet Rick in the pounding rain at
the train station as they had planned to take it to
Marseille on their way to Casablanca foreshadowed
the protracted, brutal war the Nazis had already
begun one conquest after another across Europe.
But ****** was not prescient enough to realize
"...a kiss is just a kiss...." and in his Berlin bunker
first swallowed a cyanide capsule then put the muzzle
of his revolver into his mouth and pulled the trigger,
his only constructive act since becoming Chancellor
in 1933.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Dec 18, 2022
Dec 18, 2022 at 7:59 PM UTC
If i was drunk,
I would sleep and not care if i awoke,
I would buy another bottle,
Then put my nose in your business and meddle.
I would waylay you,
on your way to the loo.
Tell you how beautiful you are,
Perhaps convince you to sit with me here.
I would tell you how awkward it is,
For you to be sitting there alone at ease,
While all the men admired your gait.
I would tell you i like your smile, wait.
Would you ask if am always like this?
I wouldn’t tell you it’s because am drunk.
In fact i would tell you i don’t usually do this.
I know i would see those curves turn up,
I would feel your coldness melt,
You would be glad we met.
If i was drunk, and i know i might look crazy.
I might walk out in a frenzy.
Perhaps to take a ***
Then come back and join you.
Buy a Margarita for you to sip,
Or a cocktail for you to dip,
Maybe a whiskey for you to down.
Perhaps you would take one of those,
You usually can’t pronounce.
Plain Baron de Vaals, Chamdor, or one from Champs elysees,
Money wouldn’t be a problem,
That’s my emblem.
You would tell me you like me,
They always do.
and i would too.
You would leave for the loo,
and that would be my cue.
Ready to make *****
Your carefully woven fabric of dignity.
The last thing you would remember,
before you fall into a slumber,
Would be you liked me.
It would be a pity. But final.
Oct 6, 2010
Oct 6, 2010 at 5:17 AM UTC
I can't wait
to blow this joint.
I'm gonna travel light,
blaze a 777 across
the deep blue sea
& if all goes right,
I'll be sipping a Beaujolais
near the Champs Elysees.
I may even splurge a bit,
get a pack of Gitanes
& smoke my *** off.
Then maybe
I'll take a taxi
down to the Seine
to watch all the lovers
holding each other
for those memorable shots.
I forgot that feeling,
but in one day and a wake-up,
I'll be there to reminisce,
try to capture the moment.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
We walked among
Manet and Degas
and Delacroix
Ran Gucci and Hermes
through our fingers
Rode bicycles
On the Champs Elysees
And wore berets
At rest beneath the Tower
And in a cafe at twilight
We drank too much wine
And we laughed
In the pink glow
Of the city
Until it was dark
And later
Along the Seine
Drops of lamplight
shone on the water
And she spoke of how
Paris was like love
Living only for the night
Its beauty
Vanishing by morning
To return only when day
Again falls into darkness
To caress only others.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 1:29 PM UTC
¡Mi pelo largo!
¡Mi pelo largo!
Querías tu
muchacha con
el pelo largo
Yo lo tengo abajo
de los hombros
Crees que esta esquina
de la vendedora de guayabas
donde voz me encontraste
con terror y con júbilo
(aunque sólo demostraste
palidez y silencio)
la borrarán
los Ángeles,
les champs-elysees?
621
I've walked across a bridge with locks
ate quiche in a bistro on the Left Bank
I've seen the Eiffel Tower
lit up like a sparkler at night
and maybe it was somewhere
on the Champs Elysees
I realized how far I've pushed you away
I'm ready to come home to you
and don't worry about the broken vase
nothing we can't fix
or replace
Whit Howland © 2017
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 11:46 AM UTC
Those living in Harlem
want to move to Midtown
The people in Midtown,
to the Upper West Side
The Upper West Side,
to the Long Island Shore
The Long Island Shore,
to Aspen or Vail
Aspen or Vail,
to the Champs Elysees
The Champs Elysees,
to the beaches in Cannes
People will search for where
life can begin
A place that remains distant
and far out of reach
An excuse to look outward
and not in themselves
Theirs souls left in turmoil
—their hearts not at rest
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 12:07 PM UTC
The wine waited and the flowers wilted
chocolates got soggy, limp and listless
the Eiffel dreams of standing tall and *****
slumped to side
and the Champs De Elysees gathered its circumference
and went around in circles.
You did not come as promised
Never mind,
Hope is a cobweb through which we weave
spidery webs of deceit
sticking delicately to daydreams
fruit bowls of Eves apples
and candlelight caresses
that turned the pages of our ******
conversations into imaginary paragraphs
for bestseller voyeurs.
We both made the same mistake
of getting the date wrong
and the timing out of daylight savings sync.
I will plan again for next summers
Postcard from Paris
to myself.
Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 19 days ago
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC
Come fly with me,
she said,
we can go to Paris,
spend days seeing the sights,
arm in arm
in the Notre Dame,
and make love at nights.
Come,
she said,
we can fine dine
and drink coffee and wine,
you can make love to me
and search me over,
play ***** games
and walk the Champs-Elysees
hand in hand,
kiss and not tell,
you can be my **** boy
and I your **** girl.
But I couldn't go
I had no dough
and I told her so.
So she went with some schmuck
to see the sights and ****
and drink coffee and wine
and fine dine.
I stayed behind
frequenting the bars
and the dames
showing my scars
to those girls
with no names.
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 3:31 AM UTC
We drink and smoke
in a cafe on the Champs Elysees.
Sonya says:
you weren't
very inventive last night
in the hotel room:
it was like
a poor rehearsal
for a Shakespeare play.
I was tired,
I reply.
Uninventive
more like,
she says.
Be better tonight,
I say.
Tonight?
Sonya says,
why wait
until tonight?
After this
we'll go back
and get down
to some real ***
and with the foreplay
I like.
I look around us
and see a few
had heard her
and I smile.
She sips her drink
and holds
her cigarette aloft,
and watches
the smoke rise.
I sip my drink
and then take
a deep inhalation,
then exhale
the smoke
into the air.
I think about the night
before last,
when she wanted me
to pretend
to be a priest
and she the naughty
sinful girl.
I never quite
got the hang of it,
and was glad
when the *** began
for real and game
put aside,
and I could get on
with the ride.
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 3:41 AM UTC