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sgail 7d
Heads up
at gilded cielos and ceilings
a time when extravagance was bilious
and public.

relics and
the coronation of Napoleon
sublime impositions and plaster,
some marble. Gobs of it.

Oils and linens
of faces, faces.
How could we remember it all
in hallways and corners
and monstrous great rooms?
Kind of overrated, tbh
Zywa Apr 11
Only in Paris

waltzes a fly like flies are --


twirling in Paris.
"Kevadine kärbes" ("Spring fly", for violin and piano, by Lepo Sumera, from the film "Naerata ometi" ("Still smiling" / "Spiele für Schulkinder", 1986, Estonia), performed by Mari-Liis Uibo (violin) and Andres Uibo (*****) in the Organpark, on April 9th, 2022

Collection "org anp ark" #203
Kewayne Wadley Dec 2021
While the world is asleep
I lie awake in a dream that feels real
because I am with you.
They'll lie still and we won't disturb
them.
It's you that I only get this feeling
around.
I accept that I am awake because you
are here
There is no other fact.
While the world is asleep
I want to explore everything that I can.
Without interruption.
Without the triple bypass of work.
More than enjoying your company for
what it is.
Like croissants in Paris
After climbing the Eiffel tower with you
on my back.
Or counting how long it'll take to bend
the curvature of the tower into the
shape of your heart.
While the world is asleep
They'll lie still and we won't disturb
them.
& When they awake,
They'll think it was all a dream
By the time we finish explaining what
took us so long to get back
Close your eyes,
I whisper in your ear,
when you think of forever,
what do you see my dear,
or rather who do you see,
right through your tears,
through the uncertainty of time,
and the path you will take,
who is your partner,
your guide as you are theirs,
I asked you this question once before,
a rainy day on the second floor,
tell me your answer once again.
The last time I said I love you.
JV Beaupre Nov 2021
Artists and models,
pimps and prostitutes,
writers and muses,
the noted and the nameless,
in stark black and white.

Under the street lamp,
A stout woman with a dangling cigarette,
her shadow trailing into the dark.
I need a warm place to stay tonight.

On the banks of the Seine,
The lamplighter, making his rounds,
creates the mystery of night

Stairs leading down the hill,
into the fog, into the night.
Gas lamps lighting the way,
for someone who is yet to come.

Lovers in a brightly lit cafe,
sharing a drink and a kiss,
a stolen moment,
oblivious to all else.

Rain and the street glistens
adorned by umbrella blossoms.
Long shadows cast by a rainy city garden.

Matisse and his models.
The Four Arts Ball,
Henry Miller, Picasso,
The Follies-Bergere,

The master himself,
eye to camera,
cigarette dangling,
snap-brim in place,
calf length overcoat on a Parisian street,
recording life as it passes by
A time machine, a graphic history,
all is there for us.

The Paris of our dreams.
Brassai was the nom d'plume of a Hungarian immigrant (Gyula Halász) who documented the seamier and avant garde side of Paris with his camera in the first half of the 20th century. His most famous collection of photographs was published as  "Paris at Night".
Once a year its champagne!
I feel calm passionate and teary.
It gets my head to Paris
  As life is broken down goes out
in transition or revelation,
there's a greàter darkness then the one we inadvertently fight,
the darkness of the soul
that has lost its way.
I was chosen by great sages crossing paths the sting of my blindfold lingers noone sees hope or their future, or where it leads we know only that it's bought in pain and sacrifice.
Letting go what I loved the most.
was eternal loss, having
no reparation, neither in time,
nor in eternity.
My love river is truth it's mouth is
cosmic creation.
He measured sensuality
secretively, and in shadows 
he showed me feathers of half
a man syllhuette of him,
and feels guilty I just fill in blanks,
why smack a devolving face?
And what the heck!
I first measure people in trust.
then love, as true love is rare.
Trust tells love where to roam.
Love can't be made perfect
in distrust nor fear of rivals.
When I give my heart I do,
When I share my dreams too.
I do not drown in midnight
   dew not retreat;
but I won't take sand in my eyes.
After the loving I go from rags
to riches in his love or shine
to wiser horizons..
~~~~~~~~~
Mr and Mrs Andrews.
At Karijinbba
https://youtu.be/NRt6YZV0Fz0
Rama Krsna Sep 2021
looking down
to spot my shadow,
i glimpse
your slender silhouette instead.

my orange tip butterfly!
this ain’t a sleight of light,
as dreams merge
our souls unite,
leaving our tanned bodies tangled
in a titillating state of tantric union


© 2021
inspired by nature on a beautiful walk through central park  yesterday
Xella Sep 2021
To wish for a wish,
To break bread with you.
Maybe one day I can be,
What flies in your dreams.
At night I think and wonder
Why can't I be. What I am.
I'm always down trodden.

You always know
Where you're going,
What you are doing,
why you are moving
Around like you do.

So hopeful, so bleak.
I hope there is space for me
In that confidence.
I pray for nothing,
Just...please.
Im doing a thing...writing poetry in like 5 mins and under. + No editing....ill come back to it one day with true fresh eyes. Hopefully something better will arrive from that.
My dearest Sammy,
The Mix Master came
Easter, Sunday
And we have not had time
To more than read
The literature
Put it together
And gloat
Oh
So beautiful
Is the Mix Master
So beautiful
We are very happy
To have it here
Bless you Sammy

Madame Roux said
oui
Il est si gentil
Et en effet
He is dear little
Sammy
Easter morning
What a spring
Lovely
as I have never seen anything
Lovely
Alice is all
Smiles
and murmurs in her dreams
‘Mix Master’

X
Gertrude
sarah Aug 2021
we could go to Paris,
or just stay at hoᴍe
would be ᴀ dream to travel
the world, but if i'm with you,
i've ꜱeen enᴏugh

because ɴo place i could
ever visit would be better
than being with you
but one day we'll be sipping coffee
in a French cafe, and i won't
have to choose
wistful
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