Walking through Rainbows Again

I've been walking through rainbows again,
taking out my tints and squinting in the sunlight,
remembering that you used to hold my hand,
and send me bouquets, that were always
aromatic, I would let them seed in window boxes
and the fragrance get us nourished
on those so cold Parisien winters,
where we lived in a shoebox
and showers that we walked through
were no colder than the trickle,
you washing oil paints, the smell of turpentine
mixed with eau de past occupants
and the lady from Morocco that
left covered dishes on our doorstep,
she would snap her fingers
and say my ribs played tunes.

so we played our music, I would hollow
and fill, complete, replete listening
to scrabbles of mice in the woodwork,
you would smile, an accompaniment
while I dressed, a music case and scarf
hurrying to college, always late
knowing that when I returned
you would have left, the windows open,
half smoked gitanes and remnants of crumbs.

I would sigh, then practice till the cats called
and you my knight of the alley would come
whistling, the smell of warm bistro's on your lips
and in the breath of your beauty, I would splay
my heart and soul, knowing that another day
would end as careless as begun.

We walked through rainbows in the spring,
I caught the métro, found another song, yet
I miss the tunes you played and even now
I run and catch my hands playing music;
these ribs of mine are etched with knots
and the unsung history of us.

Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 281 times
Written on 2013-03-17 at 16:38

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As an island girl, Elle, I have a connection to France :) My great grandparents are French and I absolutely adore Paris, but all that aside, your poem is descriptive, evocative, emotional and has a clarity of life and beauty about it if that makes any sense, loved it.

My trips to Paris were usually a rush of meetings and negotiations and deadlines, but whenever I could I walked in the evening, preferring the narrow cobble-stone streets away from the shops and crowds, passing the small homes and apartments, many with a small balcony, an open door, sometimes voices and since I spoke no French I imagined what I might be saying if I lived there . . . I always had the sense that behind those doors, those voices, was something deeply connected to love and art and music, lives more truly passionate than my own, a feeling I've not had in any other place. Your poems validate that feeling.

StillHoppin The PoetBay support member heart!
Feels like a walk down memory lane, an intimate portrait which the reader comes away from with a startlingly clear, poignant view of the history described here. Well done.

I don't mean to be redundant with my compliments, I seem to say this of all your poems, this is a pleasure to read, this in a romance-remembered kind of way, a little bittersweet, but beautifully written.