Poet Heart

Oh my poet-heart, is there still time for Paris
Where the sweet wind wandering goes?

Round each corner; the trees in airy flight
Nights bathed in amber light.

Low at my feet the winding sidewalks behold
Valley and town drenched, entranced in deep repose.

Has there ever existed such a more beautiful place…
None with more appeal; even when it rains.

But I know how softly on the music plays
Where mosses creep; where our love is not far.

A place where we are free
Flinging forth our memories with ease

Traveling to Paris in the car…
With my poet heart in the breeze.

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Still Paris


Why is it France that sometimes beckons me

Paris whispers, I  wave, and she cries,

Listening to sounds of her calling us back

Waves of leaving never needing to say goodbye

A last smile before into the oceans crept,

Like waters blanketing tears that she wept

Rushing forth but not without a trace,

With you there, I first saw your beautiful face,

Keeping in mind that when I forget 

That I, long ago, Paris is where

I first fell in love with you there.

Paris still whispers, for we were there. 

Spain

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We drove through the Pyrenees and across France to Spain following the mountain bends; the roads curving in alternate succession forming our path along the way and it almost seemed if the mountains alternated rather that the road ascending to the rise and fall of the pitch.  And it was there I witnessed for the first time near Valencia these majestic mosaic fields of white rock and limestone where orange trees seem to grow in groves for miles and miles from right out of the white sands.

There were the olive trees too that covered every surface area defending the glistening inlets from the Mediterranean Sea with villages nestling in valleys pointing the way to the to Tarragona; one of the most ancient parts of southern Spain. We were heading to Barcelona, Cartagena then Madrid. Each a Roman City with visual evidence of remains even older than before recorded time and places that have been inhabited by humans for more two millennia.

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The land is massive and diverse with incredible biodiversity and where everything survives from these limestone mountains. They hills are dotted with cave homes and castles forts every ten miles just to give you an idea of the scale of the countryside.

Driving beneath these ridges we had made our from Tarragona to Barcelona by sunset. Just an hour from Cartagena we could have been in Portugal or Morocco depending on our direction of our destination.

Destiny is the universal principle and the ultimate by which the order of things is presumably prescribed; the decreed cause of events and time. These are the Argons and maybe if these mountains had eyes, they would wake to find us standing in admiration of them. I can feel them and it is as if they could breathe life into me like the wind upon the earth’s shore. These Argon Mountains have seen untold sunrises with the many who have longed to conquer; not to forget the Crusaders who passed through here when they came only to thunder praise standing reverent and so silent.

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We were in these mountains in January near Valencia. We had just left Barcelona and on our way to Catalonia. It is close to Morocco was just thinking of the Moors and who fought and failed to take possession of this lands. When I look at them the land seems almost impenetrable for those who might have attempted to enter with the idea of conquering. There are just too many hilltop castles and  fortresses along the way to the East, North, and South and beyond.

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They left traces of history and probably built for protection from the Moors. It’s there in these mountains where I can almost feel the traces of destiny that they left behind. And it was here where I see proof that destiny is part of the life’s journey; and I know it does not come about without some tension and maybe we’re are not always supposed to know how things will be or turn out, but perhaps we were just lead hear by Faith. I don’t know for sure, but I think the mountain is in us; and maybe its just a part of the daily climb; where it continues to kindle my every enthusiasm, making my every nerve quiver, filling every pore and cell of me.

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Tenho saudades de você

  

Saudade is a word that is defined as a love that still remains after someone is gone. 

It is the recollection of my feelings about our experiences and the places and  events that have brought pleasure to our lives.

  
Saudade is a longing I have for you while you have been away. The longing for you has triggered my senses, but then I remember what it like when we are together and that makes me want to live again.

But really, saudade is a love parted and even though it’s only for a few days, there is a feeling of emptiness. There is nothing like truly missing someone; its like the other half of yourself is gone.

  
And it feels like  particular moments are missing too… I wonder if you feel it? Do you feel this absence too?

Do you think of me at all… Does it bring sad and happy feelings all? 

There is a kind of sadness coming from me and a happiness for having experienced these feeling. I think it might be a good thing after all. Maybe that’s when you know someone really loves you. 

  
In Portuguese, “Tenho saudades tuas” translates as “I have saudade of you” meaning “I miss you”, but to me, it means much more; it means; “I love you.” Hurry home. 

Winter in France

Situated near the Pyrenees and located in close proximity to the Mediterranean coast.

The climate of this French city is very wet with snow and a cold climate normally found in the Midi-Pyrenees area of southern France, alongside the banks of the Garonne River.

The winter months in the Mid Pyreneese are inspiring, when daytime times during January and February average around 12°C, and on occasion reach more than 15°C, although the nights can feel a little chilly.

Although the winter months between November and February are nothing like the cold, snowy affairs of northern Europe, the mountains do see its share of days and nights with freezing temperatures and the occasional snowfall.

 French Vieille Garde

  
The Old Guard (French Vieille Garde) were the elite veteran elements of the Emperor Napoleon’s Imperial Guard. 

As such it was the most prestigious formation in Napoleon’s Grande Armée. French soldiers often referred to Napoleon’s Imperial Guard as “the Immortals.” 

The Old Guard was formed of veteran soldiers who had served Napoleon since his earliest campaigns.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_Guard

Prayer For Paris

  

I blinked at the news when I heard about the slaughtered innocent in Paris. 

Then I bit my lip and closed my eyes, sighing. It was late;  why Paris? 

Why this, I was tired when the news came on at 3:00 AM in the morning. 

I did not know why I just happen to wake up when the news came on. 

Coincidence maybe. But it really gave me a sense of deep loss and longing. 

All I really wanted was to hear that this wasn’t real and maybe a cup of hope or anything…

I laid still next to him. There we stayed and crouched down. Then, next to us were the doggies.  

I tilted my head to his side, trying to figure out just why this violence was happening. 

Wondering why France as if was in my house, and why so close to our home. 

It wasn’t like the terrorist had been given a reason that they could just waltz into a peaceful loving nation whenever they liked… 

But civilians and peaceful and at that and in Paris. 

“No” I mumbled, drawing out in silence. A prayer for Paris; hoping for peace; an end to hate. 

And all around the world…all I wish is for everyone to love another.