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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Related quotes
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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Food On My Table
Come and see the food on my table,
For it is prepared for you and me;
And, i am waiting for you in the room of my love.
Life is full of surprises and i want to show you my love,
And here comes the sun of the morning to touch your heart;
For, it is right for you to be beside me at this table.
The food on my table,
As soon as you receive my letter means that i love you;
For life is full of surprises and i want your love,
So come and let us share this food on my table.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Sadness of The Empty Home
The light flickers on
Illuminates the empty hallway
The thud, click of a door in closing
Brings a silence to the room
A heavy sigh escapes
A look to the mirror sees only
Tired eyes looking back
A bag lain upon the small table
The light turned back off
On route to yet another room
Light creeps through the window
Allowing enough to see
The sound of a running tap
Filling the kettle for a final drink
Keys thrown upon a side
The clatter of cups and spoons
Then further silence
Now the creaking of a staircase
Another door opened
Another light flicked on
The curtains drawn to the world
Drink set beside the bed
The silence of the empty home
Fills the heart with loneliness
A television switched into life
Nothing worth watching
Just a sound there to fill
The silence and the sadness
Of the empty home
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Empty
A table, chair,
and empty wall
surround me where I sit,
my thoughts hark back
to days gone by
and the way it used to be.
Everything was touched
with love;
its warmth enveloped me here.
Every room was filled
with wonderful things
dotted here and there.
The walls were never empty,
pictures and photographs
looked down at me,
as I would sit here.
Someone had forgotten bills
that had to be paid.
Then came the bailiffs.
I look around and everything is gone.
My life is left in misery.
Oh, what happened?
What went so dearly wrong?
Our loving home is now empty, even of you.
27 June 2007
poem by David Harris
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The Banquet For The Spectator
the table is abundant
like life, but to be happy
i eat nothing,
i watch them all
fill their appetites
after this banquet
i ask them to take away
all that is unconsumed.
when the table is empty
what i have is full satisfaction
of course, i never tell them
i am polite.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Disciplined
like a disciplined cat
he sits on the chair
on a motionless scale
staring at an empty
breakfast table
an empty cup
an empty bowl
on those empty hours
she expects him to say
meow
but he didn't
in an hour he left and
tells the wind about it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Visiting Something Previous
you take a trip
back to the place where meaning was once
there. An empty room that you left.
Now someone lives there and he does not know your name,
there will be a brief introduction
of who you are and what you do for a living
and he will ask why you have come back
you say that you are just passing by
you are looking for the word
the spark in your heart
somewhere on the study table
or on the book shelf
a poem, some little notes on the wall,
there is nothing there anymore
exept the scent of the nearby comfort room
beside your room
that stink that made you leave
it was that which made you pass by
as you were telling the new tenant.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sketches Of Life
early morning
it will be the same sound
of cocks
crowing,
harbingers of
a new day
up on the tree
their only guide whether to
take the jump
to the ground is the
sun,
she is safe in sleep
as i take the usual journey
again
with all the cocks
crowing
the trees have black leaves
roads and fences are bold strokes
of the Chinese brush
from a painter in Vietnam
i remember
his feet are cut
one wonders if we can be whole
again
when the fragile glasses of our arms
are all broken
early mornings when
the hens are silent
when the ref murmur
a nameless song
when i sound like an empty
gong
love emaciated
like a malnourished
African child
one exhibits the boredom
of his words like
one malling without anything
in mind to buy
nothing specific except
the will to kill time
that does not serve
any use
at the pasta room
where the tea people are not around
on one table the two lesbians are drinking beer
while the two queers on the
other table near the rest room
are exchanging some pleasantries
of notes
they are not singing
but giggling
a man that they call as dark and handsome
passes by
it is strange because he is not wearing anything
his face is covered with black cloth
as though he is bound
for the gallows
there is yet no food on my table
the waitress is busy biting her nails
the mother beside a kid is slapping herself
it is strange here and i put some money on the table
and leave
i need some air to breathe
this world is suffocating.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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untitled ONE
early morning
it will be the same sound
of cocks
crowing,
harbingers of
a new day
up on the tree
their only guide whether to
take the jump
to the ground is the
sun,
she is safe in sleep
as i take the usual journey
again
with all the cocks
crowing
the trees have black leaves
roads and fences are bold strokes
of the Chinese brush
from a painter in Vietnam
i remember
his feet are cut
one wonders if we can be whole
again
when the fragile glasses of our arms
are all broken
early mornings when
the hens are silent
when the ref murmur
a nameless song
when i sound like an empty
gong
love emaciated
like a malnourished
African child
one exhibits the boredom
of his words like
one malling without anything
in mind to buy
nothing specific except
the will to kill time
that does not serve
any use
at the pasta room
where the tea people are not around
on one table the two lesbians are drinking beer
while the two queers on the
other table near the rest room
are exchanging some pleasantries
of notes
they are not singing
but giggling
a man that they call as dark and handsome
passes by
it is strange because he is not wearing anything
his face is covered with black cloth
as though he is bound
for the gallows
there is yet no food on my table
the waitress is busy biting her nails
the mother beside a kid is slapping herself
it is strange here and i put some money on the table
and leave
i need some air to breathe
this world is suffocating.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Senses of Christmas
One day a year sights and sounds combine into one,
As people sing of love and joy,
As lights flash and music rings.
On this day people join,
Family joins family,
Friends join friends.
Lights shine like a light from heaven,
And the snow falls covering the world with a white sheet of wonder,
Peoples eyes glisten with joy and faith,
Children open presents smiles wide and eyes like candy.
The faces bright with hope,
Of years that past and years that come.
A feast is set that would be fit for a king,
Turkey and Ham cook and become ready to eat,
Everyone waiting for the time to eat,
And everyone joins hands areound the table,
Giving thanks to everything they have,
As they continue with their celebration of family and love.
Familys sit around the tree,
Picking gifts to shake and squeeze them,
To try to guess at what may lay inside.
And they all give as much as they recieve,
All of them showing their love for the other in every way possible,
As the come together on this christmas day.
One day a year sights and sounds combine into one,
As people sing of love and joy,
As lights flash and music rings.
On this day people join,
friends and family all the same,
And in the end they say farewell until next year.
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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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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Empty time, empty place. Empty heart, empty space.
Empty time, empty place.
Empty heart, empty space.
Give a little, fight a war
Take a lot, there is more.
Left to die, all alone.
Blackened sins to atone.
In a place by a stream,
in a dark, empty dream.
In a room candles glow.
Truth prevails if you know.
Something sweet and something blue.
Something with a natural hue.
The Letter...2
That goodbye letter
That empty room,
That bare table
So much pain to endure.
Years have passed
My hair turned grey,
A letter under my door
It's from her,
'I still love you,
May I come home.
poem by Ken e Hall
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Table of Contents
Quick like a flash those reactions,
When a feeding on one's table of contents...
Is rumored to be shared with those less fortunate.
Those whose resources have provided the feast.
And that feast is threatened to become decreased,
By those who gorge themselves,
In an exclusive frenzied treat!
Quick like a flash those reactions,
When a feeding on one's table of contents...
Is said to be spent at someone else's expense.
Those depicted as pitiful creatures.
Those who others deceive and leech.
So a gathering of those to impose their selfishness...
To ensure their interests aren't deprived of nourishment.
Leaving leftovers for the hungery to fight over.
Although deny they discharge a disgraceful decadence.
A decadence they say,
From them did not originate or create to stay!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Coffee
Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee
affords. I once read something about coffee. The thing said that coffee is good for you;
it stimulates all the organs.
I thought at first this was a strange way to put it, and not altogether pleasant, but
as time goes by I have found out that it makes sense in its own limited way. I'll tell you
what I mean.
Yesterday morning I went over to see a girl. I like her. Whatever we had going for us
is gone now. She does not care for me. I blew it and wish I hadn't.
I rang the door bell and waited on the stairs. I could hear her moving around upstairs.
The way she moved I could tell that she was getting up. I had awakened her.
Then she came down the stairs. I could feel her approach in my stomach. Every step she
took stirred my feelings and lead indirectly to her opening the door. She saw me and it
did not please her.
Once upon a time it pleased her very much, last week. I wonder where it went,
pretending to be naive.
"I feel strange now," she said. "I don't want to talk."
"I want a cup of coffee," I said, because it was the last thing in the world
that I wanted. I said it in such a way that it sounded as if I were reading her a telegram
from somebody else, a person who really wanted a cup of coffee, who cared about nothing
else.
"All right," she said.
I followed her up the stairs. It was ridiculous. She had just put some clothes on. They
had not quite adjusted themselves to her body. I could tell you about her ass. We went
into the kitchen.
She took a jar of instant coffee off the shelf and put it on the table. She placed a
cup next to it, and a spoon. I looked at them. She put a pan full of water on the stove
and turned the gas on under it.
All this time she did not say a word. Her clothes adjusted themselves to her body. I
won't. She left the kitchen.
Then she went down the stairs and outside to see if she had any mail. I didn't remember
seeing any. She came back up the stairs and went into another room. She closed the door
after her. I looked at the pan full of water on the stove.
I knew that it would take a year before the water started to boil. It was now October
and there was too much water in the pan. That was the problem. I threw half of the water
into the sink.
The water would boil faster now. It would take only six months. The house was quiet.
I looked out the back porch. There were sacks of garbage there. I stared at the garbage
and tried to figure out what she had been eating lately by studying the containers and
peelings and stuff. I couldn't tell a thing.
It was now March. The water started to boil. I was pleased by this.
I looked at the table. There was the jar of instant coffee, the empty cup and the spoon
all laid out like a funeral service. These are the things that you need to make a cup of
coffee.
When I left the house ten minutes later, the cup of coffee safely inside me like a
grave, I said, "Thank you for the cup of coffee."
"You're welcome," she said. Her voice came from behind a closed door. Her
voice sounded like another telegram. It was really time for me to leave.
I spent the rest of the day not making coffee. It was a comfort. And evening came, I
had dinner in a restaurant and went to a bar. I had some drinks and talked to some people.
We were bar people and said bar things. None of them remembered, and the bar closed. It
was two o'clock in the morning. I had to go outside. It was foggy and cold in San
Francisco. I wondered about the fog and felt very human and exposed.
I decided to go visit another girl. We had not been friends for over a year. Once we
were very close. I wondered what she was thinking about now.
I went to her house. She didn't have a door bell. That was a small victory. One must
keep track of all the small victories. I do, anyway.
She answered the door. She was holding a robe in front of her. She didn't believe that
she was seeing me. "What do you want?" she said, believing now that she was
seeing me. I walked right into the house.
She turned and closed the door in such a way that I could see her profile. She had not
bothered to wrap the robe completely around herself. She was just holding the robe in
front of herself.
I could see an unbroken line of body running from her head to her feet. It looked kind
of strange. Perhaps because it was so late at night.
"What do you want?" she said.
"I want a cup of coffee," I said. What a funny thing to say, to say again for
a cup of coffee was not what I really wanted.
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. She was not pleased to see me.
Let the AMA tell us that time heals. I looked at the unbroken line of her body.
"Why don't you have a cup of coffee with me?" I said. "I feel like
talking to you. We haven't talked for a long time."
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. I stared at the unbroken line of
her body. This was not good.
"It's too late," she said. "I have to get up in the morning. If you want
a cup of coffee, there's instant in the kitchen. I have to go to bed."
The kitchen light was on. I looked down the hall into the kitchen. I didn't feel like
going into the kitchen and having another cup of coffee by myself. I didn't feel like
going to anybody else's house and asking them for a cup of coffee.
I realized that the day had been committed to a very strange pilgrimage, and I had not
planned it that way. At least the jar of instant coffee was not on the table, beside an
empty white cup and a spoon.
They say in the spring a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love. Perhaps if he has
enough time left over, his fancy can even make room for a cup of coffee.
poem by Richard Brautigan from Revenge of the Lawn (1971)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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San Pedro de Alcantara
[An orange on the table
Your dress on the rug
And you in my bed
Sweet gift of the present
Freshness of the night
Warmth of my life
- 'Alicante', Jacques Prevert]
Clothes strewn on the table
Juice stains the floor board
He rises above you
You journey beneath him
I watch from the window
Cold in the night
Lemon tea on the dresser
Seed of pomegranite
Adorning your belly
As he falls above you
You draw down his kisses
Warm essence of life
Stranded at the station
In the cold of the morning
My bed for your sleeping
The rug for your dress
In the warmth of awakening
Dawn your caress
Lemons on the table
You make up by the window
I lie in my bed
Unable to watch you
The night steals the freshness
The gift that you left
Now I lie beside you
Emptiness on the table
Your hem in my fingers
The gift a deliverance
Your presence a memory
Warmth of the past.
poem by Frank Bana
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Thanksgiving Feast
The table is set for our thanksgiving feast
and all have taken their place
The meal of the year, is finally here,
and oh, how great it will taste..
Potatoes and gravy and cranberry sauce,
and rolls that are made fresh and hot.
Turkey with stuffing, right out of the oven.
Pumpkin pie that hasn't been bought.
Our family is anxiously gathered around
in a circle of love hand in hand.
A scene reminiscent of thanksgivings past.
A tradition we all understand.
Dad offers a prayer of thanksgiving to God
for abundance of blessings we share.
Tears touch his cheeks as he humbly gives thanks
for much more than the food that is there.
Though stomachs are empty, each heart is full
while united as family we pray,
Thanking dear God for His wonderful love,
and our blessings this Thanksgiving Day.
When this day is gone and life carries on,
may gratitude live on in me.
Lord help me, I pray, to make every day
a day of thanksgiving to Thee.
poem by Ron Tranmer
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Ouiji Ode
I light four candle,
Witch board on thi table,
One light for the west,
My thoughts lay to rest,
One light be the east,
A dropp of blood for the deceased,
One light of the north,
I call the ghost to come forth,
One light is the south,
Hear these words of my mouth,
Witch board may I play,
Spirits tell me what you say.
poem by Pirate Love Magic Man
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Fear! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Fear is something people hear
Fear is something that brings a lonely tear
Provoking fear is like provoking pian
Pain in which one can gain
but when Fear is pushed against you
and you become afriad and your weakness
is laid on the table of all evidence
then your weakness is transfered to the table of consequence