"baguettes" poems
my cousin liked to have breakfast
at an open air café, with his fiancée, on Fridays
the owner knew she loved French breads, having
been schooled at the Sorbonne
the bakery made them at his behest
he would tell his staff to keep one for her
and to bring a bag when served;
she always saved half for later
rush hour was madder than usual
that night, until the bombs blasted
and brought the synovial silence that comes
in the wake of wondering, what
has happened?
the sirens screamed soon enough
and my cousin smelled the smoke
cordite, yes, but burnt baklava,
Maamoul as well
his fiancée came to him that night
watched and waited to hear if anyone they knew
was lost, their hands clasped tight, breaths shallow,
in the languid hush after the city slowed
to its mournful rest
the sun rose, the skies clear, crisp, to their surprise,
and they went to the café, where the owner apologized
for the wicked, wicked world, and for not having baguettes
after the bakery died
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
Jane the economy toaster
Was cheap as appliances go
Her unpolished sides were all greasy
And as grey as suburbanite snow
The edge of her slot was all melted
And her tray was encrusted with crumbs
Her lever was missing a handle
And would nibble at fingers and thumbs
She lived at the back of a cupboard
With some rusty old pans and a spider
In the gloom she would dream that somebody
Would hammer a muffin inside her
That some special son-of-a-baker
Would fill up her dusty old holes
With croissants and baguettes and bagels
With waffles and tea cakes and rolls
But alas with her family broken
The whisk and second-rate kettle
Her owners replaced the whole set
With something more classy in metal
And so in her murky wee crevice
She wept and she twiddled her ****
She twitched her lever with envy
Of the toaster that lives by the hob
Jane faded away and she vanished
But in silicone heaven she boasts
That she's Jane the economy toaster
The maker of muffins for ghosts
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
We used to play billiards
and fight all the fire.
We'd drink tea
from cheap mugs,
read The Economist
or newspaper,
chat about boyfriends,
girlfriends,
what was and wasn't a rumour?
The printer munched on paper,
lounge about on scratchy chairs.
50% revision, 50% laughter.
Psychology was me
with a group of girls.
How many people, where, when,
and what was it Freud said again?
Spanish was the same,
me, L, C and E.
Picasso's view of war, a bull and a flower,
grammar overload in the afternoon.
And then there was English.
Can you hear me Fitzgerald?
On a row of females (not just one),
roses, four stories and a single trumpet.
On the garish bus
to see the Manor or the specialists,
to walk up and down aisles in Asda,
talking music with baguettes and meatballs.
Two years came, two years went.
Exams, goodbyes, brown envelopes arrived.
After tapas and a holiday
came sly September.
Here I was with fresh men,
different faces from different places.
So I walked up the steps
into the next avenue.
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
The autumn winds ***** her mercilessly,
as idle hands lunge for delicate petticoats.
Their ugly, pockmarked howls pinch her deeply
with each new limb they expose,
until her tears drop like leaves, unheard
and become soiled.
By the winter, she’s left leaning awkwardly
like a slapper against a lamp post.
Her body but scattered, bent baguettes,
freeze-set with the frigid, nightly chills,
which preserve her stark immodesty
and her malign revenge.
Yet spring adorns her with tentative protruding buds,
glazed like freshly shellacked fingernails,
as her body itches with the swellings of youth
and foliage fastens frills around her chest,
summoning the dewy-peach lustre of virginity.
Now she basks in our wanton, forgiving glares.
As the summer teases, she writhes Lolita-like
in a raincoat that clings to her, just so.
Her barely concealed fruits spilling out,
as the sun caresses her skin hotly, until she ****
with that cacophony of lilac bells gawping, grape-like,
ringing out the sweet moans of her petite-mort.
Oct 7, 2020
Oct 7, 2020 at 10:53 AM UTC
A Tale of Two Cities, Marie Antoinette, Les Misérables,
Populaire and Jacqueline Boyer—
Van Gogh and Monet and all things the Louvre—
Louise Labé and Louis Aragon,
Camus, Voltaire, Baudelaire…
I’ve been breathing in pieces of France,
Eating baguettes,
Dreaming of their kisses,
Committing the curl of their words to memory,
To maybe find out just why they say the French love better.
Maybe if I’ve established the impartiality to the Eiffel tower and the familiarity of romantic cheek-and-cheek-kiss greets,
I will grin under the Parisian Moon, whispering with some curls of my own:
Je suis heureux.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
Today I write an ode to Joe’s
Procurator, seller, and trader
For my better half it is your coffees
For me, your store entire, for
Your bounty fills my refrigerator
Treasures spicy from India, Japan
Brought to us by your Trader San
From south of the border
Travel goodies galore-a
Compliments of Trader Jose
Then there’s Trader Giotto from Italy
Without a doubt, his yummies call me
There are Jo-Jo’s, curries, oh cho-co-late sweet
And did I mention lotions for feet
There is Pilgrim Joe’s and Trader Ming’s
Who bring to us the finer things
The wines, the drinks, the healthy oils
I dream at night of all your spoils
By way of mention, I cannot forget
Baker Josef who serves to us
Tasty bagels, delicious baguettes
Arabian Joe’s and Joseph Brau
Bring us falafels and rings in our beer
Oh, Trader Johann's and Trader Jacques'
For bodies clean and lips that are fresh
Your Joe's Kids keep mummy's happy
Trader Darwin's help us all stay healthy
Did I, could I, miss anyone?
Don’t want to leave out even one
Your marinated meats, your frozen treats
From Diner Joe’s there are lunches quick
For us working stiffs, his heat-n-eats
Oh, pumpkin scones and cereal O’s
I should not forget your sample bar
Where tastys await to test for my plate
And did I say how amazing you are?
While others sell just fluff and stuff
Of your yummy goodness
I cannot get enough
So if one day soon the Joe’s disappear
I’ll not fret, no i’ll not fear
On me for sure you can count the cause
Right down to your last breadcrumb
For shelves will be bursting in my garage
Where I'll be holding them all, without ransom
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC
Dancing
underneath city lights,
jazz bands
reverberating, breathing in
voodoo shop
musk.
Soul
pulsates beneath
cobblestone,
wide eyes
peering up at
beaded balconies on
Frenchman Street.
Freedom is
coffee and baguettes from
Cafe Du Monde at
midnight,
surrounded by strangers.
Find me under strings of
flickering bulbs,
trading trails with
travelers.
Candlelit doorways illuminate the drifters, the curious, the backpackers,the Kerouacs,
the way to the gypsies past
Bourbon.
But not home.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
To have loved, is more than man
For should ever want, or can
Ask of, out of his life.
The ever stirring mind, and
Almost frenzied hands
Of the fools who dance,
The waltz of romance
May 17, 2023
May 17, 2023 at 7:39 AM UTC
Thine temple is an edifice, holy, ever-reaching the overhanging of cliff's, step by step I walketh; a journey I only canst travel. Thou hast guided me on the long road's, wherein soul's get lost and caught in the world's tempting channel. O' blest refinement, God hath freed me from confinement; as the angel yea the angel he sent to me was thee;
Sanctified I am, inside of thine wing's. In commitment shalt I bring, in song's I shalt ablaze in glory with thee wherein the mind's of two shalt cling. O' mine hymn, O' mine diamond .
On a turret I shalt keepeth watch, when the round ball we loveth smoke's up thus, and drop's; beyond fear and falsehood talk's, we shalt walk in a grove,
henceforth the evil staying below, ourn cheeks, colored into snow that fall's starlit, warm-bits. Ourn finger's warm, ourn toe's kick to hot spit by the kissing over-satisfaction. Ourn coroner's laced inside with baguettes, daily deeds like seeds groweth from fountains with nets, nets to catch ourn amour' like open door's we shalt enter. Ourn heart's at the center exploding into a universal call to all other cherub's, seraph's, archangel's, stomping the scarab's. As eternity draweth us as the lost city of gold.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley-filipino rose dedicated
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 3:48 PM UTC
I saw Stewart and Maud under a locust tree in Kensington market.
They had new bicycles. She leaned her sweaty, curly head on his bicep.
They had baguettes, flowers, asparagus and apples from the farm booths in their packs,
Buzet and Minervois from the liquor store, library books. They had life-loving things.
He says that for him this new life is instead of being an artist in Paris:
Backpacks, bicycles, the look of young lovers. The little possessions
That don't feel like a car or a house. They are wearing bright white t shirts
And denim overalls. His children are confused. They have little money.
He joined the many who have refused to be punished for a mistake.
My friend Stewart lives with a university student.
You get to their Annex apartment up iron stairs bolted to the
Outside of a building of old brick coloured like a driftwood campfire. The bed's iron.
She's been an adult for seven years. Iron, bricks, flowers, white iron bed,
Stewart has the skills to make it good, he's done this before, made the Muskoka
Chairs, the harvest tables, and sold them, repaired window frames and doors,
Advertised in supermarkets. He likes to breathe, to drink water, to cut wood and dress it,
To study, to read, to live well with a woman, to write in the evening, to make life like art.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
www.paulanthonyhutchinson.com
copyright Paul Anthony Hutchinson
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 10:52 PM UTC
I long for cobbled stone roads
Dim lit stone stairs climbing with ivy
Up buildings built by Romans
adorned with flowers and intricacies
Details honed by Craftsman
Delicately drafting
the landscapes we live in
Unlike the concrete utilitarian steel and glass pillars and highways
Their plight on our journeys in life
To benefit the productivity
but detriment the soul
To capitalize no matter what the cost
Leaving me longing to nap
in a park with Parisians
For fresh baked baguettes on a bench with a bottle of burgundy
For mosaics made of glass in cathedrals built centuries ago
Over billboards and neon lights,
the flashing and screaming
products for purchase
Let me get my dinner after the people have had their naps.
Let it be an occasion
not a necessity to get by
Let's walk the city after 10
while the sky is still bright
Waiting for the dim street lights
to light our way back
To another day of walking
cobble-stoned streets
Jun 21, 2024
Jun 21, 2024 at 1:04 PM UTC
I love the feeling
when a song
comes on
and suddenly
you find yourself
lost deep in a
memory you
forgot to
actively remember
until now.
The soundtrack to
the summer of '09
when I would
drive 6 hours with the
windows down,
the wind and
the bass from the speakers
in my Honda Civic
creating harmony
in G major,
the hot
sun beating against my
sweat-speckled skin.
And a couple notes
strung along my
eardrum as I
reappear in tears after
you told me you'd
leave me if I
refused to give you what
you wanted,
a melody mixed with
my pathetic, incurable
obsession with pleasing you
and some serious self-loathing.
And then I hear a tune
that sounds reminiscent
of the soft ripple from the
waves the river made
as I smoked a J and
wrote about my days
away from home,
desperately seeking to figure
out who I really am
when I'm completely alone.
Songs that remind me
of sunsets and
old jokes and
the sand between my toes;
rhythms of
bare feet pittering and splashing
in sprinkler water on squishy,
damp grass,
of French phrases and crunchy baguettes
that I chewed on
in Dijon,
of day parties with plastic
cups and ping pong *****
where we used college courses
and boy drama and
undefeated seasons as
reasons to binge on
cheap ***** and beer.
I hear a bridge,
and I cross the river
where I tread water
for 4 years as I waited
for you to meet me
halfway,
and I drowned
in your lies and mind control.
Chorus of Christmas mornings
with homemade cookies,
joyful jamboree
of after-school
dance sessions in my parents' kitchen,
prom night poses
and people we still
laugh at.
First kisses reverberating
in headphones
and mouths belting
names of forgotten friends.
The soundtrack to my life,
a collection of good time
genres and painful
classics,
number one hits and
one hit wonders I
cherish equally,
my taste as vast as
the memories
contained in the
music.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
You're asleep, but I'm having a little fantasy.
We are going to Paris (of course) and we just decided to go. No planning, no serious packing. Just got our stuff together and went for a few days. We fly through the night, and I wake up with my head on your shoulder (like Gordo and Lizzie) and we eat plane breakfast (which for some reason involves sausage links and orange juice in this little dream) and land at Charles de Gaulle at 10 AM.
We get off the plane and go find our hotel, which is kind of far from the heart of the city but we like it cause that's where the really cute eclectic apartments and shops are. And you buy me red roses that night and every day we take long walks all over the place.
We do touristy stuff while we are there, and you take me to all of the places you went to with your family and we even play soccer in front of the Eiffel Tower one night, for your old times sake.
But mostly we make love a few times a day and go get beautiful meals and I speak French to the waiters and you think it's **** We go to a little bakery down the street from us every morning and night and just have an obscene amount of baguettes in our room. We sleep with all of the windows open (it's summer) and the light of the Eiffel Tower is visible at night, far off in the distance.
Some nights, we make love on the balcony of the hotel and then just talk forever, and I'm so perfectly happy there in your arms on the balcony of our little quaint hotel in Paris just for the hell of it.
And I'm so ******* glad you're there with me, even if it's just in my head.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
I'm one of a kind.
Stuck in my own mine.
The only place I can find, a calm find,
Is the confines, of my own mind.
And it's fine, at least I've
told myself a thousand times.
Now I'm sick of messing around,
Started laying these rhythms.
In perfect line, one at a time
to inspire these inquiring minds.
So they will find;
History, or Herstory, repeating itself
Line after line; over time.
through these thoughts of mine.
All this sadness, at the expense of happiness;
straight up madness.
Killing yourself with this mad stress,
while chasing success, in all ways.
"Always ends up a mess," experiences says.
Taking baby steps towards more unhappiness.
Worry free days, migrates to migraines, with growing pains.
What's perceived as success, should be worth way much less.
Cost of yourself, at the expense of progress, that does not exist. Got you living a dream, while you losing the rest.
Blood thicker than water, but not baguettes or the flesh.
They will, **** you for the dough, then fight amongst themselves over the wealth. Their net worth, worth more than how they value them self. So you "so soon, they forget." And to, get what they want, or perceive as need, they'll use you to get. So be careful, in the pursuit of happiness, don't lose sight of yourself. Or it will be your final regret.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
My Saturdays belong
to a quaint Parisian cafe.
I only have to think about carrying coffees
and baguettes
and they pay me for it.
It's the cheapest therapy I've had.
I've come to know some of the regulars.
Some days I wish
to tell them I love them
and I don't quite know why.
I suspect they remind me
in some part of myself,
or how I wish to be.
An almost elderly lady
always comes alone.
Her hair still retains some of her blonde youth.
She orders two very weak flat whites
and sits for hours,
writing letters to distant loves
and reads the paper.
I clear her cup
and she smiles
with both her lips and her eyes.
She makes you feel like your job
means something more than it probably does.
I bring her a second coffee,
a very weak flat white.
In the afternoons
a couple comes in for coffee.
She is quiet,
the artistic type,
and wears their son in a sling.
A sweet little thing with cherubic cheeks.
The father is a darling man
with a softness many men resist.
I watch the way his eyes sparkle
when he tells me of his sons milestones.
I make an effort to see them smile,
bring them water on hot days
or just talk.
But sometimes I leave them be,
watch them from a far,
and let myself be swept up in their love,
before they leave.
My Saturdays belong
to a quaint French cafe
with dark timber floors
and French antiques.
I haven't quite mastered the art of conversation
but I'm adept in the science of smiling
and that's enough to get me by
for now.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 12:24 AM UTC
Ditch Digging
I look upon ***** hands
Unclean in their deeds
Of shoveling their last pit.
For all those sad little things,
For all the past pains,
There is this one grave,
Dug out in the night
To hide all the shame.
Looking mournfully back
At one man’s miserable life,
At one man’s miserable wife
Who covertly snuck away
On a night just like this.
She left to find her real love
In the darkness of the sky,
Only to sneak back home
At the dawn’s first lights,
Only to find her husband
Waiting awake patiently.
Peeking back to his job,
Of a boss who would deny
Every request for a raise,
And every pitiful plea for
Just a couple more days.
The boss who always drank,
And smoked, and yelled,
Who always made passes
At his employee’s wife,
And would call his house
In the middle of the night.
Thinking of his two
Most precious daughters,
Who were the most cute
Of all the little girls.
Those innocent fiends
Who always took their
Spoiled mother’s side,
And would make life
Miserable for their father.
The two girls that looked
More like the man’s boss,
And would barely pay
Their father mind.
As the poor man dug
With his short shovel
And his tired hands,
He thought of all his miseries,
And those who did him wrong,
And how in this 5 ft trench,
He would fix it all.
The faithful pup that turned wild,
And now tries to rip out his throat.
Of the bus driver that steals his change,
And gives him spit in return.
Of the corner shop bread baker,
That only sold him stale baguettes.
He would bury all of them,
And make again, his happy life.
The grave digger finished,
And he washed his hands,
And climbed into the hole,
And fell deeply asleep.
Sep 20, 2010
Sep 20, 2010 at 12:08 PM UTC
Remember that time in Paris? I do.
Cafes and baguettes;
Eiffel tower and views
Especially
Champs-Élysées
Do you remember that time in Paris
The Metro and Seine;
The streets of history
I remember that time in my Paris
Most of all I remember Cathedral Notre-Dame
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 9:15 PM UTC
I want a man whose heart is so full -
Rainwater dripping from the pitcher on the drizzled grey of yesterday,
A soft sound in the great symphony of the wet garden,
Bejeweled and glistening,
Pianoforte drops
Upon the wet leaves
Falling.
I will know him by the way he writes, the kindness in his eyes -
Flashes of him in my professor,
In myself, caught laughing like a child,
In the quiet teenager who is becoming an
Unlikely philosopher, frontal cortex in heat,
With the implications of existence
(He’s awake in the early dawn, a furious Jacob,
wrestling with his God)
And he will be a Seeker of Beauty:
“There is no medium unworthy”
He will tell me, but never in words,
Crouching for perfection’s grace among leaves and dirt
Like a widow beneath rainbow fractals
At early morning’s mass.
He will be effortless, like the unspoken love
Between two old friends, bookends
Scattering crumbs of baguettes in the park
To clicking beaks, and dancing pigeon feet.
Burying himself in pages, when he thinks no one sees
(Was that you there, on the subway?
Dark eyes, fixated on the lines,
Crinkling with understanding?)
Both of us adventurous spirits -
“Let’s run away, you and me” and we will
Melt with ease into cityscapes, so transparent, adaptive,
Young and free,
Like the wood moths becoming one
With the aspen in its serenity,
We light upon
France, Spain… Italy.
I know I will find him
In my own verse.
Will discover him
In pages that I’ve turned.
Will recite his thoughts back to him, and will
Love him like poetry.
I will know him by heart.
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 4:08 PM UTC
No assurance
No clear vision
For 15 hours, we
were far from fixture.
Donned in a coat
smart shoes and black,
We stood out in a sea of
superheroes and Jacks.
Pingpong *****
Baguettes.
Fake stories to people we just met.
Each time we caught
each other's gaze,
we always fell
into a hysterical maze.
Can you feel that?
It's called connection.
I do believe in sparks
and all that notion.
Black skies
dry eyes
coffee and you,
we continued to talk
and laugh
until the morning dew.
15 hours
but only stopped for 2.
The world was spinning
but your lips kept
me grounded.
Living in the moment,
I didn't worry where it
was headed.
Exceeded my expectations,
you proved yourself to be different.
Curbed what was naturally felt and needed.
So this is how it feels
to be alive again.
To genuinely feel something
deeper than skin.
Penetrated intellectually.
Tickled emotionally.
For 15 hours,
I was held the tightest
Conversed the deepest
Now you have my attention.
'Til we bridge the gap again!
Remember Koala,
my darling dearest.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
Where I'm from
You either smart of dumb
To rules of cash making
Ain't no faking
We got young gs to ogs
Rolling trees
In Texas we always got the summer breeze
Yea ya might sweat
But it don't matter
We still fill our pockets
Chck the Rolex with baguettes
In houston
We never showed love to maggots
Comprende
Got a few eses that rolls with me
Considered family
So watch where us step fool
Listen to the sounds of the tool
We dumpin hits bump in
Straight outta htown not Compton
Stomping
On the hardest grounds
That most can't walk on
Talk goes on
To them hoes that try empty our
Bank rolls
But my minds on patrol
Watch them ******* scroll
Cuz they see ya coming up
But wasn't down wen we was penned up
In the penitentiary
Seems like everybody after me
But still excell through heaven or he'll so I dwell
On good times than the bad times
I stay with high ratios
More buckets than misses
Kisses by the slugs
To wannabe fake *** thugs
Like Mack said. I can't stand it got **** it
Single handed
Flipped the game ya know the name
Yosef can't be tamed or maintained
They say my lyrics is wack
But I'm still pulling dame
In the players hall of fame
Ya see my name
Next iceberg slim used to rock overalls n timbs
But now I rock suits n ties
Black Capone gngsta **** is my love Jones
We break bones those intruders
Wicked mid range shooter
Don't test the best
From the south we always get next .so **** yo flex
Cash comes from others check
No bouncing
But I take it ounce
8Ball rolling strong controlling
This rap game master my art piece
One shot release .equals mo decease
Got my beauty n I'm the beast feast
In weak souls
So I've been told
And if ya step to the best
Southern link with the west
Better believe we leaven holes in in in yo chest
Uh
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 9:10 PM UTC
The beauty that people travel far to see
Unbelieving on how massive it could be
Wrought iron lattice visible from miles away
Bringing smiles to faces that are sure to stay
Some plan to have a kiss under its bright lights
They’ll mimic the native’s ways to cause a sight
Sending postcards home with the beauty displayed
Or even pictures of them at parties, maybe the masquerade
Packing up macarons, baguettes, and croissants
for friends and family knowing they will want
Reminiscing of the trip on the way home at 600 miles per hour
Holding the memories and pictures of the trip to the Eiffel Tower
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 11:59 PM UTC
A Cafe is breathing heavily; attended
By elven baristas, fully illustrated.
Tamping espresso.
Baguettes soften canary yellow berets -
Worn at a rakish angle, like a fascinator
At The Preakness.
Ethiopian fumes barricade the open door
Against the effluvium of the morning -
Commute… like tying a kite
To a black truffle. With a blade -
of grass.
My hands fold space into a sweat lodge
Like the scaffolding of a forgotten prayer.
My chin planted at the zenith
Admiring the anatomy
Of an abandoned
Fist.
On the outskirts of a mocha.
She is ineffable. With gamine eyes -
Churning sunlight into green coins shimmering
In tandem. Like koi in a pond.
Her summer dress, a diaphanous affair.
Accentuating the curvature of her
Natural mischief. Clinging to peaks and valleys
As they sway in obedience
To hidden music… poised.
In a state of perpetual
Goddess.
She glides… as I covet. Preaching to the choir
In my ribcage. My eyes caressing the parentheses
Of her stride. She is ineffable.
Words fail as they are want to do
In the presence of effortless elan’. She is cloaked
By her own reality. Like an undertow
Stuck to the heel
Of her shoe.
With nothing to prove.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 7:52 PM UTC
On the steep incline
we sip moonshine,
forget our woes of the day
where in the muddy field
sheep did yield
to rest our aching feet.
Sun rays cut the wind
in a cloud soaked sky
that the past three days
did nothing but cry.
We rejoice with baguettes
on the great precipice
where the sea becomes the sky.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 7:09 PM UTC
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
Nov 7, 2024
Nov 7, 2024 at 10:23 PM UTC
Twenty. Three. Hours.
Sardines sleeping on ***** floors
not caring about the shoe marks
avoiding the possibility of getting drooled on
We sang songs from rent between the seats
ANDY YOU GOONIE
Are we there yet?
I am the snack queen my children
Are we there yet?
it’s so much warmer than back home
ARE WE THERE YET?
I woke to see my first palm tree
palm trees are ******* weird
I was a princess
I let her curl my hair
I can’t feel my fingers
I understand why kids are always crying at Disney world
Its sensory overload
We lay on the beach
Our feet touch the ocean for the very first time
Her sunburn didn’t go away for weeks
we wanted to be jedis
Why was it “12 and under”
THEY DON’T UNDERSTAND
We sang songs from beauty and the beast
bonjour bonjour
Marie the baguettes hurry up
We got stuck on small world
We died on pirates of the Caribbean
You promised there wasn’t going to be a drop
I WAS NOT PREPARED
We watch the fireworks
And the neon lights
before being packed like sardines once again
Listening to her say ANDY YOU GOONIE
But that’s okay
Because I just love you guys.
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 10:53 AM UTC