December 26, 2015 



What are gargoyles but fancy gutters spitting water away
from the carefully carved facade. Strange creatures we long to accept.
We ask them to protect the stone carvings of our cathedrals.
And they do. But they remain our own desire to snarl and snap, yet long to be accepted.
They are our stone reflections, our shattered hearts, our deepest fears made into tiny monsters.

Today, in Montmartre standing in the dome of Sacre Coeur,
I found my own terrified monster, fear of falling.
Can you imagine me as a gargoyle? Screaming bloody murder, afraid of heights.
What a silly, ineffectual creature I’d make.
But perhaps that is just what they are – terrified and screaming,
powerless to walk down the winding staircase and go home.

©Adele Slaughter, 2015


December 25, 2015 

From the Sacred–Notre-Dame


To the profane.

Merry Christmas.



December 24, 2015 

On Christmas Eve

A visit to Monet’s waterlilies.
Weeping willow in wind & red, orange & blue, flowering lilies at
all times of day. Sunset, night, dusk & noonday sun – my favorite.
Outside, you exclaim, “the light, look at the light.”
So I take a photo of you and the light in front of L’Orangerie.
A walk along the Seine,
you capture me. You have me.
Down to the Latin Quarter.
One piano in a small church, Saint Ephrem.
Chopin, Satie, Liszt, some Bach for an encore.
Tears flow as do the pianist’s fingers over the keys.
Christmas eve.
At the church altar the baby Jesus not yet in the creche.
Not yet born our year of two thousand fifteen.
For unto us Peace is born, unto us a time of forgiveness.

Unto us Love is born.

©Adele Slaughter, 2015

December 23, 2015 

Learning Love

In the garden called Tuileries a statue by Maillol –
facing you, Pomona. We face the Eiffel Tower.
Boxwood’s musky scent brings you close.
Your full body admired by Maillol, Matisse,
Henry Moore.
A woman with a real body.
Full breasts & bottom & sturdy legs.
Hands holding fruit.
Such a relief to learn how to love
one’s self through art.
More, please.

©Adele Slaughter, 2015


December 22, 2015

Paris Book of Dreams

Finding good strong coffee for the morning cup
Croissants, oh warm butter
Whipped eggs on bacon
Playing vinyl records in a coffee shop
Strangers don’t say hello on the streets
Arched passageways
A man playing a harp under an arch
Getting lost right next to where you want to be
Willingness to speak in English, Merci
Two Moroccan women walk me to Rue des Rosiers
I still can’t find my way, such agony
Beautiful graffiti, a leopard cat on a wall
The crown of thorns displayed the first Friday of the month
Hot chocolate thick
Love of language & fashionable eyewear
Paper, ink, small paintings, still life, nudes.
Perfume & tea
Candles light my way.


December 21, 2015



La Sainte Chapelle, the Holy Chapel

Light breathes through stained glass

A vault of glass, a rosette window at one end-

the colors of lapis lazuli,

verdant green,

lush red.

All this-

Essence made material.

Standing in the ChapelIMG_1562

the mere sight takes my breath,

hold me close.

Tears, a smile.

Light within, without.

You are here.

Show me what I am-

the best of me.

©Adele Slaughter, 2015



December 20, 2015


Lack of Content Is the Message

            -written in chalk on a wall in the Le Marais, Paris 2015

Open the doors to the church on the hill. Mountain of the martyr.

A saint who was decapitated there, walked for a while holding his head.

The same way I do now. Walk beside myself.

There is the me you see and the me I feel myself to be.

Meditating in the French mass, it might seem as if I am,

but I am not, sleeping.

I hear the Amens moving through me –

floating down like a sheet pulled from a laundry line.

I feel the touch of a Hand – as Divine as things get for me.

We walk the cobblestone streets, holy water spitting at us.

Rough boys jump the turnstile.

There is nothing to fear unless you turn your away from yourself.

©Adele Slaughter, 2015



December 19, 2015

Today. After a chance encounter. As we drink a noisette café,

you talk until your words tremble and your hands become still again.

Your heart was folded into a swan, how do I live with an origami heart?

I wish I could answer, say let it take flight.

Can hearts fly? I don’t know but it’s better than stopping.

A second noisette.

We walked, arms linked to the great Cathedral, to the bookstore,

we kept walking until gargoyles became angels.

The sky turned pink with our walking. Color came back to your cheeks.

Be kind.

©Adele Slaughter, 2015



December 18, 2015

On Jeff’s Birthday

Today I found you straining against stone.

You’re eyes lion weary.

Your body looking a little mossy.

I want to hear you break free.IMG_1472

In a window a dream of books is your party.

The dreamers are the three little pigs.


I tell the moon, it is time to stop complaining.

Rising and setting every day holds

the luxury of movement.

We are free to come and go.



December 17, 2025

Poem of Travel

Off the plane

the smell of a new city—

greets me.

My brain unravels from too little sleep.

Coffee, baguette with fresh butter, cheese

Walking Paris streets with my friend—

my essence struggles

to catch up

my body hurled through space


finding center

just behind my eyes.

Sleep will bring

the rest of me


I am going to be in Paris for 12 days starting on the 17th of December, and my girlfriends have challenged me to write a poem a day on my trip. You can find those posted at my Facebook group, 30 Poems in 30 Days (even though it’ll only be 12 in 12 this time). For my more visually-oriented readers, there will also be lovely photos documenting my trip. To whet your appetite, here’s a poem of mine: