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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Related quotes
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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My Blacck Woman
Her hair is like the softest silk,
Her eyes are of deep ebony brown,
Yet her smile melts my inner soul,
She is my Black Woman!
The thick lips she posses are so pleasing;
Her touch is that of a goddess,
Her beauty is beautiful as diamond,
My Black Woman, also My Queen.
Though no one is truly perfect,
But in my eyes she is so fine,
My Black Woman everlasting….
For me there can be only her,
To stand by my side threw thick and thin,
Comfort me when I fail
To help me get back on my feet,
To believe in me when others doubt me,
She’s merely being herself….
Also my Black Woman.
A strong Black Woman she is indeed,
Also passionate with understanding as well,
This woman would never leave my side,
My lady, my friend for all times…
My Black Woman.
©2010 Redscar McOdindo K’Oyuga
poem by Redscar McOdindo K'Oyuga
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What Max Wanted
What do you want from me?
Max's wife said
and he looked by her
at the waitress
at the cafe
who was walking
with some order
behind his wife's back
and he noticed
the cute ass as she moved
the way she swayed
and the hands
holding the tray
huh? What is it
you want from me?
his wife repeated
her eyes peering at him
taking in
that aspect of him
as he turned his head
look said Max
following the waitress
to the table across the way
his eyes slowly
undressing her
his mind making up scenes
like in some movie
you say come on Honey
let's go out for a meal
and talk
and what are you doing
looking elsewhere
and not talking
his wife said
spittle on her lower lip
Max looked back
at his wife and said
oh yes sure
I was thinking
of the Picasso print
we saw the other day
you know that one
we both liked
and you said you'd like it
for your birthday
well maybe
I ought to get it
what do you think?
And the waitress
looked over at Max
as she went by
and he saw
a whole new ball game
in her eyes
and caught the cheek
and ear
and was sure
he captured some aspect
of her perfume
and his wife said
Picasso?
That Picasso?
are you sure Max?
and she went into a daze
and smiled
and Max imagined himself
and the waitress
and sex games
and a party
going wild.
poem by Terry Collett
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Doppelganger or Such Like.
You remind me
of my brother
the woman said
after mass
meeting you
at the back
of the church
poor guy you thought
to look like me
and then the other day
while sipping a latte
at a Nero coffee house
you saw her again
sitting in the corner
with her husband
who was reading a paper
she looked up
saw you and smiled
some essence of her youth
held in there
at least in spirit
who is that?
your son asked
a woman from church
who says I look like her brother
you said
and what does her brother
look like?
he said
me I guess
you replied
taking in the Mozart music
in the back ground
some minuet
that Judy liked
some decades ago
whom you almost
made it with
until her parents
came home
before the time
they said
and she jumping up
altering her clothes
face bright and red
the woman's husband
put down the newspaper
and sipped his espresso
giving you a nod of recognition
you the guy
whom his wife said
looked like her brother
though he saw
little likeness
save for the beard
and moustache
and that look
about the eyes
you think
taking in his expression
imagining his thought process
he taking no notice
of the Mozart minuet
or knowing Judy's
white underwear
or red dress.
poem by Terry Collett
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My Little Girl
(ferry/manzanera)
Walking home tonight
It came as no surprise
Certain parties making out
Before my eyes
My little girl
Or woman of the world
Theres a small cafe
Where lovers take their time
Its good for rainy days
Too bad the weathers fine
My little girl
Or woman of the world
Whats the story?
True to life or just a lie
See you later -
Whats so new about goodbye?
My little girl
Or woman of the world
song performed by by Roxy Music
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Woman In The Red Dress
The woman in the red dress
How I admire thee
How could one walk with such grace
And such beauty?
The woman in the red dress
Your comforting eyes
The beautiful color
Resembles the sunrise
The woman in the red dress
So young and youthful
A lie never leaves your lips
You are always truthful
The woman in the red dress
Your name, unknown
Your voice speaks with
The most beautiful of tone
The woman in the red dress
Why must you go?
Why don’t you stay
And allow our love to grow?
(May 2010)
poem by Devon McElveen
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Randshaw Muses
Randshaw stands in a shop
Behind a young woman.
He studies her figure.
Nice legs. Bit thin maybe.
Not as thin as Minnie’s.
Matchsticks. He moves closer.
She is next in line to be served.
Nice bottom; firm, but not big,
Not floppy; not like Bet’s. Hips good.
Childbearing Mother would say.
The young woman moves forward
To be served. The waist goes in nicely.
Put arms about easy. Squeeze.
Would do if she were mine.
She moves nearer. Perfume,
Not cheap. Powerful, but not
Overwhelming. He wants to
Feel her hair, but holds his hands
By his sides. He sniffs the air
Around her. He cannot decide
Which brand. He holds in
The scent of her. Closes his eyes
Momentarily. Tries to imagine
Waking up beside her. He opens
His eyes and she’s gone. Yes, Sir,
Can I help you? The till girl asks.
Maybe, Randshaw says,
Maybe. Let me see...
poem by Terry Collett
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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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Cirque
Alone in a dark room
A figure sits
A woman
A girl
Bedraggled hair
White face
Red lips
Scarred
Arms crossed over her chest
X
Clasping each shoulder
Lightly
As though afraid to touch
One hand shakes
Quivers
All she can hear is
Razor blades over a violin
Screech
Her hair is wrinkled
Wet
Like her lips
Chapped and red
Glistening
She’s not in pain
She giggles
Insane
Looks up
Dark eyes
Circled in black
Sunken like pits
Hair, so pale,
It could be green
Dress of purple
Lilac
Fuchsia
Her arms unfold
Her smile widens
Into Glaswegian
She runs her tongue
Across her teeth
Like she’s hungry
“Smile, much? ”
She’ll giggle
As she unveils a knife
poem by Rebecca Kate Summers
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Early one afternoon
Early one afternoon
I walked through the streets
of a small village
and it had to be in Italy
and was probably in Corona
or Tuscany.
a Baker with a white overcoat
and white hat on his head
rang on his bike’s bell for me
and pedalled pass,
with an old green bike
at the Pizza Palour.
There were long white breads
and green wine bottles,
in the baskets of his bicycle
and he had a big bush
of red blue lanvender flowers in one hand.
Across from me there were three small tables
with white table-covers,
at the Villa Toscana
and I could read some dishes
from the menu on the wall.
At the wall a young woman
with dark hair and an indigo dress
laughed sharp and bright,
while she waited
that a well built waitress
pour some more wine.
The image of the beautiful waitress
with black hair and deep dark eyes,
that bends forward
still stays with me.
In front of me at Le Art
there were a row of paintings,
depicting nudes to the finest detail
on painter’s easels.
I walked nearer
and I could see rows of violet lavender bushes
against the ridge in the distance
and Villa’s, that stand yellow gold
up on the hill
and looked impressive
against the deep blue sky.
When I got back to myself
I was at the fountain
in front of the mural
in our garden
and the golden Persian cat,
watched me from the top of the wall
with a woolly tail that curled down
and it looked with golden eyes at me.
[Reference: Tuscan mural by Mandi. See the painting at my webpage: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1417_Early_one_af ternoon.htm]
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Brown Lady Asserting Her Right To Take A Seat
and so this brown lady
inside a cafe
asserted her right
to sit where she wants
to
invoking her
constitutional right
a la rosa
sub rosa
parks
a white woman
enters
and tells her
to move a little
bit farther
and the brown woman
says
you don't tell me to move
because you don't own this place
i have the right to be here
i am no less than the trees and the stars
the white woman is 65
the brown woman is 35
and i see,
as you feel the sting,
there is a bite somewhere inside your heart
and now you tell me the story
of this guilt.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Battered Doll
A red dress for blood spilt,
Torn blouse for flesh rent;
Ladders in the stockings –
A rung for every callous blow landed.
Scuffed shoes winked about the kicks –
After all, bruise-gorged eyes can’t –
Just permanently closed.
Burning tears were scant warmth
Against a chill from ugly cries.
Lipstick smudges on the chin to
Nullify all vestiges of beauty –
Those that constituted rare patches
Of purest cream skin, from
Days of feminine joy, telling once
Upon a time there was an angel…
But now, a battered doll.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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woman woman woman
woman woman
Woman
No more...
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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For the Meeting of Hearts and Lips
Julie took
one of the cigarettes
out of the packet
you had bought
and said
you're too kind
and lit it
with a small
plastic lighter
she took from her bag
you both sat
in a side room
set aside
for patients and guests
just off the drug
dependency ward
she was in
there was a scene
of a few trees
and bushes
from the window
marred by the sight
of the other part
of the hospital
over the way
glad you could come
she said
my parents
won't visit me here
don't they love you?
you asked
it's a matter of what
the neighbours might say
if they found out
I was here
she answered
inhaling deeply
and looking at you
with her dark eyes
her dark hair
was pulled back
in an untidy bun
and the hospital
dressing gown
she wore
was stained
and open
at the neck
and down
revealing a small cleavage
of young pinkish flesh
why did you come?
she asked
I wanted to see you
you replied
none of the others
from the Church come
she said
it's all talk
and promises
and God talk
but none
have come to see me
so far
she inhaled again
and stared out
the window
you studied how
she had crossed
her legs
showing
a glimpse of thigh
where her white
dressing gown
and nightdress
rose high
a nurse entered the room
and said
would you like tea
or coffee?
yes
Julie said
two coffees please
and the nurse
went out and off
her feet pitter
pattering down
the corridor
through the half
open door
I'm lucky here
she said
some druggies
get shoved in mental wards
or poked in
psychiatric units
with other
damaged goods
it seems ok
you replied
lifting your eyes
from her thighs
to her face
pure in its makeup
less state
and dark eyes
19 years young
she said
and already buggered up
as my father has said
I'm sure they love you
in their way
you said
taking in her neck
and the run
of her chin
and her mouth
with the small
moving lips
the nurse came in
with a tray
with two mugs
of white coffee
and a bowl
of brown sugar
and set it down
on the small grey table
and walked out
my parents love me
as property
not as a person
she said
uncrossing
her legs
and lifting a mug
and taking small sips
and oh you thought
(lifting a mug
and drinking)
for the meeting
of our hearts
and lips.
poem by Terry Collett
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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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Her Hidden Treasure
Her flame was only for the women –
Not for us unlucky men;
A weakness lay for feminine way:
To feel an even fairer skin
In silky slide.
Her lips were for the satin love that
Only flows from rising breast;
The creamy tan was not for man
To pull towards a chiselled chest
In weathered hide.
Her hidden treasure down below
Would shy away from macho length
And only rouse upon the blouse
Undone by other sapphic strength –
In time, inside!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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woman woman woman woman woman woman
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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I Am Not A Woman...
I am not a woman that loves with a heart
I am not a woman that's silly and smart
I am not a woman with open wounds
I am not a woman that's more attuned
I am not a woman that you hold dear
I am not a woman that has no fear
I am not a woman that's loved or lost
I am not a woman that doesn't know the cost
I am not a woman that's hurting inside
I am not a woman that has no foolish pride
I am not a woman that can't look you in the eye
I am not a woman alone that cries
I am not a woman that's imprisoned with chains
I am not a woman that holds her will in vain
I am not a woman, or mother, or friend
or wife, or daughter, or one to depend
I am not a woman of all and more
Because I gave it away to the one I adore
what's left is all you see
Just a woman that truly believes
Thru My Eyes
Thru My Eyes I see a woman
A woman whom cannot see her own self
Images disguised by her childhood upbringing
And does not believe that she can find help
Thru My Eyes I see another woman
A woman whom I love and then have lost
Trying times of despair and resentment
Simple pleasures as holding her I miss the most
Thru My Eyes I see a woman
A woman with beautiful brown eyes
Though she continues to misunderstand me
Once again a deep breathe asking myself why
Thru My Eyes I see another woman
Who accepted me but I never gave in return
Tainting once viewed as our loving memories
Impulsive decisions forever wounding her
Thru My Eyes I see a beautiful woman
A woman with elegance that I cannot deny
Awaiting the day she discovers my love for her
A love that can only be seen Thru My Eyes
That girl
That girl
with bangs on her hair
a pink headband, thick lips pure red,
curly hair, mini skirt, and bleached legs
as white as may sky,
the way she sits tells me
that she is a woman now
beautiful to be with
because of her
bad habits.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Chauvinist
I’d never really comprehended such a mighty range of
Shapes and sizes down behind, it’s really rather strange:
The buttock muscle in a woman, overlaid with fat
Is actually such a focal point for men to want to pat
Or squeeze, and then to tease her if it’s eminently stout,
Or even risk a stay in clink to sting it with a clout!
After all, we men are tuned to be that way inclined –
And tho’ our needs are varied, girls, they’re all perverse of mind!
Best of all, our sacred dream: to see her shed her gown
When gliding to the shower for the ritual sponging down.
But then alas! With body lathered, oops! she drops the soap;
‘Please! ’ we beg her, ‘bend and bare! ’ But we can only hope!
I’m sure by now you get the picture – like a rule of thumb –
That men like me obsess all day about the fairer bum.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
My dreams are of a
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Way We Look At Things At First
the way you look at the woman
the way she walks and bears herself along a narrow alley,
the way she bends when she picks up
a coin, the way she blinks an eye,
or look at you when you stare at her
white face, black long hair flowing like silk in air,
her lips pouting at you
you think she is seducing you
her hands on her hips and her legs landing on the ground
like a wooden boat at the pier,
the way you look at first on the first impression is always on the
flesh
not on the shape of her bones
or the strength of her arteries and veins,
not always what is inside her guts,
or the brains in her
that you will not see unless
you go towards her, ask her name
take time together
and ask her what she thinks about
loneliness and pain
by then you will know if she is really your woman
and it is only you and time
to tell the world that the days are still worth living
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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