Sunday, December 13, 2015

The Paris Poems


She comes into the city

quiet and cold, enters an old house

wearing a weave of shadows.

Her neckline and sleeves trimmed

with beads of ice. Her pale hair vaporous.


Birds rustle in the rafters

seeking  asylum  from the wind,

the bare chill of branch and street.

She hears the uneasiness

in their movement, remembering

how fear hovers and echoes

in the half light. Uncertainty

that  crafts its  own curfew

shutting everyone inside

the darkness of  his or her

imagination, the deafening bell

of a heart that does not  mute.


She looks out the window,

her contours and those of the city

outlined in gray, the shade of ash

used by providence

to define her presence, to sign

her name. Yet , her face  is lit

in a glass pane by the moon.

A translucent blush

belonging more to a votive flame.

The City

Now on her knees,
                        A French  citizen on CNN

Her houses are  locked,

Their lamps low

burning in quiet grief.

Birds wait

on wire or leaf-strewn ledge

to rap on windows

with a séanced rhythm.

The moon half-clean

in dusk's scullery

of clouds and haze

while Paris kneels

scrubbing  bloodshed with tears

afraid to rise

but knowing she must,

she will.
Standard Bearer

Somewhere tonight,  Delacroix's child
steps out of the painting;
her dress torn along with the flag
still uttering its tri couleur  refrain,
the cannon smoke  behind
spreading thick as pollen in the air. Barefoot
she brings the battle with her --
vigilant  in white candles
burning along the street, robust as wine
left in  bottles to salute the ship
tossed by waves but never prone to sink;
and mournful in rows of flowers
laid upon the old stone. The street lamps gird
with vine leaves and a  legacy of iron.
Note -- The beautiful artwork is called "Lady In Black And White" by
French artist, Marie-France Riviere. More of her beautiful work can be found here;



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