Restaurant fragments
That day we were in Burgundy’s
and somebody played the notes
of “Ballade pour Adeline”
on the piano
and it was peaceful in that restaurant
while a waiter brought the menu
and I ordered a bottle of white wine for you
and drank a glass of golden Hunters.
You were busy with your notebook
and were searching for a shopping list
as if suddenly it had disappeared
but everything was inter-textual
and our life played out in small happenings.
Much too quickly the time between us
was running out
so as if you already
had other greener pastures
and you were busy with the list
of things that we have to buy
and the quietness of the restaurant
came to lie in my heart.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
Leatitia perfecta
I met you at a restaurant,
you that create magic with words
Leatitia the poet,
still I knew you from the internet
where you paintings dazzle
Leatitia the painter,
maybe also almost
won your heart
with the few words that I write daily.
I heard your voice then
for the first time
and knew that you are able
to sing beautiful songs
while my heart was thrilled
and wondered what the gift was
that you were brining me.
The piano played in the background
and your slender fingers
on the table played along.
Still it was already defined
as things go
that you were beautiful and gorgeous to me,
Leatitia perfecta.
[Reference: Leatitia by A.G. Visser.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Busy
I am busy
you are busy
we are busy
but the old woman needs help
to find her way home.
I am busy
you are busy
we are busy
but the dove is too slow
to fly out of the way.
I am busy
you are busy
we are busy
but the children crossing the street
are too many.
I am busy
you are busy
we are busy....
I am busy
you are busy
we are...
busy.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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Pour Me A Glass
Once upon a time I was sitting by,
A bottle of wine and all I knew was i,
I was gonna sip it down in a little while,
I drink it glass for glass but theres no reason why,
The bottle of wine has a taste so fine,
It makes feel good, it makes me blow my mind,
I cannot stop pour me another glass,
I would if I could, but now I need it fast,
I lost my friends, nobody holds my hand,
Like a lonley stranger in a long lost land,
I felt the feelings no one ever has,
Bartender, pour me a glass!
Chorus:
Pour me a glass, pour me a glass of a bottle wine...
Im drinking, Im not drinking, I cant tell you why,
How it started, how it ends but I do deny,
That I wanna ruin my life but now I wanna dive,
Into the silent ocean where there is no cry,
For hope, for me that I cannot see,
But if I faced the facts and go inside of me,
I would see myself, my own reality,
I would see myself, my own insanity,
Scared to move another step ahead,
I would lose the strength so I will fast forget,
What I do to myself, why dont you take a guess,
Bartender, pour me a glass!
Chorus...
song performed by by H-BlockX
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sabbath
Early in the morning
they sit rather proper in the benches
and sing out joyously
and read the Word
and rolls of notes
are in the offering plate.
Sometimes I see them look
at people in the street,
as if they are a little beneath them
and circle around
a blind beggar.
Dressed in church suits
and designer dresses
I see them in the cafe,
the chain store,
restaurant
and even at the movies.
They are buying bread and milk,
sometimes a bottle of wine
and husband and wife
and at times
all of their children with them
are peacefully
going through the shops
or wait for tickets
in a row.
Every thing happens
as if they do not have
another time
for all of these things
and in the restaurant
jokes are told
that even people
at other tables can hear
and I wonder where and why
man has lost
his respect for God
and of His day.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Day and Night The Piano Played
Day and night the piano played
Never once did the soft notes stray
Over and over on and on they played
During my short stay t
Day and night, night and day
The same soft notes were played
Never did they stray the same notes
Played again and again night and day
The music wandered and wandered
Until with me it stayed
And I began to whistle night and day
The same soft notes over and over
Again and again and again I played
poem by Brian Kilpatrick
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Things I Love
I love the sun
I love lying in the sun, relaxing on a lounge
Working hard for a cold glass of sweet tea
Playing in the water, fishing in the late afternoon
I love the sun very much
But not as much as I love you
I love a glass of wine
I love a glass of red wine beside the company of a lady
Talking over the day, bathing in the winelight
Listening to soft music by a fire together
I love a glass of wine very much
But not as much as I love you
I love the words
I love forming the words into meaningful tapestries
Searching for just the right phrase, the perfect sound
Projecting what’s on my heart to you, good reader
I love the words very much
But not as much as I love you
I love the rain
I love sitting by the window, my breath fogged on the cool glass
Contemplating a quiet moment, my thoughts far away
Watering the earth to make good things grow
I love the rain very much
But not as much as I love you
I love many things
I love so many things about this life I can’t list them all
Parties, meals, a job well done, victory, cleansing tears and dogs
Small town softball games and walking along a forest trail
I love many things very much
And yet, my dear, I love you much more
poem by David Terry
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Failed Musician
Failed Musician?
My uncle died, he was on holiday in Piraeus when a pig fell off
a balcony, he left a piano and since his wife didn’t want it in her
house, mother took it, only because it would lend an impression
of high culture, and no one else in our neighbourhood had one.
I played on it day and night, picked up tunes on radio and played
them on the piano; people where impressed, mother too, but she
needed her rest worked long hours at a canning factory; one day,
coming home from school, a big empty space, I cried mother gave
me Danish pastry, they were a day old but still tasty. I’m glad she
sold the piano, though I might have ended up a restaurant pianist
driving from town to town playing evergreens as background music
for bored diners
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Ignored. (a Seagull Story)
Ignored. (A seagull story)
At the seaside restaurant it was busy everyone was eating lobsters,
I tried to catch the waiters’ eye. I was ignored and got the feeling
that I was Invisible, or that I was so small that my head didn’t reached
over the table. A seagull landed on my table a beautiful bird,
yellow beak and feet, plumage snowy white its wings light grey/blue
and its eyes were green; it also had the aroma of the Atlantic Ocean.
Waiter came, looked at the bird asked what it wanted, lobster, I said
when the dish came I gave it to the bird. Got up, left and no one tried
to stop me.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Red Dago Wine
Red Dago wine
inside an Italian restaurant
called Mategrano’s
decorated like a
red red brothel
in the late 80’s
and everything
was as sweet
as the red dago wine
in a clear gallon bottle
without a label
smiling at me
for another taste
welcoming my youth that
planned to finally escape
but I couldn’t see it
until 15 years later
on the last day of
my 39th year
drinking red Dago wine
typing away on my Apple
remembering those days
as a waiter waiting
for something to happen
without realizing it
had already occurred
just as it is occurring
right now…
poem by Charles Lara
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Always Busy, Busy, Busy Doing Nothing....
...of having to rush
and keep on rushing
running and running
and telling
others that 'i am busy'
very much like the
busy waves of the sea
always rushing to
the shore
and then finally
having done
nothing
having brought nothing
having owned
nothing
nothing, nothing
nothing
(the only reality
we now have
this nothing
pretended by a rush
a busy life
a hardworking life
like
a cow, a bull,
a buffalo
accurately more
like a dog...
a rat, a worm
an aphid...)
poem by Sebastian Soberania
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Innocent White Civilian People Were Slaughtered (In Answer To Don Mattera)
Innocent white civilian people were once walking
on Church Street in Pretoria; they were men,
women and children
busy with their daily lives,
some just having gone shopping,
some meeting a loved one in a restaurant
others returning from school
and they were doing nobody any harm.
By orders of Nelson Rolilahla Dalinbunga Mandela,
without any kind of alarm or warning,
a car bomb was set and exploded thundering
throwing shrapnel, making glass fall like rain
and black people took pride
at the sheer slaughter, at the falling,
the maiming, the decimating and dying of innocents
and that day remains a bitter thing.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Momentary
a busy life
stops for a while
like sipping coffee
inside a restaurant
facing the road
merely looking
passing time
staring at the
moment
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Creep Hymn
The creep
Goes to a restaurant
And order the food to eat at the restaurant
But when the food comes he eats a little bit of the food
Just so he can taste it
And he tells everybody very loud that the food that he order
Taste like shit
And then he takes the plate and throws it on the floor
But he lives the restaurant without pay
The waitress from the restaurant looks everywhere for him in the Restaurant
Sorry waitress he is gone out of the door
And he run away so that you couldn't catch him
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Old Upright Piano
For as long as I remember, when friday night came round
The family would gather out at grandpas house.
With supper over and the dishes done
It was then the best time came
At an old upright piano that only grandma played.
She played beautiful dreamer, my wild irish rose;
She never played em perfect, but there was love in every note.
Grandpa sat beside her, in harmony they sang,
At the old upright piano that only grandma played.
Grandpa was a stubborn man, they said it was his style.
Grandma called him ornery, but she said it with a smile.
Even he could not disguise the love he felt so strong;
We all could see it in his eyes when she played his favorite song.
She played beautiful dreamer, my wild irish rose;
She never played em perfect, but there was love in every note.
Grandpa sat beside her, in harmony they sang,
At the old upright piano that only grandma played.
I was almost 17 when my grandma died;
I stayed all night with grandpa; the old man never cried.
He sat at her piano, there was nothing we could say
It was the first time in my life I ever heard my grandpa play.
It wasnt beautiful dreamer or my wild irish rose
It was a song he played from memory & he never missed a note
I sat right there beside him until the morning came
What a friend we have in jesus was the only song he played.
She played beautiful dreamer, my wild irish rose;
She never played em perfect, but there was love in every note.
Grandpa sat beside her, in harmony they sang,
At the old upright piano that only grandma played.
song performed by by Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Little Shopping List
Finding recipes,
List the ingredients on yellow lined paper,
Someones building,
A cake for another,
Hundreds and thousands and paper tins,
Underlined self raising flour.
I'd like to see the smile on her face,
When she realises the effort he makes,
I'd like to hear the laughter illuminate the place,
As they devour the cakes.
Little little shopping list,
What happiness you bring,
Little little shopping list,
Where have you been.
poem by Craig Turner
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A Date Of Misfortune
A Date of Misfortune
The bus was late it was raining when she alighted…
my temper was moody, since it was late the kitchen
at the café was closed, but they still had slices of
“black forest gateau, ” we had that with white wine
because the waiter refused to serve red wine with
a gateau; she drank the whole bottle and got giggly.
Going to my place, we stopped an outdoor kiosk
selling hotdogs, I ate two with mustard on, since she
disappeared throwing up in the back of the stall.
She refused to come home with me I walked her to
the bus station where she caught the last one home
to her parents.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Dilatory Terrorist
'I want a curry in a hurry'
Said the man in the big car
'I think I’m going to Glasgow
Can you tell me is it far?
I forgot my AA route map
And brought the Koran instead
It’s a hard life being a terrorist
But I’ll be worshipped when I’m dead'
‘Ahah’ said the young waiter
‘Are you really one of them,
Who give their life up for the cause
Where will you strike and when? ’
With his nan and his samosas
He just smiled a knowing way
‘Ah ‘God is great and bountiful
Now I must be on my way’
‘But we have some tempting specials’
Said the young and waiting man
‘Well maybe I’ll be tempted’
And he ordered two and not just one
The route to Glasgow was explained
He now knew all the roads
And then he went to drive to there
With his incendiary load
He went outside the restaurant
He stood in shock and quaked in fear
The big car he’d arrived with in
Was no longer there - or even near
‘The bloody things been stolen’
He screamed up at the sky
‘Now what on earth do I do’
‘Oh why oh why oh why’
‘Who can you trust these godless days’
He wailed as if possessed
‘I will not be a martyr now’
He was in serious distress
The young waiter was upset for him
Than had a sudden thought
‘Tell me, sir, that car of yours
Was it rented, leased or bought? ’
'I bought it outright with some cash’
Not rented nor on lease’
‘Then, sir, let me suggest to you
You speak to the police.’
poem by David Keig
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A Boy Growing Up In The Sixties
Played football
played marbles
played cricket
played truant.
First girl
first kiss
first fumble
first slap.
Drank orange
drank Cola
drank lemonade
drank beer.
Acted tough
acted silly
acted up
acted the fool.
Just young
just a boy
just a lad
just me.
The sixties
The Beatles
The Stones
The Who.
Great days
great times
great decade
Great Britain.
poem by Kevin Halls
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A La Carte
A gloomy evening
I was in the red-light district of Yoshiwara, Japan.
In a restaurant I ordered 'Sashimi & Sake'
raw fish with garlic sauce and rice wine
my favorite dish.
I saw a bonhomie 'Geisha'
she wears a red & maroon kimono
who brings the plate with a sing song.
A very familiar face.
Oh! I couldn't believe.
She is my loving wife.
I was so angry and I asked her' who brought you here? '
'you brought me here' she replied calmly.
I woke up to the set alarm.
The dream complicated my mind the whole morning
and suddenly I called home.
She is very fine.
To my poet friend Joe.Breunig
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Such A Waste Of Life
You drank your last drop
And hit the floor running
It's been coming for a long time
What a waste of life
You left the world
Not even knowing your own name
What a shame
Banised, all for a glass of wine
I saw your picture in the paper
I witnessed the road you walked on, taper
The song you sang played hours later
What a waste of life
I couldn't ever imagine
Feeling what you felt
Heart left cold
Cards undealt
Wish i'd been there
In your darkest hour
Rain, a shower
It's too late
Sorry
Would have been there
If i'd known
Such a waste of life!
poem by Lucy Vernezze
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