Poetry Circle, Nov. 12, 2025

Paris Cafe, 1991

by Billie Mears

Sitting in the famous rattan chair

at a marble table for two.

Wine glasses half full

and a tomato tart half gone.

Wearing sunglasses to soften the sun,

and a rose-colored scarf to keep out the cold,

smiling for the camera and the photographer.

I used to wonder if I'd ever visit Paris.

Now, I look at found photographs from five trips

to the City of Love,

and I am a believer.

Love can take us anywhere our hearts desire,

and photographs can time travel to the past.

Remembering this, I see his reflection emerge,

in the glass window behind the girl in the photograph,

the man she loves caressing the camera.

Her protector, the keeper of her heart.

They are climbing life's magnetic ladder together

to a future time when

this moment and others

will return,

a memory reserved.

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This poem won First Place in Write on the Sound’s Writing Conference Poetry Contest in 2017, now published in the 40th Anniversary Anthology

Old Neighborhood

by Billie Mears, 2017

The watery moon floated in pools of city street water,

floated down lanes where houses were lit up like

birthday candles in a darkened room.

I leaned against you as we walked,

my hand tucked around your elbow,

my free hand carrying the umbrella,

not needed this night since the rain had stopped.

“We lived in this neighborhood how long ago?”

 I asked.

“I can’t remember how long,” you said

squeezing my hand into the side of your ribs.

We returned to walk familiar lanes whenever

we wanted to remember those years,

now lost in the shadows,

when our walks were the most important part

of our time together.

My hand in yours, always safe.

We didn’t live in any of the big houses.

We just liked them.

We liked looking at them, with their windows

of golden light, their well-manicured lawns and

winding driveways.

We lived around the corner in a small

second floor apartment.

Our wealth could not be counted in terms of

windows or gardeners.

“We have a history of walking,” I said.

“Yes,” you said simply, sweetly,

and we began to slow the pace of our steps.

The moon illuminated the silver in your hair.

I smiled, feeling rich

with every blessing and step.

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