The Montemarte cafe
Lone table sits
Half empty bottle
Glass to lift
Pensive caught
With outward stare
In this beautiful era
Of Paris to glare.
Its said that life
Hangs by silken strings
La Belle Epoque
As art it sings
Beneath the street lights
Love it swoons
Its beating heart
Its coloured moon.
Parisian sunlight
In morning seeps
To dusty floors
Its promise keeps
To begin again
A golden age
Prophet or god
Convention slain.
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Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: April 3rd, 2026 01:47
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: Carlos Alberto BUSTILLOS
Offline)
Comments2
Good write N.
Thanks always appreciated
Such a wonderful casting of mood and setting in this piece all set to good rhyme. Nicely done Norman
most kind, thanking you always appreciated
You are most welcome Norman
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