Best Bistros Poems
This year more than ever
I long to surpass myself
The clock is ticking
No longer can I recklessly
Take the gift of time for granted
I dream this year more than ever
To give wings to my muse
Release the buildup
Of pent-up energy
And let her loose
Free reins
With canvases and color
I dream of releasing
The artist in me before
She sleeps her life away
This year more than ever I dream
To dress in artist garb and
Wear purple feather in my hat
More than a wannabe renaissance groupie
Parade down the streets of Paris
Break bread with starving artists of the day
Be it as it may crossing lines of time
Hang out with the likes of Leonardo
Rembrandt Picasso and Sartre
Artists and philosophers alike
While away the hours in bistros
Pen in hand living on coffee and croissants
Hang out in bakeries while kindred spirits
Sit to chat about their latest works and passion
This year I dream of making each day count
Remembering time can seem both infinite
While being abruptly finite
Who knows what the new year will bring ~
Published in my photo/poetry book ~NEW YEAR~ 2019
AP: 2nd place 2021
POTD December 19, 2019
Submitted on December 17, 2019 for contest NEW YEAR DREAMS sponsored by CHANTELLE ANNE COOKE - RANKED 1ST
These Hands, These Hands
I have seen hands like this before
In every size and color
Hands that are parched and withered
Strong hands, tired hands
Hands that can bear any load
Hurting hands that are calloused
And bent, yet these hands can be
Gentle as a kitten’s paw
Ready and able to hold and heal.
I have seen hands like this before
In upscale bistros and small-town cafes
Stashing meager tips
for the American dream.
I have watched as these hands
Hawk “The Herald”
For pennies on the dollar
Shovel coal into buckets
And black death into their lungs.
I have seen hands like this before
Hands of everyday heroes
Carrying bodies from burning towers
Pulling girder after girder
From twisted wreckage,
Hands that wipe away dirt and ash
To salute a tattered flag with pride
Determined to stand tall
In the face of terror.
I have seen hands like this before
Caring hands that teach and guide
Encourage and praise,
Motherly hands nurturing, holding
Rocking, gently disciplining
without ever harming,
Hands always willing to reach out
And help their fellow man
Always ready to volunteer.
I have seen hands like this before
Hands that create masterpieces
Deliver hope and build nations
Hands that with hard work
And determination grow stronger
Each time they reach out to others
To protect, pardon or applaud
Hands of the working man
Hands of the mother and father
Hands of teachers, doctors, nurses
Laborers, soldiers and farmers
Hands of waitresses, secretaries
Firemen and police
Hands that give comfort and aid
Hands that heal our pain
And join together in prayer
Hands that touch our lives
In simple but profound ways.
These hands, these hands
These loving, generous hands
Never resign, always giving
These hands are your hands and mine.
Poetry convention is now convened
attendance must be asked and seen
Eve - Present
Jan- Present
AnneLise -Present
Santa Claus- Present
Shakespeare -Present
Greek Ghost - Dead
Jesus - Three days late
Bach - Stringing things along
Poets all
dance and sing
paint, draw and hold purse strings
ah but some poets claim such glory
Why then do they cheat
upon Gods glory?
All in favor
clink our glasses
red wine and friendships
heaven exists
in bistros
of
honesty
Ode to the Netherlands
Oh, Netherlands, I remember you well
the beautiful cities I came to know
Brukelen, Haarlem, Utrecht and Zeist
as a younger man in search of lore
the blue canals along the street
the Amsterdam bistros where people meet
my nederlandse friends and Indonische love
a culture blended with the best of beers
Is it the same as I recall
when Queen Juliana ruled with great aplomb
in the fifty six years I have been there since
bloom on forever , Oh, Kuekenhof
and flow on, Oh, Zuiderzee
My heart will always be with thee
Contest
Based on BBC news article "Maths zeroes in on perfect cup of coffee"
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-37989169
Two billion cups a day we drink
To stay awake so we can think
Tireless workers - every nation
Need a caffeine drink equation
Lattes, mochas, cappuccinos
Our calculator super heroes
Measured, reasoned, wrote a theorem
Clockwork system - mighty fearsome
No longer need barista instinct
Random variations extinct
Future bistros turn bizarre
Robots running coffee bars
Divide the beans and add hot water
Multiplies the bean aroma
Takes away the taste chaotic
Get this right - it's sums and logic
China cups the theory goes
Helps the smell go up you nose
Cardboard mug with plastic roof
Not as good, but where's the proof?
Coffee can't be served alone
You don't need maths - it's just well known
Donut, muffin you could try
Bagel, biscuit, slice of pi
But their reason's most disjoint
Like whole numbers - has no point
You just need a rule of thumb
QED for us dumb-dumbs
When limbs of Montmartre tint the glow
chemise de nuit falls to the ground,
belle de jour, come moan a pale sound
through alleys winding lamp light’s flow.
Her fine heels toss on follies’ show
she, au naturel , caprice bound ;
taunting stars to rouse below.
Uphill, this mistress wraps fired lips
fleeting sighs mixing red-hot drips,
amidst night bistros’ fragrant plight
where rows of faces wet love’s sips.
Then like a dream, her bedgown flips
denying passion, oh one last bite.
©french sonnet/personification
*Montmartre—famous Paris hill where art,
music, romantic atmosphere, and bohemian
culture thrive despite its religious strains.
*belle de jour--- beautiful lady
*au naturel--- in a natural state, also, nude
*chemise de nuit--- nightdress
. …. .
by nette onclaud
for Cyndi Mac Millan’s Un, Deux, Trois contest
31 may 12
Crackling like lightning the scent of rainy sundays and sweaty youth enters my lungs like undesired medication
foot steps and introduction of generations and blood lines fills my head like crazy family stories
This time of night reminds me of you
I walked past the french bistro and absorbed young skins and loud jazz rumbling like a giants soulful baby
I watched day turn to night and rain drizzle upon this illuminated darkness of melodies and heart grabbing stares
Paranoia captured my follicles
and I swear that man on the train with poka dots and stripped hands
looks like you
I walked past the french bistro as my hair began to gather the memories of the year
and the world seemed to mirror my thoughts
this time of year reminds me of you
I remind me of you
I keep waiting for a newness to enter my heart
so Im not chained to my love for you
I forgot all our times together
because they remind me of wine dipped, swollen, broken hearts of mine
wanting to grow and develope more then ever I only revert back to ghosts of reality
The bone marrow inside of me was stolen by santa
and each joint of my body has gained such a heaviness
its hard to get up
from pillows of dusty broken skin cells
Shoulder whipped and ankles cold lonesome electricity
pipping in darkened roofs
hooved horses bellowing
below
me
whispers of cloud catching voices that aren’t you
and hands that roughen me
toughen me
lost to the shell of you
lost to the sparked foutainhead that spouts your
linguistic melodies in my head like torterous
hellish
key board clicking
ticking me away from existence
jumbled in condenced barren faces
desolate land erupt me
oh places places places
that feed me into monstreous children
forsaken
silly folly I forbid you to drink me dry
darken me so
leave me lonesome
take me holy
Thought I heard you whisper but it was only the mosquito sucking my rotting blood
This part of me reminds me of you
down along 42nd and cypress street
the allegorical prostitutes say their not street
hookers but just a symbol of sex.
just like the walking sign post
stop, merge left, bump,
narrow road ahead.
cracked pavement and raindrops,
concaved inward and downward
awake the cornerstreet prophet and
pattern out a little mercy for the junkies
spinning double helix faith.
such a beautiful gray angelican.
the cigarette littered sidewalk somehow
seems to resurrect its stone geist
with dreams of a sandlewood
gossamer in its head.
but he must know just like all
the others to the east, hawthorn st
and alder st, birch st and ash st.
he must remember that things dont
change for the good much at this
time of year.
the gentrified saints have all
moved north, to sit in hipster
bistros and drink organic
sumatra fair trade coffee.
down along 42nd and cypress st
little was said and less understood.
mostly train horns and mumbling,
mostly sleeping nocturnal birds
with a few leaf clogged storm drains.
YO PHILLY
Statuate Billy Penn who stands on tall
And sits upon the antique City Hall
To view and overlook the sky and trees
There is a small metropolis to see
And see our main Broad Street run both north and south
Where all the lights adorn resplendent sights
As in an airport runway in the night
Along with staggered bistros in the north
A place where philly cheesesteaks do abound
Delicious Scrapple joined in with the eggs
A tasty Amish food that has a flair
Hot mustard and soft pretzels added in
And a sweet water ice to quench your thirst
To love a tasty blend of Philly fare
A Sonnet about where you live Contest
sponsored by Silent one
Harsh Mission / San Francisco, CA 2011
Through the harsh white sunlight
the random bits of cast offs tumble and stick
smeared to the pavement and layered upon
upright posts, from pillar to post they roll
on bikes and trikes, on roller blades
and skate boards, down and out,
drunk and oh so sober, they meander
as if on the streets of Paris
in their mock Bistros with their
fake hair, their primal piercings, and their
do me do's just screaming of abuse...
The childlike sibyls and torrid sirens
howl at the fog banked moon
as they stumble on the dole from room
to rented room, or huddle in the bus shelters
waiting to sneak a cheap ride down town.
Bizzaro meets his mate in the masked
denizens of the mission district
breasts starred, caped and on display for all to see
face hidden behind plastic lunacy...
The giggling effervescence of misspent youth
crumbles into a heedless epicurean
mosh pit of aimless wandering
joyous neglect...
It is truly hard to know where the
garbage ends and the art begins.
A Parisian smile
Awakens and touches me
After years of being away;
Cobble-stoned street
Of silky chestnuts
Echoes the steps
Of shadowy lovers who
Embrace and whisper shared sighs.
Music spills out
Of neighborhood bistros
As an aged dilettante
Recites his poetry
While pouring the house wine
For nodding audience
In state of ennui
While sitting in the sidewalk cafe.
The day’s hours were worn down and a sudden sunset, that
resembled a master’s painted glimpse of Valhalla, was upon
us, its majesty of deepest blue, blood red and black.
From our tenth-floor skew, the river looked, for all,
like a wrinkled sea expecting a storm. Boats moved
to tie up before the dark body of windswept clouds arrived
trailing a wall of downpour and flickering, electric thunder.
Our study group had run over, as they tend to do. Most of the
members urgently moved to pack up (they’d be campus bound).
An unpropitious rumble and fierce flare of light, revealed that mild
twilight had swiftly faded to a darkest stormy night.
My pinched-pleated curtains thrashed before this tempest for
the almanacs, feigning a life they do not possess, like twin ghosts
stured to wrath.
“We can order in,” I offered, waving a menu from the downstairs bistro, as I closed my French, glass doors. “Why not eat here and wait it out?” I shrugged, “My treat,” I offered, “and I have wine.”
A pleasant embracement of relief and consent followed. What held
more power, I wondered, the society, natures coerce or the gratis fare?
Later. as we parted, a young man paltered, repaying me with a quick hug and cheeky kiss. The valueless touch, was itself rewarded with a small grimace of a smile, but the sin did not overset the mood.
.
.
Songs for this:
Riders on the storm by the doors
Stormy by Classics IV
Black-ice sheers,
it cuts deep into paved-ways and lots.
Night snorts a frigid fog,
the caked and idling cars
only sludge a gripping freeze.
This glacial dark fangs wrists and hearts.
Grit nips at tender cheeks and tongues.
The lights of bistros cannot withstand
their desolate backyards.
A scree of black curb can be crossed,
only if the heavily shod
mash and smash through.
Are we in the end days or
in an age of small uncertain fears
that cannot now truly thaw?
We slip along
uncover small pockets of glee
in these long frozen hours
where exhausted minds sleep
and walk.
Death is upended,
lungs mask against a stabbing air,
small ice sculptures appear
in snowy humps and heaps
as if this time will always be congealed,
nailed like this to scraps of eternity.
Later, these days,
with all there residue of lost souls
will be swept way
from the crusted edge
of mall steps and clogged paths.
Then it will be a different time,
a forgotten time, one only recalled
as a mist behind wintry eyes
as we, all unmuffled now,
glance backwards into yet another
uncertain future.
At uncertain times black ice sheers the wind,
The nights snorts a frigid fog
into the fumes of idling cars.
Ohio, once was a light in a hissing bowl.
Land was laid out like a plain bible,
it offered salted potatoes
to the frozen and freezing,
it played a wheezy bellows into rural glimmers.
This night knows how to fang a wrist.
Grit nips our tender tongues.
The lights of bistros cannot withstand
their desolate backyards.
A scree of black curb
can be crossed, but not by the lightly shod.
At such times, Autumn lends
a shivering hand at its own burial.
After the sermon, small ice sculptures
of raw priests, congeal into humps and heaps.
A sweeping wind pushes rotting leaves
into vacant lots.
Paris by night is gay,
I prefer Paris by day
I love the ambience and style,
French fashion stands out a mile,
From all the others in that trade,
The best designs are Parisienne made.
The French have flair beyond compare,
I praise the food and savoir-faire
Visiting a French bakery
For cafe au lait, gateau or tea,
Little bistros are a treat,
Place where young lovers meet.
Romance in Paris Ooh La La,
For love, one does not need to look far.
Couples walking hand in hand,
It could be just a one night stand.
The French love to love, so they say,
Even if it lasts for just one day.
The feeling of romance is everywhere,
Strains of music in the air.
People reading while sipping wine,
The atmosphere is simply divine.
The lake shimmers like glass
As children's toy yachts come bobbing past.
I have lost all sense of time, as I'm
Captured by the contentment on the faces
Of people of different ages and races
Enjoying their day,
In their way.