A Certain Doubt
it has been here
do you see it? she points to a
black spot
on the white mantel
it's been there i said
never shall it be removed
it is part of the landscape on the table
and without which,
mind you
this table would be incomplete
she feels uneasy about it
there is this certain doubt if she really knows
about me
it is enough that she sits by my side
lays her head on my shoulder and then we enjoy
most the silence
between our concerns
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Black and White (Stream XV)
I have black thoughts,
It is a black day,
A day when the black dog
Coal black, hovers at my shoulder.
I shoulder the burden.
Deep in the black hole.
Black as a black hearted night.
Negative.
Stark.
Black and white.
I do not call my good days white days.
Why?
Or have white thoughts
On a white day,
When the white dog
Pure white sits upon my shoulder.
Which is unburdened.
Out of the pit,
Luxuriating in the bright white light;
White as the purest snow.
Positive.
For we live in a too white world
Maybe we should have grey days,
And light days.
Why should Black be negative and White poitive?
For me then, today is a grey day.
Maybe tomorrow will be a light day.
Copyright P H Brookes 2012
poem by Paul Brookes
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Reincarnate....
she says she had been here
once
she remembers the exact
details
he was frying an egg
sunny side up as she wants it
to be
she sits on one of those rattan
chairs beside a
mahogany table
he is about to put a cup of coffee
brewing on her table
and that is it...
there was a big bang...flashes of light... then
darkness... reality sucks...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Crowded
Here I am
My trun to
sit at the
table
I've seen it
happening long
ago when
Perry Mason
was still in
black and white
Who knew he was
gay
I've visualized it
as I've read
books about famous
trials
Waiting for
the moment
Listening for
the moment
But there are
No attornerys
leaping to their
feet here
There's barely
enough room
at the table
for me
Attorney takes up part
My investigator takes up part
Then there's our notes
evidence and such
Not much room left
even for the water
the cups the napkins or
me
poem by Tom J. Mariani
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An Old Man
At the noisy end of the cafe, head bent
over the table, an old man sits alone,
a newspaper in front of him.
And in the miserable banality of old age
he thinks how little he enjoyed the years
when he had strength, eloquence, and looks.
He knows he's aged a lot: he sees it, feels it.
Yet it seems he was young just yesterday.
So brief an interval, so brief.
And he thinks of Prudence, how it fooled him,
how he always believed - what madness -
that cheat who said: "Tomorrow. You have plenty of time."
He remembers impulses bridled, the joy
he sacrificed. Every chance he lost
now mocks his senseless caution.
But so much thinking, so much remembering
makes the old man dizzy. He falls asleep,
his head resting on the cafe table.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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The White Saucer
if i only see
a white saucer
on the table
it always spells
to me
the word
incomplete
without the
white
porcelain cup.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Little Sunshine
a grain of rice
on a table cloth
beside
a cup of hot
coffee
imperceptible
but when a connection is found
soon
the spoon and fork
shall understand
some pieces
no matter what
do not fit
on a reasonable landscape
what is the grain of rice
doing on a breakfast table?
your mind is furious
i think it is cool
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Mom Sets the Table
Night after night my mom sets the table
full of joy she passes her hand over the green fleat
like dishes she lays her chips down
they her finest china carefully stacked
her drink is the insurance bet
night after night 21 meals are servered
6 people share the meal with her
we her family eat alone
yet night after night my mom sets the table
the table of broken dreams and poisoned meals
night after night she countinues to eat
untill is consumed
Night after night my mom sets the table
night after night we her family shallow the bitter meal she makes
Night after night my mom sets the table
poem by Vincent Armone
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My Mom Sets the Table
Night after night my mom sets the table
full of joy she passes her hand over the green fleat
like dishes she lays her chips down
they her finest china carefully stacked
her drink is the insurance bet
night after night 21 meals are servered
6 people share the meal with her
we her family eat alone
yet night after night my mom sets the table
the table of broken dreams and poisoned meals
night after night she countinues to eat
untill is consumed
Night after night my mom sets the table
night after night we her family shallow the bitter meal she makes
Night after night my mom sets the table.....
poem by Bikramjyoti Kashyop
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I Complete With You
i am incomplete without you
i am incomplete without your smiles
i am incomplete without your love
i am incomplete without your felling
i am incomplete without your teaching
i am incomplete without your touching
i am incomplete without your soul
i am incomplete without your dreams
i am incomplete without your body
i am incomplete without your happiness
i am incomplete without your heart
i am incomplete without your bed
i am incomplete without your tonight
i am incomplete without your sorrow and sadness
poem by Khushi throne
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Ode To A Strict Lifestyle Of The Past
'twas the cruel time
with grandpa when dropping a grain
of rice on the table cloth is such a big crime
when you like to eat but you cannot swallow
the food
when you like to drink but the water tasted
as bitter as bile
when the conversations on the dining table
are shallow as affection is strange
as nothing becomes more important
than a future
not be be bound in the house anymore
when papa did not do anything
when mama simply sobbed
and stayed silence
and surrendered everything to God
all we waited is the blackness of the night
black because death is indifferent
because time is not a rescuer
of those who sank into
the bottom
of despair
i recall all these cruel times now
upon a grain of white rice
upon a coffee deprived of milk and sugar
upon a bread without the butter
upon a naked table
scratched with a knife
stained with tears
i look over the window
and stare at the black butterfly merely passing by
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Orlando's Cafe
I sit alone on a black painted chair
putting my elbow on the black painted table
fronting a gray painting of a man
gathering rice
a Romano,
i wait
i close my eyes
to a cat nap
i hear the conversations
but i am not interested
of people on the other table
i imagine two lovers, a fat woman and
a skinny man
sharing spaghetti and coke
while a mother with a white skin
feeds a small slice of pizza
to her English speaking girl
who keeps on saying
that she changed her mind
into not eating another piece
of that Hawaiian menu,
the fat woman looks at me
wanting to tell me
why i am lonely
as though
when one sits and eats alone
signifies nothing
but loneliness
i could have told her
it is not the case
that i in turn suspects that
the skinny man
perhaps is the loneliest
man
sitting watching a
fat and unattractive woman
before him
at Orlando's Cafe....
surprisingly i realize
i have become a man of few words
actually
i am too mindful of myself then
conscious
that throughout that time
i never uttered
a word
it is my mind that does the talking
as though
everyone who are there
are all the more lonely
as i try to capture
them all
within the framework
of some
consonants...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Still Thoughtless Life Of The Eyeglasses
a pair of eyeglasses with brown frame
lays itself bare
on a white cloth
actually a wiper of mist
or tears perhaps
or dirt like oil or stains
a black casing
stares at it like a niche
as though someone that
appears later
shall be buried on the
red mantel.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My table is now brightly, now dimly lighted. Its temperature varies. It may receive an ink stain. One of its legs may be broken. It may be repaired, polished, and replaced part by part. But, for me, it remains the table at which I daily write.
quote by Ernst Mach
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Today... 'Friend of publicans and sinners
The Son of Man came here eating and drinking
'He is a glutton' all the priests were thinking.
But wisdom by all her children is proved right
truth's revealed only to those who've seen the light.
This Jesus in His mercy befriended me
and died to make me part of His family.
No glutton or drunkard is this Friend of mine
but head of the table at which I will dine.
Behold what luxurious food loads the board
When at His heavenly table sits the Lord.
The wine is so rich and the bread how so sweet
when Jesus invites sinners with Him to eat.
Where would I be if Jesus was not my Friend?
I dread to think how my sinful life would end.
Standing alone before God's white Judgement Throne.
No Intercessor to help and on my own.
For those who the world ignores and dismisses
the Son of Man showers with love and kisses.
Seeking sinners and tax collectors to save
He endured the cross and rose up from the grave.
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box)
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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Her Black Fog
The depression moves in on her
Like a dark fog. It seems to suck
All interest in life and events
From her mind so that she sits
And stares from the window like
One dying slowly over the month.
Outwardly she seems quite fine.
Little quiet perhaps. Not her usual self.
None of her unstoppable laughter and joy.
She hates it when the fog comes.
The curtains drawn in her mind.
The deep depression sucking.
There is the same view from the window.
Trees and lawn and the bird table unattended.
Snow had fallen last time. She remembers
The white blanket over everything.
The bird table like a white statue
Standing still unattended. The sky grey
And sucked of all interest. Her lover
Such as he is still wanted his sex.
She performed dully. No passion.
Nothing touched her or reached in
And moved her. Her lover did his thing
And finished. He turned over and snored.
The inner darkness invades each aspect
Of her being. Even her baby's cry
Doesn't move or stir her. She hears it
Like one hearing a far away thunder
And possible storm. Even her beloved
Picasso print fails to move her.
Music of Mahler pushes out
From the nearby shore of the CD player
And slides over her like a chilling wave.
There are voices speaking. Someone
She feels walks on her grave.
poem by Terry Collett
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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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Where MacGregor sits at the head of the table.