I am fond of this, so after havering over the lateness — because of travel — decided to post anyway. What the heck!
He left Paris,
where he felt trapped behind windows and walls,
as if buried in a granite tomb.
He found an island of jasmine and demons,
a daily montage of sunsets and bird whistles,
an island of ample hipped and breasted women,
where his flawed soul found freedom,
a place where he found the paintable
in every scrap and stone.
There are forty other poems to read at The Sunday Whirl, so head on over, if you haven’t been.
You will see me again for an unexpected Your Serendipity@Thursday Thoughts, tomorrow; and, again Friday for the roundup.
Happy reading and writing.