Beneath strands of citrine dangling in the sky
arms glitter on a Moulin Rouge display,
neon bulbs flirt with the Arc spinning high
its rich tableu, like pastel from Monet.
And streets float on floods of traffic yellow
unleashing a thousand monarchs on flames,
scenting an evening airbrushed by Van Gogh
as figures grind on roulette of oiled frames.
-
Paris night , after 9 pm...a few years back
Third place
In winter, nothing gives.
The tree holds tightly to
its fistful of sky
while the wind arranges
and rearranges
some leaves
at the entrance to the Tuileries,
always seeking
a different disorder.
First published in NOON: Journal of the Short Poem, Issue 14, August 2019
saw the Mona Lisa once - couldn't stop smiling
Woman on the wall
inviting one to enter...
a mind to explore.
© Harry J Horsman 2012