Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
He Told Me About Paris





he told me about Paris

after making love…

how he once sat in the Café de Flore

as a boy… awaiting his mother

who danced for a living…



he told me  about Paris

over morning coffee, and no mention of the night before

he talked with love for a city I’ll never know….

strolling along the river Seine

in sunsets of orange and tangerine…



he told me about the The Musée du Louvre

as he made Coriander omelettes

… squeezing  fresh lemon in glasses of ice water…



la Ville Lumière… he murmured as he gazed deep into my eyes

City of Light and Love…

I’ll take you there… if you dare to come

he promised as he  lay a soft tender kiss on each toe…



he told me about Paris… and the Notre-Dame Cathedral

and Café de la Paix, where the streets were Prolific

with  revellers and the after-opera crowd…





I’ll take you to The Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel

he whispered as he placed a Bracelet on my wrist

and we can hold hands as we stroll around the monument…

I’ll take you to Paris, in the Autumn, he promised

our feet will crunch the golden leaves of the Jardin des Tuileries….



… so young I was… such a dreamer… floating on visions that he wove with love-

- he told me about Paris, his voice husky with longing

and I too young to realise… he was dreaming too….
Sharonlee©9-
Twilight Dreams in Retrospect (Along Oxford Street, 1980)





Feet walked a scornful pavement

no empathy there

where scores of mindless feet blindly trod



Monotonous sounds poisoned the evening air

terrace houses wedged in behind aging fences

TV’s, volume bellowing 7 channels and news at 5

spilled from windows

open to capture the feverish breeze



Voices in argument or play… sharp words slice through

frying onions and fetid odors

humanity’s debris over-flows bins …

such is life when **** sapiens, trapped

in the machinations of predetermined destiny

live in congested clusters



I turn a corner into Oxford Street…

in aching silence my mind screams -

- Do you not see that we are all shadows

of who we were meant to be?

For dreams can only live when freed

of the dying dreamer…



What Twist of fate brought me here

aimlessly wandering streets not my own?



Moth to candle flame

ghosts beckon with crooked claws…

… eerie calls

shivered on twilight’s quivering breath…

sunset, a mere flicker

through dappled trees

offers little light in its final moment



Thoughts trail in tangled streamers

inevitably following as feet

trace an invisible path

through inner city streets



Somewhere a dove weeps to witness

days demise,  grey shades growing

dimmer, dimmer still

surely the dove  knows

There can be no light without the dark

and In darkness, we have to light our own fire-

- feed our own dreams and desire

paint the night in cosmic lights and fear not

the silent shadows…



Three hours bled into street-glow and dark corners

as I walked, with aimless intent

time slipping into moments lost

in remembrance of forgotten dreams…

… once I  thought heard… or dreamt I heard

an angel sing

and watched as halo’d stars

Surrendered to her call.

*

Art & Poetry Sharonlee©5-Jul-13


* In this poem the Oxford St I refer to is in the inner-city  of Sydney, New South Wales, Australia.
Whispers of Love and Poetry



So-soft and surreal, silver liquid moon-drops

tickled the darkened sky… clouds laughed

a trilling melody that soothed my soul;



Alone I sat

amid the parsley and sage

last of the marigolds

hung their weary heads…

… the hour was late

and silent was my corner of the world…



Thoughts danced on moonbeams and dreams-

- slow-danced

to the haunting music of my heart

as I watched, stars wept

for the purity of love…



… why do you love… … … … me

he once asked-

- because to NoT love you

simply cannot be…



Silhouetted bat, night-messenger-of"the-sky

whose secrets do you carry on by

whose confidences were whispered on the breeze

can you carry a message for me….?



But the bat swept on in his night-long-flight

paused not in the rose-scented-night

and so I wove within the breeze

whispers of love and poetry.



Perhaps… those who need to hear it… will.


*

Poetry and Art Sharonlee©22-Jul-13

— The End —