Here comes the camera girl,
Clumsy American beauty!
With a French hat placed upon her head lazily,
And her camera hanging from her neck.
Looking around the streets,
Photographing Paris, a way to live through scenes.

But she'll never be happy,
Just watching the people,
Who dance by the Eiffel Tower.
No, she must dance!
But alas, she has no man with which to dance,
How sad.

Bonjour Gray Man,
What is on the menu for breakfast today?
A black coffee and a plate of blueberry jam,
On plain white bread.
A blueberry, for the blue in you,
Coffee and bread, because you find it tasty.
Gray Man of Paris,
What's here that you fancy?
What led you to leave to shaded land,
Of pencil-paper men?
Was it a secret love of bright colors,
That you look so dreary against?
Well salut Gray Man,
Enjoy breakfast in the colored land.

sous le ciel de paris, un mur disait
"Je t’aime comme un soir d’été"
mais c'était en décembre
et il pleuvait toute la journée

malgré le temps, un feu brûlait
au retour de « la butte aux cailles »
dans mon vieux cœur d'âme
comme celuie de Notre-Dame

sur le chemin du Sacré-Cœur, vers chez lui
mon feu s’est enflammé avec ses lèvres, tout éblouie
pendant que Chet Baker chantait, douce mélodie
j'ai peur, je tombe sûrement amoureuse trop vite

et si demain, tout disparaît?
un souvenir que je ne veux jamais perdre
"Je t’aime comme un soir d’été," disait le mur
mais moi, je t'aimerai comme une soirée d'éternité

From the ashes of the dead, new life is born
And hope will rise like the sun on Easter morn
The same fire that ravages, gives warmth and light
The same fire that destroys, on a candle, is a welcome sight
We will rise again on the wings of the dawn
We will dance with the joy of a newborn fawn
It is a chance to rebuild, restart, and renew
To see what beauty lies hidden from view
From out of the ashes, we will rise again
We say: "Let it be done" Amen
From the crucible of fire, we will survive
Having been purified, we will now thrive
The loss is real, but it mustn't feel
Like the end. It is a brand-new start
And the memory will remain here in our hearts
I truly believe that out of the ashes we will find
Evidence of something profoundly divine
That in its wake there will come a grand revival
An awakening of faith that will have no rival
There will be a day of great jubilation
Where people will come from every nation
To join hands and hearts as sister and brother
Where peace resides and we love one another
From these ashes, I pray we will remember
That life is fleeting, and life is a treasure
But we will rise above the ashes and dust
To find something in which we can trust

Beneath the Eiffel's iron lace,
A tabby cat prowls with feline grace,
Past Arc de Triomphe, she sets her pace,
On moonlit nights down the Champs Élysées.

Prowling around cafés and bustling streets, She slips into wine-soaked conversations, Witnessing love's soft declarations,
While dodging bikes and hurried feet.

Her whiskers twitch at fresh baguettes,
As dawn breaks on the Seine's calm flow, Lounging, watching artists come and go,
From her sun-kissed, with a view parapet.

Notre Dame's gargoyles watch her pass,
Through shadows of restored spires,
In all its reverent wonder, to be admired
As pigeons scatter on morning mass.

Up to Montmartre's charm and winding ways,
She naps peacefully on warm window sills,
As church bells toll from sacred hills,
Lost in the wonders of her Parisian days.

©️Lizzie Bevis

The dinner table

is stylishly set, spotless --


Sorry, except me.

I do not know you now
My memories are not my own
Manipulation you created
Sinks through my bones

The man who laughed at the smile
Called him akin to Helen of Troy
Who did not know his own child
He does not understand the boy

Not a helpless girl who was stolen
She can not speak for her own
But a free boy who is known
He is not used to being alone

The confidence is overwhelming
The ability to think freely
But all father knows is yelling
He is a new man completely

The fragile moon and the tender heart
The soft bells of the Cathedral
The remnants of a sound from a poem of Rimbaud
The fire within the chest, the belly , and the dreams
Far across the age of reason and nausea crossed existence of an artist
I still experiment with my thoughts and adventures
An inheritance runs in the blood
Of a reincarnated Rilke
Camus or Sartre
Hunger, ****** and a lot of poverty
No food
No women
No money
Death , sacrilege and seduction
The obsession with Second ***
The flowing Seine on the edge of
Retreating Nemesis
I burn myself
In the candle lit
Hymns
Of an
Ancient Parisian prayer.

In Paris, society people unironically dress for dinner, go to cocktail parties (where the hostess has an obvious drinking problem), dine with Catholic Bishops, industrialists, politicians and occasional celebrities (usually for charity) in places dripping with atmosphere.

I met this famous actor once (July 2019, pre-covid, I was 15), at one of these summer parties in Paris. He was probably in his early forties (an impression, I didn’t look it up). Shall we wax poetic?

It was sunset - almost 10PM in Paris.
The last rose-blush of sunset was in the west.
I was leaning on the wrought iron balustrade,
of a 4th floor terrace, in the center of the city proper.

The Seine still shimmered, with diaphanous emerald flecks,
and the air was heady with the perfume of jasmine and Nuxe oil.
Behind me, beyond the French doors and filigreed silk drapes
that fluttered like angel wings, a cocktail party was happening.

I could hear the tinkling of glass, laughter and conversation.
A couple, across the way, were wrapped together as if for warmth
and they communicated in the language of lingering touch and gazes
that delved and explored. I smiled, embarrassed, and looked away.

Ok, snap out of it.

He came out on the terrace alone, as if he was looking for a breath of air and stopped at the railing about three feet away from me. After a minute, he turned, as if I’d suddenly appeared, and introduced himself.
When we shook hands, his felt like silk.

Anyway, we’d chatted for under a minute - I was jabbering about how I’d loved the Bourne movies - I was trying to sound interesting - when he leaned in and whispered, “What would you do if I kissed you right now?”

I was flabbergasted and I think I looked around to see if he was talking to me. Sometimes life offers simple choices. I grimaced, shook my head ‘no,’ and at first, I backed away, then I turned and hustled back to the party.
I think he chuckled. I saw him some time later, chatting up a model-looking woman.

I told Charles about it after the party and he said, “Huh - No kidding?” Then he shrugged and said, “Hollywood.”

This isn’t some sobbing “me too’ story. I wasn’t traumatized. It’s a tale of entitled male tomfoolery. Maybe I looked older in a certain light? A humorous ‘growing up’ story I get to share with friends - and now with all 8 of my readers.
.
.
Songs for this:
Hurricane Waters by Citizen Cope
Beautiful Trash by Lanu & Meg Washington
Quero Te a Sambar by Tape Five