Large
The quiet man exploded
like a termite full of
poison through the air
and on the table with
used napkins and a
quarter for a tip to
go to waitress who
had served the man a
tuna on a bread with
mayo sandwich and a
coffee and a jalapeno
chopped and mixed
with beans.
poem by Rick Stokes
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Related quotes
Dubrovnik 1972.
Dubrovnik seemed
a second home,
and you, in a street
cafe, sat drinking coffee,
with that book on
Schopenhauer open
on the table, a cigarette
smoking in an ashtray
unattended, thinking
of the girl in the hotel
restaurant the night
before, the waitress
who smiled at you as
she served and went
by your table, and your
brother said, I don't
fancy yours much,
indicating with a nod
of head, another
waitress over by a
nearby table, plump
and spotted, wearing
a scowl instead of a
smile, and all the while,
he eyeing, as young
men do the beauty
that had caught your
eye going by, but all is
fair in love, so men
have said, so picking
up the book on
Schopenhauer, and
further reading,
holding the cigarette
between the fingers
of the hand not
turning pages, you
inhaled with deep
concentration the
smoke and words
spread across the
page, written by a
philosopher of a
foreign tongue
and different age.
poem by Terry Collett
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Coffee!
Coffee beans all ground up,
Coffee in my favourite cup,
Coffee black, coffee white,
Coffee dark, coffee light,
Coffee right, to start the day,
Coffee at work, coffee at play,
Coffee midday, coffee at night,
Coffee to sober, coffee to excite,
Coffee weak, coffee strong,
But maybe instead some Lapsang Souchong! ! ! !
TEA! ! ! ! !
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Full Breakfast
Fried bread, Lord, who's still not; been fed.
Not me a little voice said…
Who said that? A park duck!
Or some hard luck Indian fatherless kid.
Eggs and bacon, God, is there, no!
Red ketchup or bake beans,
Hey kid get-up off your soiled knees.
After collecting that plastic garbage
With an iron-hook in a cardboard box
Whilst your mothers out selling her body,
With some pox-up jocks
Hey can we have some grilled tomatoes,
And black pudding and mushrooms on the side.
I'll have a coffee over here! It's rainy outside.
Hey child - you'll soon be a bride!
A suitor for you, shouldn't be hard to find…?
Let's tip the waitress boys, she so looks suppressed
Depressed - but at least she's got a uniform
And a collection-fund and a counsel house
And at the weekend she's pissed and jocund.
Hell I could eat another pork sausage!
Latter we'll go to The Nags Head
And even later still play some cribbage
The wife at home she can wait at home alone.
I've got the waitress to phone.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Another Day
having the low down blues and going
into a restraunt to eat.
you sit at a table.
the waitress smiles at you.
she's dumpy. her ass is too big.
she radiates kindess and symphaty.
live with her 3 months and a man would no real agony.
o.k., you'll tip her 15 percent.
you order a turkey sandwich and a
beer.
the man at the table across from you
has watery blue eyes and
a head like an elephant.
at a table further down are 3 men
with very tiny heads
and long necks
like ostiches.
they talk loudly of land development.
why, you think, did I ever come
in here when I have the low-down
blues?
then the the waitress comes back eith the sandwich
and she asks you if there will be anything
else?
snd you tell her, no no, this will be
fine.
then somebody behind you laughs.
it's a cork laugh filled with sand and
broken glass.
you begin eating the sandwhich.
it's something.
it's a minor, difficult,
sensible action
like composing a popular song
to make a 14-year old
weep.
you order another beer.
jesus,look at that guy
his hands hang down almost to his knees and he's
whistling.
well, time to get out.
pivk up the bill.
tip.
go to the register.
pay.
pick up a toothpick.
go out the door.
your car is still there.
and there are 3 men with heads
and necks
like ostriches all getting into one
car.
they each have a toothpick and now
they are talking about women.
they drive away first
they drive away fast.
they're best i guess.
it's an unberably hot day.
there's a first-stage smog alert.
all the birds and plants are dead
or dying.
you start the engine.
Anonymous submission.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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If you ever want to eat a tuna sandwich again, don't go to a tuna factory. I visited one where they had two lines: one was the human food line and one was the cat food line - and they didn't look any different.
quote by Mark Mobius
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Halley's Waitress
Halley's waitress
Never comes around
She's hiding in the kitchen
She's no where to be found
I just want some coffee
Is that too much to ask
Halley's waitress
Is not up to the task
And when she finally appears
It's like she's been away for years
It's been so long, so long
Darling, don't you know
We miss you when you're gone
So long, so long
Darling, don't you know
We miss you when you're gone
Halley's waitress
Has vanished once again
She's talking to her agent
She's calling all her friends
Forget about the coffee
I'll just take a check
Halley's waitress
You know you'll get yours yet
It's been so long, so long
Darling, don't you know
We miss you when you're gone
So long, so long
Darling, don't you know
We miss you when you're gone
song performed by by Fountains Of Wayne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eat
Cold and dark in the morning
talk comes with a price
it is a bargain for the waitress
and diners get what they need.
The eggs are served with sympathy
for another birthday missed
the road is more than miles for
the trucker who takes them over hard.
Booth number 9 is an omelet and oatmeal
a preacher and acolyte looking for a church
the preacher's collar is frayed and yellowed
in service to a god who speaks too softly.
At the table by the door the farmers drink
coffee and talk of weather tractors prices
they have the look of a dying breed not because
they are old -their sons are off to college the
army the city or anywhere else
daughters will wait
not one of them will marry a farmer.
A young couple passing through
sits in number 8 close almost huddled
the boy counts his coins the girl looks cold
the waitress brings hot tea
'It's on the house honey.' They order toast
to share, she slips ham onto to the
plate when the cook's not looking
'I'll take that outta your tips.'
he never does.
The woman at the end of the counter
tattoos a glass with her lips
she is the blue plate special one egg
one pancake two strips of hard salty bacon
the long night gives her an appetite for
comfort and something real before going home
to wash the haze of stale cologne out of her hair.
Street lights go out
the sun promises warmth
diners pay bills homage thanks
and go out to live in the light
the waitress cleans tables
then counts her tips
She floats from counter to table
to booth serving coffee water eggs toast and
some things not on the menu
reassurance hope sustenance for the day
she takes their orders brings what they need
and all of this beneath a sign that says EAT.
poem by Ronald Shields
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The Special Bread For My Lover
Take wheat, barley, beans, lentils, millet ans spelt;
Mixed them in one bowl to make the special bread for my lover;
For the fuel of a cow's dung is not what she needs.
They will eat bread by weight and in anxiety,
And they will drink water by measure and in desolation;
But my lover will eat the special bread as baked from you!
For the prophets are like the jackals in the ruins and,
Their visions are false and their days are at hand.
Every vision to my sweet lover is fulfilled,
For she has now got the special bread as baked by you;
And you did as instructed by my formula.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A Cold Cup Of Coffee...
must i know now the
significance of a coffee getting cold
after it is being served
on my table?
how do i not notice time passing?
like a breeze from the sea
because i have been preoccupied
looking at the horizon
anticipating the glory of the
sunrise that
i am waiting for most of my time
having spent
nights on isolated veranda
away from friends
and relatives?
a cold coffee now
that i regret having asked
and just like the rest of
my other coffees
it shall remain as it is
coffee on its brim
returned
untouched.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Is it Tea or Coffee?
Is it Tea or Coffee?
Tell me!
My instant early morning dream
I like it black, white with sugar or cream!
The choice is free
Yet the mind cannot agree
With Tea is a Yippee!
With Coffee it is a Whoopee!
The thought of a little caffeine
The smell of fresh roasted beans
Will once again set off my adrenalin
While my exhausted brain is waiting
That stirring cup of sizzling black
Put on the kettle; spill the beans out of the sack
I will pay the fee; I will pay the levee
I will beg on one knee for a little bit of Coffee
Take a sip of the early morning coffee
Close your eyes and try to see
As you smell the airy aroma like a bee
Tea or Coffee! Perhaps you now understand me
Those swarms of dark brown seeds
They feed my vicious needs indeed
I don’t care how much I pee or how much I wee
For that sparking liquid of hot black called coffee
Copyright 2008 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Over His Latte.
He's only just sat down
in the cafe when she enters
and stands at the counter
waiting to be served. He lets
his latte settle. Allows his
eyes to scrutinize. The waitress
serves the woman in the white
hat and black dress. He notes
her fine figure, the low cut at
the neck, the thin straps over
shoulders. He tries to breathe
in from where he sits her perfume,
but it doesn't come. The woman
orders an espresso and says it
with an Italian accent. He follows
her with his eyes as she walks
to a table alone. She looks like a
girl Modigliani would have painted.
She looks at her watch and then
around the room of the cafe.
She crosses her legs, one over
the other, thigh revealed. He sips
his latte. Wipes his lips with the
back of his hand. Bad habit, mother
would have slapped his hand as a
child once. The waitress delivers
the woman's coffee; he notes the
waitress's fine behind, the hands
serving, the legs touching together.
Then she's gone. Just the woman
in the white hat to study. The way
she lifts the small white cup to her
mouth, her fingers holding delicately,
as if afraid to break. Get a life Brody
would say if he were there. But he's not;
he's away with that girl from the office,
having a lay. The woman in the hat
stares at him, her eyes devour, her lips
part like legs before sex. She looks boringly
away. He sips more latte. He doesn't like
her white hat or black dress anyway.
poem by Terry Collett
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Poison! Poison!
Poison I breathe, poison I eat,
And poison poison I do drink,
Poison are my thoughts, poison are my acts,
Poison are my sleeps, poison are my dreams,
My blood is poison, poison is my flesh,
And poison poison are my bones.
Wherever I move
I envenom my fellow beings,
And enlarge my kingdom,
This is how my life goes on,
Living in the world: all poison poison.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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To choose Norm Coleman over Walter Mondale is like going to a great steakhouse and ordering the tuna sandwich.
quote by Garrison Keillor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Am Back From Work!
I am back from work;
There isn’t a greeting soul!
The table is as I’d left;
Just biscuits and coffee cold!
Oh, what a life so boring?
Same beans-cup awaiting;
Something is quite missing!
Must be spousal love!
poem by John Celes
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How Do You Wish To Start Act Two?
Often brought to the edge,
By an overheard interpretation....
Taken out of context.
Only to be asked to be forgiven,
Again...
For a misunderstanding,
Another did attempt to prevent.
Often brought to the edge,
By something thought said...
But wasn't.
And when one stood on the ledge,
Prepared to jump from it...
Fraught with guilt feelings,
Felt...
From being often the cause,
Of a once solid relationship...
To slump into deep distrust.
The one accused dares to budge to intervene.
But makes a sandwich to munch...
Instead.
While listening to threats of a following through,
To jump as a drama addict promises to do...
A sandwich was made,
Using pickles, lettuce, tomato and mayo.
With a touch of marmalade on whole wheat bread.
'Aren't you going to do anything?
I said I was sorry.
What is it that you want me to prove? '
~I'm waiting for you to prove to me,
Just how sorry you are?
You've taken it this far!
And...
Maybe for reasons to satisfy your own insecurities.
I can come to close the window?
So as to not have you blame your decision on me.
I've already suggested that we should talk about it.
So prove to me...
How do you wish to start Act Two?
With a climbing inside to talk?
OR with a swan dive?
Either way...
I've ended catering to your nonsense.
Do whatever you choose.~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Cup of mocha
You never liked
the taste of mocha
You said it was
coffee laced
with chocolate lies
I always loved it
when the chocolate
masked the coffee
Just enough, and
let it linger nice
A lie coated truth
But, truth nevertheless...
The warm cup of mocha
Stands and grows cold
outside in
Dreams, forgotten,
lie dormant
new, old within
I stretch over the table
as across continents
To hold your hands,
to cup some warmth into;
a coffee grown cold,
a life grown old
We always shared
the mocha
you sipping
seeking the coffee
While I taste
the chocolate,
wait with the coffee
We stare athwart
Our love’s passion,
no longer an obsession
It retains within us ties,
Coffee mingled with chocolate lies
You always said
“Serve me poison,
with a smile,
I will drink it too.
Please, don’t lace it
with chocolate as with
coffee you do.”
You never liked
the taste of mocha
Yet, you always
drink it with me
As you sip,
your eyes crinkle
and I smile too, with you...
poem by O. Sudhir Janardhanan
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Inside the House of Bread
Everyone has a table inside the house of bread
Pouring in into the chairs the fish have come to roost
Its already started to happen inside the house of bread
Feasting and Forever enough to go around the table.
And I keep to myself in the age of all this water
We can share an ocean but don’t drink from my open well
I wont mind sharing in the house of bread
Everyone at the table deserves to be fed
poem by James Daniel Gabriel
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How Should Mornings Be?
a cup of roasted coffee
a toast of bread
butter and marmalade
a slice of orange
some lima beans
a little music
some prayers
how nice would a morning be
overjoyed
by your presence
sipping same things all over again
with us
how can such a morning be so boring?
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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