Real Art
Real Art
I woke up a blue neon light, outside my hotel room,
kept lightning up my space, I looked out and saw
a man in a cafe sitting by the counter eating a burger,
he had hat on and looked ca 1948.
Knew I was in an Edward Hopper painting but didn’t
want to be a part of his bleak cityscape of lone men
who live in cheap hotels and drink coffee in a cafe,
which clientele are lost souls like me.
I splashed water in my face adjusted my tie put my
hat on and walked out, a cab drove by looking for
a fare, I opened the cafe’s door, the man with hat had
gone, drank coffee and ate a doughnut.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Girl In Park
Girl in the Park
In the park I saw my dog Bambi, she was playing with
another dog that belonged to a girl who sat in the grass.
Bambi didn’t see me she had a glossy coat, and looked
beautiful, so I waited for her to see me and come over.
The girl was of no interest, looked as a black & white
photo taken with box camera 1950, I didn’t see her face.
She got up and walked into a café its door was open but
the entrance had a curtain of fake pearls that sounded as
of water in a stream, when moved. The park was empty
and there was no ducks in it dark pond. I walked into
the café, it was empty too; the owner was reading
a paper I asked if he had seen a girl with two dogs, he
said dogs were not allowed in his café, and continued to
read and for no reason at all I sat down and cried.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Brazilian Cafe
Grey Hospital and a Brazilian Café.
The hotel where I stayed served lousy coffee, insipid and milky.
I knew there was a Brazilian café nearby, on my way there walked
past the closed down city hospital. Grey walls dripping of uncured
diseases, graffiti and dead windows. Convert it into an office block,
but who wants to work there, a place haunted by cynical doctors and
indifferent nurses who stalk the halls at night waiting for their shift
to end so they can get out from this place of horror, and patients
they have lost interest in and can do nothing for. Tear it down and
throw the debris down a gully. At the Brazilian café the coffee was
strong and healthy; the staff, young, moved as dancers to the music
in the background. There is much of Africa in the Brazilian soul,
passionate, courageous; yet, sometimes, viciously moody.
The girl who served me coffee, smiled with lips and eyes, her skin
dark, glowing… fit. And the sad hospital faded into oblivion.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Young Lovers
I like sitting at this particular table in this lively Café
eating my cheese toastie and drinking black coffee.
At a nearby table, two lovers are kissing and making up,
but then after their last kiss they decided to disconnect
to take a deep drag from their shared cigarette
and to take a sip from their cooling coffee cup.
Placing the cigarette in the ash tray they cuddled back together
fitting like a glove with their arms around each other
totally preoccupied, giving no one else a second look.
After several minutes of holding, kissing and whispering,
and the occasional passionate tongue in mouth sucking
it looked as though they were here for the rest of the day.
Suddenly her chair flew backwards, as she quickly stood up
rocking the table, which spilled the coffee from their cups
and the ashtray to hit the floor, as she pushed him away.
She then slapped his face and shouted at him in anger,
but he sat calm and collected, and said that he loved her,
and she had misunderstood what he was trying to say.
With her hot temper cooling she decided to sit back down
and asked him a question, which caused her face to frown,
as he explained she dragged the chair closer to him again.
Picking up the fallen ashtray she listened to what he said
whilst others in the Café were drinking and being fed,
and outside it persistently poured with torrential rain.
She ordered two fresh coffees, with a deep sigh of regret
while he lit up another blue tipped cigarette,
which they both drew upon until none remained.
He held out his hands as they looked into each other’s eyes,
with a smile she touched his finger, as though to apologise
then dragged her chair closer and began kissing again.
I like sitting at this particular table in this lively Café
eating my cheese toastie and drinking black coffee
watching people fall out who later make up,
and it’s by no means unusual to see in this busy place
a few exchanged words followed by a slap across the face
and then a kiss and make up, over a fresh coffee cup.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cafe Prague.
Cream coloured coffee
And hot buttered toast
August sunshine
A packet of cigarettes
Talks on love and life
Friends and strangers all together
Days of summer
Seated on outside chairs
Tears and laughter
Mixed in the air
Of the perfect day just us and them
Cafe pavements
The world at view
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Used coffee cups
And ashtrays too
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Trendy young girls
And the wannabe author
Auster, Adams and Mr. Salinger
Days of dreaming
The perfect film
In view for all to see
Hello, hello
So good to see you
Was it twelve?
Or maybe it was two
I’ll sit and wait
And think of you
Cafe pavements
For me and you
Pairs, Rome and cafe Prague
Dirty spoons and knives
And glasses too
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Teacups and Earl grey
And ice cream sundaes
Black and white life
In full technicolour
Light my cigarette
And I’ll listen all day
Sunshine days
Storm clouds - away
The table over there
Just a smiling man
For today - all alone
Waiting his time
Cafe pavements
The world today
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Beautiful Ladies
And business gents
Paris, Rome and Cafe Prague
Student cameras
And picture painting
Hollywood lifestyle
In the common street
Brando, Dean and Al Pacino
Next to you and me
See you later
Maybe tomorrow
Give me a ring
And we’ll make a date
I’ll sit and think
And wait for you
Cafe pavements
For meetings and lunch
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Perfect tables
And used up chairs
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
poem by Patrick Sant
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Outside the Café
Outside the Café
where I was having coffee,
a red BMW without number plates
died on the driver
and was flashing lights
and its hooter went off.
Inside of it I saw a face
of a ugly white man,
with a wig upon his head
and the look in his eye
spelled out dread.
Be careful
he’s got a gun,
the café’s owner warned
and I looked away
as if the man was not there.
Thrice I called
that one zero triple one number
from my cell phone
and no police did appear,
while the criminal was near
as if my calls was in vain.
No cars are available
they said
and on the next morning,
a squadron of police
was knocking my door down
and eight cars and a helicopter
was waiting outside.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Memories of Love
I still remember the day I met you,
You were sitting in a cafe, with a friend or two.
You looked up at me,
With those big eyes of yours.
And I could suddenly see,
I was in love for sure.
We hardly talked,
Just standing there.
You just looked at me,
And of the world, I became unaware.
I left a moment later,
I was to meet a friend, I met her.
But my thoughts were still with you.
dreamed of those moments few.
With a heavy heart the next day,
I passed the same old cafe.
But you were still sitting there,
As if u had appeared out of nowhere.
I blinked my eyes to make sure,
But you didn't disappear.
Instead jumped up with a smile,
And I felt like dancing for a while.
We sat down together,
In that misty weather.
And talked for hours on end,
ill darkness decided to descend.
Oh! What a day that was,
I will never forget because,
That day I realized,
Love is heaven on earth in disguise.
poem by Dipti Date Gokhale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Picture of Confidence
In Bermuda
shorts on a cold morning
he wheeled his shopping cart,
a little recklessly,
up to the side
door of the cafe',
pulled out a stainless
steel, covered mug
and splashed the steaming, old
coffee into the gutter,
then came in for a refill.
Long, straight hair shining,
a smile lit his face
as if all of us
warm, secure people
should envy him.
He came out of nowhere,
got his coffee,
and was gone
with the cart,
humming into the cold
morning air.
The Blue Cafe
My world is miles of endless roads
That leaves a trail of broken dreams
Where have you been
I hear you say?
I will meet you at the Blue Cafe
Because, this is wear the one who knows
Meets the one that does not care
The cards of fate
The older shows
To the younger one, who dares to tale
The chance of no return
Where have you been?
Where are you going to?
I want to know what is new
I want to go with you
What have you seen?
What do you know that is new?
Where are you going to?
Because I want to go with you
So meet me down at the Blue Cafe
The cost is great, the price is high
Take all you know, and say goodbye
Your innocence, inexperience
Mean nothing now
Because, this is where the one who knows
Meets the one that does not care
Where have you been?
I hear you say
I'll meet you at the Blue Cafe
So meet me at the Blue Cafe
song performed by by Chris Rea
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Smile
At a cafe in Liverpool I sat eating bacon butty
washed down with milky tea, wife had left me
and I was feeling glum. A woman at a far table
looked at me and smiled. An overcast day, felt
as the sun had come out. I didn’t know what to
say or do so I looked out of the window rain.
Her boyfriend came, they left, but she sent me
another smiling glance
Knew I would be OK.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hasty Marriage
Burden of a Hasty Marriage.
He saw her at the cafe she a cup of cacao and eating a cream cake,
he had a sandwich with cheese and ham. She looked up and smiled,
he knew she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Shy, as he was, still found the courage to get up and walk over to her
table and ask if he could eat his modest sandwich with her; she said
yes and they sat there in silence, just eating. Dimly he knew he had to
say something, but couldn’t but couldn’t find the words so he ate
the cup and saucer, the table cloth, serviettes and crumbs of her cake,
when he began eating the table she told him to stop. Ice broken he said
he loved her, she said she loved him, not to waste time they got married
in the afternoon. Found a hotel room and stayed in bed for a fortnight.
Made love in every position one could think of; they even forgot to eat.
Entwined they slept until a knock on the door, something about paying
for the room. For him was a welcomed distraction, got up had to go to
his bank he told her, two weeks in bed it stunk like a pig sty. Paid his bill
but didn’t enter their room, he was cured of love based on sex alone
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Parrot
The Parrot.
The café in our village has shut. The couple who ran it left
when their parrot died. They had kept the place open for it,
since it was a genial bird. The parrot called everyone who
entered idiots; people laughed no one took offence, or so
we all thought. But someone must have taken umbrage, it
was shot through the window when the café was empty.
Feather everywhere the village was shocked, who could do
such a shameful deed? The culprit, was a farmer, who had
drunk his coffee at the café for twenty odd years, and had
enough of being called an idiot. The moral of this sad tale,
if there is any: if you call a man an idiot long enough he will
end up being one.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Medium Dark Roast
I'm sitting in the coffee shop.
It's dark outside, but
noisy neon bright in here.
5 a.m.
I don't care.
I don't hear.
Just thinking of the times
that I faltered,
failed.
Faltered.
Always my fault.
Not part of the pack.
Just in my dreams in this blinky café, with
a hot cup-o-joe on a cold early morn.
I don't care.
I aint here.
Been on my mind.
poem by Rick Stokes
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Your shop door
I looked at the sign on your shop door
it didnt say open or closed
I tried the handle because I wasnt sure.
Thats why im here inside
Well that and the fact I want some sweats
my dad often goes to the Cafe
and they look at him when ever he eats
he takes a packed lunch
he sits on the seats
there was this one time when he got a punch
it was because he wasnt allowed to buy
they threw him out they give him a black eye
they spat on him and I never knew why.
I looked at the sign on your shop door
it didnt say open or closed
I tried the handle because I wasnt sure.
That cafe he entered was open
and he was not there when the window was broken
he just needed somewhere to sit on a rainy noon
an accent like his?
The roads were his only room.
They're tools? Knives, falks and spoons
His? a shovel, a graft, to dig out the root which so many hold onto.
I pass your shop every day thinking,
'Open or closed to enter I dont know if I want to'.
poem by Daniel McCann
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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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Java Blues
Rick danko
I walked into a diner
And the blonde behind the counter
She asked if she could help in any way
Hell, I knew by her smile
Her number I could dial
If I was in the need of company
But as I bought some java
Instead she brought me a cup of chicory
I got those java blues
Coffees got me
Java blues
Oh coffee, coffee, coffee
Java blues
Coffees got me
Java blues
Oh coffee
You know that Ill stay high
Ill drink coffee till I die
Dont pour me water just fill up my cup
You know it takes a lot just to keep me up
Cost may be more than you care to pay
What good is money compared to fightin pain
Dont try to cheat
Its impossible to beat
The only pick me up thats here to stay
I got those java blues
Coffees got me
Java blues
Oh coffee, coffee, coffee
Java blues
Oh coffee, oh coffee
Java blues
Coffees got me
You know that Ill stay high
Ill drink coffee till I die
The taste of java is like a cocaine rush
Nobodys gonna stop me from drinkin too much
Down in bolivia the people are insane
They want as much for coffee as they do for cocaine
Dont try to cheat
Its impossible to beat
The only pick me up thats here to stay
I got those java blues
Coffees got me
Java blues
Oh coffee, coffee, coffee
Java blues
The coffees got me now..
Java blues
Oh coffee, coffee
You know that Ill stay high
Ill drink coffee till I die
I got the java blues
Oh coffee, coffee
Java blues
Oh coffee, coffee, coffee
Java blues
Oh the coffees got me
Java blues
Oh coffee, oh coffee
Java blues!
song performed by by Nazareth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lokngha
What properly I bridle about Lokngha
its coastal Lokngha sand to turn white
With the coiled waves
Breaking coastal lip
A group of hooded girl
Sit to gang in coastal periphery booth
Drink the young coconut water
At the same time shar the story love
In coast Lokngha
Or manufacturing plant of tidiness cement the Lokngha
What sordid its road to middle go out to sea the
to search Boat
Throwing away anchor
before at dawn
What properly I bridle about Lokngha
About foreigner cycling
Or myself
What is like foreigner
Touching tip of lip of my motherland
What will kiss
With the wet lip
By teardrops
What properly I bridle about Lokngha,
from its wellspring
drink of love.
from alcove cafe
watching million light.
From sun
from the blue sky
or from cafe
what do not I have time to enjoy the coffee drink
its aroma fragrance.
What properly I bridle about Lokngha,
if me only one clock over there
Prasetya, Friday, May 09,2008
poem by Prasetya Utama
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Friendship
The Friendship
Sven and I were best friends sailed on the same ship together.
he as a third officer and I as a cook. We were both interested
in reading, cinema and politics, and we liked go dancing when
our ship docked. One night in Kingston, Jamaica, we met two
girls at a beach cafe, I liked my girl there was an easy repartee
between us and we laughed a lot. Back onboard Sven said my
the girl was not suitable for me, I smiled, thought it a joke.
Next day was Sunday Sven went ashore after breakfast, going
to the beach, he said, I had to stay onboard and cook dinner.
He came back in the evening, when I was ready to go ashore
and meet my new girlfriend; Sven said he was very tired and
wanted to stay onboard for the night. When I met my girl at
the cafe, she appeared startled looked around and behind me
but said nothing; told she had been to the beach all day and
was quite exhausted, the easy talk between us was gone and
the silence was awkward, so I wordlessly just got up and left.
Back onboard, Sven sat in the mess-hall drinking coffee and
reading, he looked up said halloo but continued to read;
In my darkened room I looked out, full moon and the lights
of Jamaica looked alluring; I also saw Sven go ashore again and
it was well after midnight.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Long Way Back
(bill rice/sharon rice)
(track 6 - time 3:33)
Sitting in a cafe at the corner of broad and grand
Stirring up old memories and the coffee in my hand
The waitress stopped and asked me
Honey do you know what you want
I had to stop myself from telling her the truth
What I really need is another chance with you
But this temper train Im on just ran away too fast
Its a long, long, way back to you baby
Its a long, long, way back
The neon clock is humming showing sign of wear
Ive lost all sense of time since Ive been sitting here
The waitress asked again
Is there something else you need
I need to take the hands off that clock above my head
Reset the time and take back everything I said
If I could turn around, then I would erase my tracks
But its a long, long way back, to you baby
Its a long, long way back
It is a lonely road a fool travels down
I guess I oughta know cause thats where Im headed now
And its a long, its a long, way back
Sitting at the cafe just ruby lee and me
I get feeling shes waiting on me to leave
She stopped askin hours ago if I know what I want
Yeah but its a long, long way back, to you baby
Its a long, long way back
I miss you darlin
Its a long, long way back
song performed by by Diamond Rio
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cafe Of Dreams
welcome to the cafe
the cafe of dreams
the cattle stand dry
dry of mouth parched
awaiting their slaughter
so that a tired worker
may enjoy a good steak
meat pie or sausages
ground meat salt herbs spices
fried lovingly in your frying pan
not young mince meat dying
politic rhetoric in Afghanistan
slaugherhouse cafe is open
not only for teenagers who
dine 'Café des Abbatoirs'
die daily like passing cattle
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I lost in the second round of the French Open and had 10 days off. I went to the Hard Rock Cafe. It was exciting to be away from my parents, to stay in a hotel. Hotels at 17 meant freedom.
quote by Boris Becker
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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