IN PARIS

"Look long at what pleases you.

Look longer at what displeases you."

La Colette (French writer)

Outdoor cafe facing fountain,

light rain, students

without umbrellas laughing,

children dancing between

rain drops, gathering gold

leaves to wave like

flags, beautiful women

wearing boots, dark ponies,

one in skin tight, black

leather leggings, tiny skirt,

over the knee black leather

ponies, black leather jacket,

long purple feather earrings,

shiny black mane, galloping-

a man saunters toward the

fountain, laughing to himself,

turns, arms raised to

each rain drop, all black,

bright red shoes, he

leaps and turns, stealing

my smile, my gaze,

echo of Artaud, Anais

Nin, Colette, Proust, the

bright red shoes they wore,

the magic of this city on

his feet, he dances,

twirls, leaps, laughs,

arms raised for a moment-

I want to follow him,

photograph him, the bright

red shoes, his laughter,

but I let him go, the

magic of this city,

timeless sensuality, joy,

Colette's full mocking gaze,

her wonder, I see.

* * * *

Beautiful African man,

car next to me, me in a

tour bus, he in a sleek

suit, smiling up at me, such

charm, such confidence,

I look away, what I usually

do, then glance back,

he's still smiling, I

meet his gaze, smiling,

he blows me a kiss,

drives away, hey the

brothers in Paris are

fiiiiiine, no memories

of being strung up,

sold on the block,

castrated, the slavery

DNA, wow, I smile to

myself, that's what a

free African man feels like,

yet the black men of my

country slowly transforming

the sorrow, the poison,

as are my brown brothers,

into the joy, the confidence

to blow a kiss

to the human

of their choosing,

oh beauty oh beauty

oh beauty,

I blow you all

a kiss from

Paris.

* * * *

Brown, black sisters, their

stilettos, knee high boots,

drum their stunning dance,

the street hums with

celebration, I hear Shange's

words in their passing, "I

found god in myself and I

loved her. I loved her

fiercely." Slavery, rape,

genocide, hatred, healed

oh healed in that strutting

confident walk, I murmur,

"Work it, sister, yeah

work it," smiling as they

strut by- low cut

black dress, black

nylons, stiletto heels,

gold hoop earrings,

gaze of a queen, a

Goddess, I'm staring,

look around, quick glance,

a few men. This morning, my

birth day, men waving at

me, smiling as I pass, why

aren't they gawking at this

20 something surreal beauty,

I wonder, I ask the man next

to me, our conversation (pretty

stunning himself, black

leather to his boots, small

diamond right ear)- "Why

aren't men falling off their

chairs with this kind of

beauty passing by..." I

pause, gather truth... "and

why are men flirting with me,

old enough to be her mother,"

(really grandmother, my

granddaughter 29 as is my

youngest son, I keep this

to myself), ah vanity, I

laugh, "in the USA she'd

have to hire armed guards."

He smiles, taking me in, "Here,

we love the ripened woman

and the ripened man, a

rarity, that integration of

wisdom and innocence. That

refusal to become bitter, I

hope to achieve that, and

this is why you write, no?"

"Yes," I laugh,

tears stinging my eyes,

yes, and he pours

me white wine from

his bottle, 11am-

"To the ripened woman,

to the ripened man,"

he smiles, and we drink

to that.

"I found god in myself

and I loved her.

I loved her fiercely."

Work it.

* * * *

Wearing my Santa Fe black

Panama hat, Paris morning,

men smile, blow me kisses,

the word chapeau I recognize,

they love my hat, where

else in the world do men

love your chapeau- elegant

older woman on Metro,

Dior glasses, Dior purse,

outfit, elegant cane,

meets my eyes, smiles with

approval, briefly...

The Pantheon, Voltaire's

bones are here, the

ones that held him up

to walk, write, love,

just his bones, yet

the glowing dust of

his bones, the one

who wrote, "Paradise is

where I am," is gone,

the bones don't speak,

his spirit, his words,

speak, and Colette, she's

not in the Pantheon with

all the honored men, she's

buried in the earth

she loved, become earth,

air, the sky we breathe,

flying things soar on

her breath, and Jim

Morrison sings harmony...

"Paradise is where we

are, paradise is where

we are, oh paradise

is always

is always

is always

where we are are are

par a dise we are..."

* * * *

Luxembourg Gardens,

a magical nymph pond,

sculptured fairies and

demons, grandmother trees

loosing leaves to be

come young in spring,

surrounded by arches of

trained ivy, sedate, spoiled

ducks in pond, a small

boy tosses a love letter

to the indifferent ducks,

he screams with delight

as they peck it once,

not food, swim on-

you grab a metal

chair, sit where you

wish to view the magic,

shadows, last Sun sings

to the fairies and demons...

Soon they'll be gone, you'll

be free to bathe, make love,

create beauty, chaos,

until they come with their

metal chairs

to witness

the magic

you weave

toward dawn.

I come closer to the

fountain, the large

faun/demon hovers

over the pool menacingly,

lovingly, below him

two lovers entwined,

making love for-ever, a

young couple sits next to

this beauty, warning, she

sits in his lap, laughing, he

holds her intimately, laughing,

they pay no attention to

the faun/demon, why

should they, this is the

moment to love, this perfect

moment. This garden.

I stumble on. My last

day. In Paris. This enchanted.

Pool. The faun/demon

(blesses me). He does.

* * * *

And I realize, for

once, I look longer

at what pleases,

the simple beauty

of love, I look

longer at what

pleases me, my last

day. In Paris.

Alma Luz Villanueva

October 2010

**Even when I was (very) poor, I always found ways to find joy/ecstasy, even if I had to steal it...may we steal it, bless it, share it, pass it on, the gift of JOY, to look longer at what pleases us, the simple beauty of love...

into the Sixth World.