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Still-life

Through the open French window the warm sun
Lights up the polished breakfast-table, laid
Round a bowl of crimson roses, for one -
A service of Worcester porcelain, arrayed
Near it a melon, peaches, figs, small hot
Rolls in a napkin, fairy rack of toast,
Butter in ice, high silver coffee-pot,
And, heaped on a salver, the morning's post.

She comes over the lawn, the young heiress,
From her early walk in her garden-wood,
Feeling that life's a table set to bless
Her delicate desires with all that's good.

That even the unopened future lies
Like a love-letter, full of sweet surprise.

poem by Elizabeth Daryush
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Breakfast Is Ready

(7: 45 in the morning)

to choose between a
hot breakfast ready on the table
and finishing another poem

i choose the breakfast
together with my wife

this poem can be suspended
in time
and become another unfinished
act of creation
by a man wanting to fill this
world with poems

after a while
when i have my fill and when
i make some nice conversations with my wife
and my dog beside the table
looking at me
for a piece of fried pork
when the sipping of coffee is over
when i finally wipe my
chin with the sky blue napkin
when i consider
eating as finally over

as promised
i will come back again
and finish this poem

and there is something
nice in this
act of creation
you feel it

it is warm like the hand of
a beautiful woman
it is as hot as ever
like this wanton desire

lovely,
as lovely as you love each letter
of the word
of your poetry

i am feeling it in the bone
of my soul

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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438

To Choose Between A
Hot Breakfast Ready On The Table
And Finishing Another Poem
I Choose The Breakfast
Together With My Wife

This Poem Can Be Suspended
In Time
And Become Another Unfinished
Act Of Creation
By A Man Wanting To Fill This
World With Poems

After A While
When I Have My Fill And When
I Make Some Nice Conversations With My Wife
And My Dog Beside The Table
Looking At Me
For A Piece Of Fried Pork
When The Sipping Of Coffee Is Over
When I Finally Wipe My
Chin With The Sky Blue Napkin
When I Consider
Eating As Finally Over

As Promised
I Will Come Back Again
And Finish This Poem

And There Is Something
Nice In This
Act Of Creation
You Feel It

It Is Warm Like The Hand Of
A Beautiful Woman
It Is As Hot As Ever
Like This Wanton Desire

Lovely,
As Lovely As You Love Each Letter
Of The Word
Of Your Poetry

I Am Feeling It In The Bone
Of My Soul

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Perfect Coffee

she dance in front of me, in early morning suite,
before the Rooster crock in early shout of morning,
brows and feel then the coffee lies in the table with
a happy roost

comfort the night with that dancing lady, where
every inch of her hair, languish her leg just off the
bed to play, come admirable ecstasy wake me up,
full and squeeze the earth, grip my trembling heart
as you quizzed my neck into the earth seeking night
with nothing but gone of myself

I almost drawn, of the mixed emotion of sugar drops
in the coffee, wanted a perfect blends of boil water as
it fades away, oh! yes thanks to the table that hold
every cup, the party has to go like a merry go around
the table of free

now the sweet aroma of coffee brings a good
morning mist, with sugar dare coffee taste as old, the
same thirst the tongue requests; drink the leverage of
mate that holds, for each breath of lips that savour
the spell, lives the saving faith

a hot coffee for free, take it out or dine with thee ….

poem by Antonio Liao
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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 Young & The Old

Whoa oh
Staggering home everybody sings
All the old songs the cockney routines
All the old women, all the young men
Try changing places then back again
Old man in the morning,
Young man at night
Breakfast full of wisdom
Until you hit the lights
Knock back the drinks , hitch up your skirt
Fall over backwords undo your shirt
Everyone shouting what a terrible state
Age creeping backwards as it gets late
Old man in the morning,
Young man at night
Breakfast full of wisdom
Until you hit the lights
Have a quick short, forget about work
Have a couple more then you go beserk
Who cares about this morning, wise old man
The wisdom comes up later and goes down the pan
Old man in the morning,
Young man at night
Breakfast full of wisdom
Until you hit the lights
Then another round, forget whos turn
Waking up to feel your stomach churn
Whos in the chair and whos on the floor
Incoherants knocking on the door
Old man in the morning,
Young man at night
Breakfast full of wisdom
Until you hit the lights
Hit the lights

song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Rose-Bud By My Early Walk

A Rose-Bud By My Early Walk
A rose-bud, by my early walk
Adown a corn-enclosèd bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
All on a dewy morning.
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled,
In a' its crimson glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head,
It scents the early morning.

Within the bush her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest;
The dew sat chilly on her breast,
Sae early in the morning.
She soon shall see her tender brood,
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd,
Awauk the early morning.

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
On trembling string or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care
That tents thy early morning!
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay,
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parent's evening ray
That watch'd thy early morning!

poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Good Morning

Good morning.
I bet you thought you'd catch me snoring?
I had to get up early with the sunrise today.
To show another side of me...
You had not seen me display my way!

Good morning.
I wont hear you say today I'm boring.
I wanted to see a surprise look in your eyes.
But you're giving me shock...
As if I am in some kind of disguise!
It's me!
No need to look for an exit to flee!
And I've prepare for you breakfast, toast...
With your choice of coffee or tea!
Scrambled eggs just the way you like them too.
But baby don't look at me...
As if I'm trying to poison you!

Good morning!
I am glad to show an appreciation,
For you that's finally dawning!
Good morning!

Baby, I'm okay!
Sweetheart get off your knees like that...
There's no reason for you to take this time to pray!
Unless you're feeling blessed,
In the same way I discovered myself today?

Good morning!
And I'm going to do...
All those things I promised I would for you!
Good morning.
Yes, it is me!
The 'me' you thought I forgot you knew!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Venus in the Garden

'Twas at early morning,
The dawn was blushing in her purple bed,
When in a sweet, embowered garden
She, the fairest of the goddesses,
The lovely Venus,
Roamed amongst the roses white and red.
She sought for flowers
To make a garland
For her golden head.

Snow-white roses, blood-red roses,
In that sweet garden close,
Offered incense to the goddess:
Both the white and the crimson rose.

White roses, red roses, blossoming:
But the fair Venus knew
The crimson roses had gained their hue
From the hearts that for love had bled;
And the goddess made a garland
Gathered from the roses red.

poem by James Weldon Johnson
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Red Rose and Chardonnay

A dinner with chardonnay
Plates of love whilst piano play
A love song of long ago.
She sat by the table
A hands folded like napkin in array
And red roses on the table
Of two love birds
Today are their anniversary.
She excused herself
As the waiter arranged the table.
Today is their day
But her lover has another.
She waited for an hour
For he promised to surrender
The love he has for her.
She begged him not to part
But…he’s not here.
Nor his shadow emerged
Red rose and chardonnay
are now abandoned- by the table.
She exits in the moonless sky.

poem by Tess Rockenstire
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Bliss Remembered....

a rose
in a white porcelain vase
on top of
a glazed
wooden table
showered with
the early morning light
from the laced
window
while you were
still sleeping soundly
in bed

two yellow birds
chirp
on the sill
of the window

i am at
peace
beside you

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pssht....

pssht...... everyone wants
to hear but no one
likes to listen

good and bad make it

sense

early morning is a coffee,
a finger tip

and lips
that save

a table dine, where issues
and concerns are fine
a cream of sweet honey

in a table meet, where our
minds meet....pssht...

poem by Antonio Liao
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Birds

They fly through my heart
small measures of joy
beating away
early morning
melancholy.

I sit, wrapped with coffee
feasting my eyes through
the window
on their coming
and going.

The song of their voice
replenishes me
as I step out
to fill
their table.

poem by Diana Rosser
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Meditation By The Stove

I have banked the fires
of my body
into a small but steady blaze
here in the kitchen
where the dough has a life of its own,
breathing under its damp cloth
like a sleeping child;
where the real child plays under the table,
pretending the tablecloth is a tent,
practicing departures; where a dim
brown bird dazzled by light
has flown into the windowpane
and lies stunned on the pavement--
it was never simple, even for birds,
this business of nests.
The innocent eye sees nothing, Auden says,
repeating what the snake told Eve,
what Eve told Adam, tired of gardens,
wanting the fully lived life.
But passion happens like an accident
I could let the dough spill over the rim
of the bowl, neglecting to punch it down,
neglecting the child who waits under the table,
the mild tears already smudging her eyes.
We grow in such haphazard ways.
Today I feel wiser than the bird.
I know the window shuts me in,
that when I open it
the garden smells will make me restless.
And I have banked the fires of my body
into a small domestic flame for others
to warm their hands on for a while.

Anonymous submission

poem by Linda Pastan
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Poetry Is Somebody Writing

Poetry is somebody writing
About soft rotting peaches,
Lying on a table that's missing a leg
In a deserted cottage somewhere,
With ermine curtains.

And Poetry is someone explaining
That the poem holds promise of great beauty,
In the seeds of the peaches,
Even if they are over-ripe;
And even if the curtains are poorly matched.

And Poetry is someone else arguing
That the poem is about avarice
And wasted opportunity
In a post-modern world.

And Poetry is somebody else saying
A poem is just a still life
Made out of nothing in particular,
And thus can't be assigned relative values.

And Poetry is the child,
Falling asleep on the table
Holding a poem book open,
Pressed against his cheek,
And dreaming of ermine peaches
Rolling off of limping tables,
In a dark cottage alone,
In the middle of an existence
Nowhere that we could recognize.

poem by Patti Masterman
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5: 31a.m.

i am again listening to the sound
of the cock crowing

the silence of the jalousie window
still closed from the morning light

the faint sound of the radio in
the kitched where the housemaid does
the cooking and the cleaning

the sound of the broom
cleaning the garage and the sliding
of the rags wiping the car

the little brown dog arrives
from a kitchen door that just opened
letting it in and here it comes
as i write this
licking my lap and wagging
its short tail

i am feeling like i am the master
of my world and i am not letting
it go like some sand slipping
through my fingers

i will take a bite of my own day
like the way i take the slice
of the sweet papaya
laid on a glass table
beside a toasted sandwich
a slice of bacon and a hot
black brewed coffee.
inside a chocolate porcelain cup.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Life Is As Simple And Enjoyable As Sipping Coffee Early Morning And Enjoying The Scenery Of A Rustic Place

alright,
we simplify this

it is early morning
they have not awakened yet
the house is very peaceful
the windows are closed still
and the doors too

alright
stand, walk towards the window
open all of them
let the cold air come in

then walk towards the door
unlock it
and open it too and then
let the cold air
come in

you want coffee?
go to the kitchen
take a spoon a cup and saucer and
take sugar and coffee and
hot water

you know what to do, right?
feel at home
this is your home

now take your time
sit on a chair
face the trees
stir your coffee
feel it hot
and then sip

enjoy, savor the scenery of
this rustic place

feel the wind on your cheeks
take the warm side of the cup

alright,
is not life as simple as this?

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Fast or Feast

Dreamed we were in The Court of Two Sisters
The slow green fans turnin' in the courtyard
The green napkins, the waiters all in green
In early afternoon, we ordered a big breakfast
Of eggs with lemon sauce, asparagus, ham,
Toast points, creamed shrimp soup, fruit.
Hot rolls, butter, chickory coffee, dark and bitter
And a Charlotte Russe burstin' with whipped cream
We had our fill and ate till we were full
Breakin' a long fast from food, for the night before;
Walkin' through the Quarter till after midnight
Then feastin' on love till early mornin' breaks

What must happen to make this dream last
For this is the only break from love fastin'
And the only feastin' goin' on
Is a feast of heartbreak

poem by MacGregor Tagliaferro
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Vanishing table manners of a deprived loner

A poverty-stricken morning and the ragged Sun wipes the infected eyes lazily of his questionnaire palm.
In the gloomy breakfast on the hopeless table lain a rotten scramble egg and few slices of transparent bread.
Then salmonella dance in the peanut butter.
A decanter full of tap water, the broken tumbler;
And a rusty fork & spoon,
A faded napkin and some venomous toothpicks.
He sits on his rickety chair with tearful eyes and looking into the infinity through the seaside shattered window in his shack.
And he dreams of an invulnerable haven.

* Our Father;
Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.
-Amen-

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Songs Of A Country Home

I

Who has not felt his heart leap up, and glow
What time the tulips first begin to blow,
Has one sweet joy, still left for him to know.

It is like early loves' imagining;
That fragile pleasure, which the Tulips bring,
When suddenly we see them, in the Spring.

Not all the gardens later royal train,
Not great triumphant Roses, when they reign,
Can bring that delicate delight again.

II

One of the sweetest hours is this;
(Of all I think we like it best
A little restful oasis,
Between the breakfast, and the post.
Just south of coffee, and of toast,
Just north of daily task and duty;
Just west of dreams, this Island gleams,
A fertile spot of peace and beauty.

We wander out across the lawn;
We idle by a bush in bloom;
The Household pets come following on;
Or if the day is one of gloom,
We loiter in a pleasant room
Or from a casement, lean and chatter.
Then comes the mail, like sudden hail,
And off we scatter.

III

When roses die, in languid August days,
We leave the Garden, to its fallen ways;
And seek the shelter of wide porticos,
Where Honeysuckle, in defiance blows
Undaunted by the Sun's too ardent rays.

The matron Summer, turns a wistful gaze
Across green valleys, back to tender Mays;
And something of her large contentment goes,
When roses die.

Yet all her subtle fascination stays
To lure us into idle sweet delays.
The lowered awning, by the hammock shows
Inviting nooks for dreaming and repose;
Oh, restful are the pleasures of those days
When roses die.

IV

The summer folk, fled back to town;
The green woods changed to red and brown;
A sound upon the frosty air
Of windows closing everywhere.

And then the log, lapped by a blaze.
Oh, what is better than these days;
With books and friends and love a-near;
Go on, gay world, but leave me here.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Breakfast

A dinner party, coffee, tea,
Sandwich, or supper, all may be
In their way pleasant. But to me
Not one of these deserves the praise
That welcomer of new-born days,
A breakfast, merits; ever giving
Cheerful notice we are living
Another day refreshed by sleep,
When its festival we keep.
Now although I would not slight
Those kindly words we use, 'Good night,'
Yet parting words are words of sorrow,
And may not vie with sweet 'Good morrow,'
With which again our friends we greet,
When in the breakfast-room we meet,
At the social table round,
Listening to the lively sound
Of those notes which never tire,
Of urn, or kettle on the fire.
Sleepy Robert never hears
Or urn or kettle; he appears
When all have finished, one by one
Dropping off, and breakfast done.
Yet has he too his own pleasure,
His breakfast hour's his hour of leisure;
And, left alone, he reads or muses,
Or else in idle mood he uses
To sit and watch the venturous fly,
Where the sugar's pilëd high,
Clambering o'er the lumps so white,
Rocky cliffs of sweet delight.

poem by Charles Lamb
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