Where MacGregor sits at the head of the table.
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A Certain Doubt
it has been here
do you see it? she points to a
black spot
on the white mantel
it's been there i said
never shall it be removed
it is part of the landscape on the table
and without which,
mind you
this table would be incomplete
she feels uneasy about it
there is this certain doubt if she really knows
about me
it is enough that she sits by my side
lays her head on my shoulder and then we enjoy
most the silence
between our concerns
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Old Man
He sits quietly murmuring
Talking only to himself
His eyes sunken and dark
A look of tiredness across his face
His head is slightly bowed
Resting upon his hand
He sits alone in almost darkness
Except for a small table lamp
In the far corner of the room
There is little in the way of light
Old books gather dust
In piles around upon the floor
Those stories he once read
The worlds to which he escaped
Now stacked without order
Like memories becoming forgot
A glass of vintage wine
Held in his thin, bone like fingers
Softens his pallet, soothes his throat
While he sits alone each night
In quiet conversation with himself
Another old man growing grey
Wishing on yesterdays
poem by Matthew Holloway
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An Old Man
At the noisy end of the cafe, head bent
over the table, an old man sits alone,
a newspaper in front of him.
And in the miserable banality of old age
he thinks how little he enjoyed the years
when he had strength, eloquence, and looks.
He knows he's aged a lot: he sees it, feels it.
Yet it seems he was young just yesterday.
So brief an interval, so brief.
And he thinks of Prudence, how it fooled him,
how he always believed - what madness -
that cheat who said: "Tomorrow. You have plenty of time."
He remembers impulses bridled, the joy
he sacrificed. Every chance he lost
now mocks his senseless caution.
But so much thinking, so much remembering
makes the old man dizzy. He falls asleep,
his head resting on the cafe table.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Reincarnate....
she says she had been here
once
she remembers the exact
details
he was frying an egg
sunny side up as she wants it
to be
she sits on one of those rattan
chairs beside a
mahogany table
he is about to put a cup of coffee
brewing on her table
and that is it...
there was a big bang...flashes of light... then
darkness... reality sucks...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Fisherman
He sits by the shore
all day long casting his bait
line after line
into the lake fishing
hoping for that bite
the kind that makes his day
but nothing comes
he sits there alone
only thoughts for company
what goes through his head
while he sits there
watching cold eyed
the open lake before him
is he at peace
or making plans
who could say
he just sits there alone
watching
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Table
Who is sitting at our table
In our favourite restaurant.
Looking into each others eyes
While chatter smothers
Loving sighs.
As she holds his hand to squeeze
Under the table.
Will our ghosts drift on the breeze
Out of the window
Through the trees.
To be lost forever
Like a heartbeat
In dark streets
To pass away
Like loving nights on satin sheets.
Who sits at your table
Where candlelight
Lit your smile.
And we drank red wine in style.
To taste the sweetness
On your lips
The fruit of love
Minus the pips.
All out plans
We'd always discuss.
You would always make a fuss
About what you would wear
On our wedding day.
At that table
Our guest of fate did sit.
But didn't rest,
Couldn't stay.
Leaving me alone in twilight meadow
Like one last flower
To sway.
poem by Kevin East
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He sits at the kitchen table, which is the only authentic way to touch down at home in Queens.
quote by Francis X. Clines
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Today... 'Friend of publicans and sinners
The Son of Man came here eating and drinking
'He is a glutton' all the priests were thinking.
But wisdom by all her children is proved right
truth's revealed only to those who've seen the light.
This Jesus in His mercy befriended me
and died to make me part of His family.
No glutton or drunkard is this Friend of mine
but head of the table at which I will dine.
Behold what luxurious food loads the board
When at His heavenly table sits the Lord.
The wine is so rich and the bread how so sweet
when Jesus invites sinners with Him to eat.
Where would I be if Jesus was not my Friend?
I dread to think how my sinful life would end.
Standing alone before God's white Judgement Throne.
No Intercessor to help and on my own.
For those who the world ignores and dismisses
the Son of Man showers with love and kisses.
Seeking sinners and tax collectors to save
He endured the cross and rose up from the grave.
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box)
Sudden Movements
My father's head has become a mystery to him.
We finally have something in common.
When he moves his head his eyes
get big as roses filled
with the commotion of spring.
Not long ago he was a man
who had tomato soup for lunch
and dusted with the earnestness
of a gun fight. Now he's a man
who sits at the table trying to breathe
in tiny bites. When they told him
his spinal column is closing, I thought
of all the branches he's cut
with loppers and piled and burned
in the fall, the pinch of the blades
on the green and vital pulp. Surgeons
can fuse vertebrae, a welders art,
and scrape the ring through which
the soul-wires flow as a dentist
would clean your teeth.
And still it could happen, one turn
of his head toward a hummingbird,
wings keeping that brittle life
afloat, working hard against the fall,
and he might freeze in that pose
of astonishment, a man estranged
from the neck down, who can only share
with his body the silence
he's pawned on his children as love.
He Has His Own Way
as i enter this cheap
restaurant he also sits
on the other side
of the table on one
of those dusty
rattan chairs
i take my bite
he puts his
toothpick between
his lips and leave
them there
for a while
his hands are
on the table
holding an
orange as
though it is
a cotton bud
that his fingers
play with
he looks at me
and i look at
him. I know what
he wants
any simpleton
will know what
the tongue
has been doing
on the toothpick
between his lips
i look down the
floor and then
i decide to
leave. It is not
the usual rush
hour in this
hot city far
from my
rural home
where the mountains
protrude to touch
a bulging blue cloud.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Old grey eyes
Old grey eyes
~
He sits alone in the bar
Slumped into his chair
Looking down onto the table
Turning the glass in his hand
Occasionally, looking up
He surveys the room quietly
His brow furrowed
Eyes deep cast look tired
The is an air of sadness about him
That no-one seems to know
He is just old grey eyes
The man who sits in a bar alone
Looking down at his drink
Almost mouthing words
In conversation with himself
He is sensibly dressed
With old tatty shoes
He picks through his change
Counting out another drink
He will be there for a while longer
And then when he has gone
Who will say ‘old grey eyes’
‘Do you remember him’
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Four colours
It is Brhmin
Who cracks his head
To seek knowledge
And sits supreme.
Fully secure.
It is Kshatrya
Who whips his ego
To seek power
And sits on the throne.
Fully in pride.
It is Vysya
Who stirs his desire
To seek wealth
And sits on the cushion.
Fully in comfort.
It is Sudhra
Who toils his limbs
To seek perfection
And wait for recognition.
Fully in satisfaction.
We lost many strains
In the process of revolt.
17.10.99
[Indoaryans lived as four different castes over centuries till the last centurary.]
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Any Time Any Place
I can call it mine
if I lay down my weary head sit at a table or dine
call a friend have a chat
read a message or two
are these words merely cutting through
the edges of writs in haste at that
any time any place I can call it mine
if I lay down my weary head sit at a table or dine
'cos I'm not sure if it makes any difference at all
we build the houses in tower cards in homes with walls
with two many walls
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Webster and I are very aloof. The two of us go and sit there by ourselves. I sit by myself in the corner with my book and the newspaper. He kind of runs around a little bit, and then he goes and sits on top of the picnic table. He never plays with other little dogs.
quote by Calista Flockhart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Tale Of New Year
The table sits in darkened room
Its fare all spent its contents strewn
All use now ended, empty shell
A place where only thoughts now dwell
For this is last years empty table
Feasted on by all those able
Some who sat and joined the fest
Have left our mortal life to rest
Friends anew have stepped on board
As life continues rest assured
For in the light of room next door
The circle starts again once more
A brand new table full to flowing
What it holds not ours for knowing
Be sure this though safe from fear
To take your place for this New Year
Amongst the newly laid out feast
When hope and faith are all increased
Savour what this new year brings
As midnight bells chime 12 strong rings.
poem by Dave James
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Happy New Year?
The table sits in darkened room
Its fare all spent its contents strewn
All use now ended, empty shell
A place where only thoughts now dwell
For this is last years empty table
Feasted on by all those able
Some who sat and joined the fest
Have left our mortal life to rest
Friends anew have stepped on board
As life continues rest assured
For in the light of room next door
The circle starts again once more
A brand new table full to flowing
What it holds not ours for knowing
Be sure this though safe from fear
To take your place for this New Year
Amongst the newly laid out feast
When hope and faith are all increased
Savour what this new year brings
As midnight bells chime 12 strong rings.
poem by Dave James
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All Alone
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
HER CHILDREN GROWN
WITH FAMILY OF THEIR OWN
SHE WONDERS WHAT HAPPEN
CHILDREN ALL OF THREE
THEY HAVE GROWN LIKE FRUIT UPON THE TREES
GRANDCHILDREN SHE HAS SIX
GETTING HARDER TO REMEMBER THEIR NAMES
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
NO ONE COMES TO VISIT
HER GRANDCHILDREN DOESN, T KNOW HER
HER CHILDREN HAS FORSAKEN HER
SHE WONDERS WHY
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
SHE LOVED HER CHILDREN DEARLY
WANTED NOTHING BUT THE BEST
WORKED HARD AND WENT WITHOUT
HER CHILDREN SHE WOULD DIE FOR
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
SHE WONDERS WHY
SHE THOUGHT THEY WOULD BE AROUND HER
LIKE ALL MOTHERS DO
GET TOGETHERS ON SUNDAYS
SEE A MOVIE OR TWO
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
SHE REEKS HER BRAIN
WONDERS WHAT DID SHE EVER DO
TO GET SUCH COLD TREATMENT
FROM THE BABIES SHE ONCE KNEW
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
THE ANGELS CAME AND CARRIED HER HOME
poem by Verna Ralph
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The Table
This table is reserved an invitation for two,
only one sits alone and the other chair is bare.
He waits and waits as the hours creep through.
Stares at the empty space and wonders where are you.
He looks at his watch as another hour ticks by,
looks at the door to see who is coming through.
He feels eyes staring, probably wondering whom
he is waiting for as the minutes turn to hours.
The empty chair remains bare
as outside the sun sets as night begins to call.
This table is reserved for two, but where are you?
He thinks of all the reasons why you could be late
for this most important date.
He has rehearsed his lines of what he purposed to say.
The box with the ring within his pocket stays.
Where are you he wonders, do you love him anymore?
The negative thoughts invaded his mind
as he waits looking at the door, just waiting for you.
Finally the waiter comes along and tells him they are about to close.
He gives one last look at the door, then gets up and goes.
The reserved table for two stands empty and bare.
Those who should have sat there are gone never to return,
and as the light go out the table stands alone and forlorn.
24 September 2008
poem by David Harris
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At his own cost
Perfection sits on a heap of wastage.
Discipline sits on a pack of stresses.
Promptness sits on a sack of neglects.
One thus satisfies others at one’s cost.
20.08.2009
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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