It was just a typical London flat, but it was in a great neighborhood. It was across from the Playboy Club, diagonally. From one balcony you could read the time from Big Ben, and from the other balcony you could watch the bunnies go up and down.
quote by Harry Nilsson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Swan Dive
The windows were open
The night air was cold,
The curtains were blowing
Like ribbons of gold,
We stood there forever
Both Henry and me,
The night his wife dived
Off the balcony.
We looked at each other
We each shook our head,
And waited to hear if
The poor girl was dead,
I looked at my watch
It was just after three,
When Gwendoline dived
Off the balcony.
I waited a moment, then:
'What did I say?
Was that a faux pas about
You in Calais?
Or did she take umbrage
When I poured the tea?
Is that why she jumped
Off the balcony? '
'Don't think for a moment,
Old chap, ' he had said,
'I thought she had mumbled
And stumbled to bed!
She'd said she had someone
Tomorrow to see,
So why would she dive
Off the balcony? '
We walked very gingerly
Out through the door,
And peered on down from
The fifty-sixth floor,
I thought I could see a small
Splat by a tree,
Just where she had dived
Off the balcony.
Could that be your Gwendoline,
There on the ground?
That's funny, she dived all
That way, made no sound!
Not one little scream -
Did you hear? ' - 'Not me! '
When Gwendoline dived
Off the balcony.
The police galloped up
By the lift, through the doors,
'That splat in the courtyard, sir,
Could it be yours? '
Then Henry admitted that
It could well be,
His wife, who had dived
Off the balcony!
They made us go down with
A bucket and mop:
'Clean up every vestige,
Remove every drop!
You can't go round leaving
Wives haphazardly,
Whenever they dive
Off the balcony! '
They made us feel humble,
We lowered our heads,
I picked up her armpits,
He mopped up her legs,
But bits of her weren't where
In truth, they should be,
When Gwendoline dived
Off the balcony.
Much later he told me that
Wives one and two,
Had left in the very same way,
I said, 'True? '
It seems Gwendoline had been
Wife number three,
Who'd taken a dive
Off the balcony.
Now Henry has married
Again, number four,
He's moved his apartment down
To the ground floor,
He locks all his windows
And tells Stephanie,
'Don't ever you dive like
Wives one, two and three! '
3 June 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Once Again In The Southwest Balcony
what connects me to you
and this southwest balcony?
it's the same balcony
it's the same sky
and the chair too is the same...
you know, this late summer evening
the lightly-cast sky over the balcony
moved to descend on me sitting
as usual insulated in the accustomed chair
that typical cool early summer evening breeze
came swinging in fits only after
caressing the capricious clouds
it brushed past my forlorn cheeks
setting ablaze the memories i tightly
gift-wrapped and kept securely
in a tiny wicker-basket in my heart
the same passing cloud this time
released trillion needles of rain drops
even on my eye lids making it difficult for me
through the blurred vision there appeared
your persona once on the cloud
once between the real big rain drops
unique to a summer shower
alluring and eluding my grasp
an unknown destination beckoned me
between you and me
did i miss my way?
31mar2010
19.40hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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A Miracle for Breakfast
At six o'clock we were waiting for coffee,
waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb
that was going to be served from a certain balcony
--like kings of old, or like a miracle.
It was still dark. One foot of the sun
steadied itself on a long ripple in the river.
The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river.
It was so cold we hoped that the coffee
would be very hot, seeing that the sun
was not going to warm us; and that the crumb
would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle.
At seven a man stepped out on the balcony.
He stood for a minute alone on the balcony
looking over our heads toward the river.
A servant handed him the makings of a miracle,
consisting of one lone cup of coffee
and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb,
his head, so to speak, in the clouds--along with the sun.
Was the man crazy? What under the sun
was he trying to do, up there on his balcony!
Each man received one rather hard crumb,
which some flicked scornfully into the river,
and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee.
Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle.
I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle.
A beautiful villa stood in the sun
and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee.
In front, a baroque white plaster balcony
added by birds, who nest along the river,
--I saw it with one eye close to the crumb--
and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb
my mansion, made for me by a miracle,
through ages, by insects, birds, and the river
working the stone. Every day, in the sun,
at breakfast time I sit on my balcony
with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee.
We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee.
A window across the river caught the sun
as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony.
poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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6 degrees Celsius
-6 degrees Celsius.
from my balcony,
yes, the atlas
of my balcony,
with the music
of the masters
pouring forth
from within,
I follow the stars
direction Norway
and Sweden
while around the corner
one looks towards Iceland
and 'those islands'.
Kleve is just across the way
and Paris and Brussels
down the road.
this is my mainland!
poem by John O'connell
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So this is all a game
So this is all a game
I put my name tag on
You look at my face
Complete
And you are there lurking
From a balcony
Looking at me
I am real. I am the specimen.
You are all wearing masks
In a balcony of
Darkness
I am real.
And you all laughed so hard
“How can this real guy be so stupid? ”
The bastards are still alive.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Crikey
Appluading
Yesterday's news with glee
The attention seekers
Club together
On the balcony
Above the mourning nation
As the long hearse
Slowly draws away.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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Someday when peace has returned to this odd world I want to come to London again and stand on a certain balcony on a moonlit night and look down upon the peaceful silver curve of the Thames with its dark bridges.
quote by Ernie Pyle
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Standing Beside Fay One Saturday.
It was Saturday morning
and Fay stood beside you
on the balcony of the flats
looking over the Square
she pointed at the baker
and his horse drawn cart
down by the wall below
my daddy says he's Jewish
she said
those who asked
for the death of Christ
you followed the baker
as he made his way to the stairs
carrying his bread basket
I don't think he was involved
you said watching the baker
until he disappeared up the stairs
she looked right over the balcony
gripping the brick wall
with her hands
I don't think he's Jewish at all
she said letting her feet
dropp back on the floor
and it doesn't matter if he is
I think he's a nice man
she added
looking at you
with her bright blue eyes
and you gazed at her
standing there
her flowered dress
colourful and coming
just below her knees
her battered sandals
having seen
better days
and her fair hair
tied into a ponytail
at the back
she looked over
the balcony again
I like to feed his horse
with sugar cubes
I get from home
she said thoughtfully
you lean over the balcony
beside her
your elbow touching hers
the pulse of her being
vibrating into your arm
you imagine
don't your parents mind
you taking their sugar?
you asked
she looked guiltily away
they don't know
she said softly
daddy would punish
if he knew
she paused and then said
you won't tell them will you?
the baker came along
the balcony behind you both
whistling happily
of course not
you said
taking in her
trembling jaw line
her blue eyes
and her lips slightly open
her words gone
it's a nice day
the baker called
yes
you both replied
I don't think he's Jewish
she said
anyway.
poem by Terry Collett
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From a Great Height.
Beneath her balcony he’d sing
and promise love eternally.
The maiden spurned his offering.
She knew of his philandering.
But undeterred he’d nightly sing.
Experienced in the ways of maids.
He knew she would be listening
to hear his mandolin tinkling.
Eventually she would relent
appear upon the balcony.
Although she doubted his intent.
By trial and experiment.
He’d found that curiosity
A fatal weakness in young maids
would bring her to the balcony.
It always worked successfully.
It always had done in the past.
This maid was made of sterner stuff.
She vowed tonight would be the last
and down upon his head she cast.
The contents of her chamber pot.
Which served to dampen his ardour
Attar of roses it was not.
Although he deserved what he got.
I felt some little sympathy
to see him so discomfited.
To be drenched unexpectedly
in his intended victims pee.
A message that he’d not forget.
This lady was no easy prey.
The chamber pot she had upset
Has soaked him in Eau de Toilet.
He quickly hurried from the scene.
His pride damaged beyond repair.
His parting comments were obscene.
At least I thought they must have been..
No longer does the troubadour
Sing below her balcony
Sweet serenades about amour
No one has seen him any more.
07/09/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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London
Through the satellites, I fight with you
That loca l brew is spillin
I know just how you spend your time
I want to get my hands on him
Somebodys party in a london flat
Youre where its at and I know
You want to see me lose my mind
Im tired of chasing after you
The residue is jealous
See me on the d ark side of your mind
I want to get my hands on him
To a club thats pounding in the london rain
The world could end we wouldnt hear it
I know just whats on your mind
I see the way your face has changed
Were no good for each other
You tricked me into coming here
So let go, I dont want to go to london
I told you I dont care
I dont want to go to london
To live there
I dont want to go to london
All your friends afflicted
I dont want to go to london
Shes addicted
I saw you with h im
I know where youve been
That nose is broken wide open
Your way has got me out of line
I want to get my hands on him
You so... to make me
Prove it takes a fight to move you
I know just whats on your mind
Its been this way a thousand years
We torture each other
So why the helld you call me here
When you know
I dont want to go to london
I told you I dont care
I dont want to go to london
Live there
I dont want to go to london
All your friends afflicted
I dont want to go to london
Shes addicted
I dont want to go to london
I told you I dont care
I dont want to go to london
Cause youre not there
I dont want to go to london
Even when I see you
Somewhere else in london
I dont want to go to london
song performed by by Third Eye Blind
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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a pessimistic view from a balcony in Paris
A Pessimistic view from a Balcony in Paris
Fine rain, open umbrella, sitting on the balcony of a hotel
overlooking Haussmann – Saint Lazare. A throng of people
and cars, but something as changed, people drinks Starbuck
coffee and eat burgers on the hoof. Old restaurants are
closing or converted to fast-food joints. I sigh and drink from
a bottle of Bordeaux to avoid getting rainwater in my wine.
This place together with rue d’Amsterdam used to be where
the posh people lived and now, safe for the ruddy scrap yard
tower, this could have been downtown New York.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Changes At The Un
I spent my youth with a gun and a dog in the fields of Clare,
Hunting rabbits and pheasants and ducks and fast running hare,
So the long tail feathers of the cock pheasants, I knew well,
Then I became a member Canadian navel personnel.
At the UN in the mid 50s looking down from balcony,
A pheasant feather in a lady’s hat amid UN pageantry,
Sitting down there at the Irish desk but she didn’t care,
That the face on the balcony came all the way from County Clare.
But those were the days when the UN had a very good name,
Not like nowadays when so many tend to viciously complain,
But that was very long ago and I was much younger then,
Am I the only one who noticed the change, now among the old men?
JAN 19th,2011
poem by James Bredin
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Don Juan's Serenade
Darkness descends
on Alpujara's golden land.
My guitar invites you,
come out my dear!
Whoever says that there are others
who can be compared to you,
whoever burns for your love,
I challenge them all to a duel!
Now the moon
has set the sky alight,
come out, Nisetta, oh come out, Nisetta,
on to your balcony, quickly!
From Seville to Granada
in the silence of the nights,
one can hear the sound of serenades
and the clashing of swords.
Much blood, many songs,
pour forth for the lovely ladies;
and I, for the loveliest one of all
am ready to give my song and my blood.
Now the moon
has set the sky alight,
Come out, Nisetta, oh come out, Nisetta,
on to your balcony, quickly!
poem by Aleksey Konstantinovich Tolstoy
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The Happy Flatite
We were living in a flat; it was number eighty-three.
At eighty-four the Barleys lived, a fearsome man was he.
He had a wife and numerous kids. We heard then rip and cuss,
Some three feet and a quarter off, across the hall from us.
And when the Barley boys broke out, and ended up in fight,
Or when the Barley baby read the Riot Act at night,
And on their balcony their cat put up an eerie moan,
The fearful Barley family might as well have been our own.
When Barley after parting with some others of the ilk
Came panting up the narrow stairs, and drank our jug of milk,
Then broke out at his missus, and as fiercely answered she –
Where was the great advantage of our marked sobriety?
When Barley bedded early he would shake the common floor
And fill the gulf of night with an intolerable snore,
And people in the other wing at us their bluchers threw –
What good if we slept soft as snow and silent as the dew?
This Barley when unoccupied would fill my study chair,
And utilise much time, and take up space I could not spare,
To tell me of the deeds he’d done, his drinkings deep and vast,
And ladies who had loved him in his sanguinary past.
And Mrs. Barley dropped in – in the morning, as a rule –
And stayed till lunch and chattered like a ladies’ boarding-school.
Then she borrowed bread and onions, and wondered if she might
Leave her little Willie with us. She was going out till night.
Our little flat’s forsaken; we have left St. Kilda road;
We knew not where to go to, and we haven’t an abode;
But no flat in any building that we’d suffered in was worth
The comfort of a camp-out. So we’re flat upon the earth!
poem by Edward George Dyson
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direct from Orlando
at the balcony
he smokes his cigar hiding from the view
of his wife who is washing the dishes after we had dinner
over stuffed squid and
fish fillet
what i like is the rice
i evaded the hide and seek of what i think is still harsh
direct from Orlando
lost business
unpaid mortgage
bad economy
they blame it on
bad economy
as he smokes
circles form above his head
and from time to time he peeks at the side of the door
seeing to it that no one sees him
i am not that dumb
to know that there is a big problem
the reason why they are back
i like the sauce
the chili that runs like a jagged knife inside my mouth
he is jobless
and does the laundry and kitchen works
children had to quit school and start to work
to pay the heater and the water
snow is cold, it is colder now
meanwhile i glanced at the sunset
the balcony overlooks the bay of Dapitan
once a hero and a white woman made love there
we knew the ending
it was sad.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Balcony
Balcony
By Ashraf Gohar Goreja
Sweet laughter, melodic and dulcet chatters
Evaporating smell of blooming fragrance
Confining beauties, descended from the blue havens
Afternoon hours of sobering rest
But this somber, lonely street was alive with zest.
Devout friends, their glamour and laughter in the balcony
Unimaginable saga of adventuring love
Conferred onto those passing by strangers
Who never pay heed to inducing allure
Merely, this enchanting mise en scene is demure
Copyright: June 30th,2003.
Ashraf Gohar goreja
poem by Ashraf Gohar Goreja
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Over the weekend the vultures got into the presidential palace by pecking through the screens on the balcony windows and the flapping of their wings stirred up the stagnant time inside, and at dawn on Monday the city awoke out of its lethargy of centuries with the warm, soft breeze of a great man dead and rotting grandeur.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez in The Autumn of the Patriarch (1975), translated by Gregory Rabassa
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Superficiality goes from the door to the balcony.
It Is Free!
She has dressed up for the night,
Carrying two bunnies tight,
The bunnies breathe up and down,
The men, who see, salivate and drown,
She has a beast in her, the fierce beast,
But silenced, can be dormant for a while,
They want to fight with the bunnies to boast,
Barter trading between the money and the body,
Not knowing the beast in the trader,
They get it not even discounted,
But for free, the HIV, again accounted.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Christmas on the balcony, Easter by the fire.