Best Cafes Poems
High above the quiet, darkened streets of January, the night wind begins to whisper secrets through my apartment window casements. Far below me lie four cafes, all in sync as they awaken from daytime hibernation to begin an evening ritual of turning on lights, welcoming thirsty patrons, discouraging lost polar bears, trying to survive.
Light bulbs hang in lazy swags, dripping evenly from the edge of each identical awning. Predictably, their glow travels as fast as the light itself creating a sudden and uninvited interruption of the Arctic desert landscape.
Sitting apart on their respective corners below, the cafes squeeze into a single pane near the bottom of my window. Leaning closer, I blow a hot and intoxicated breath onto the glass in defiance or retaliation, an attempt at immolation perhaps. Instead, my unused air lies wasted across the cafes on the other side of the window, in an irregular oval of futility.
I use a balled-up fist to wipe away the misty scene before it has a chance to evaporate and leave me alone, a desperate and inevitable disappearing act in the face of my curated isolation.
January’s snow flows stealthfully through my fifth-floor apartment window, flung wide open to welcome in the new year. The half-drawn curtains bellow with brisk salt air blowing in from the North Sea. A distant foghorn groans in a resigned, forlorn resonance, guiding ships braving the churning, ice-slushy waters as church bells strike twelve stately brassy tones.
This night I stand alone and content, a rich cup of espresso in my hand. Eschewing nostalgia and perhaps too sober of thought, I prefer my pleasures to be of the vicarious variety. Beneath me I take in the muted ambers and oranges spread out from the four cafes, out past the cobblestone road, glistening as snowflakes alite. Young couples drinking, glasses clinking, hug, kiss and revel, strolling out from the cafes. Some indulge in a traditional waltz, before the speaker blares more modern fare. Waves of laughter and singing ebb and flow as I turn and head toward my bed and blessed sleep.
Again the foghorn blares mournfully, like a tuba vainly pleading to be united with a long-lost orchestra.
Life can turn on simple decisions;
I, myself, am proof that life can even be given a start based on the same.
My father rode into Germany at the end of World War II,
His mission: to help clean up the mess that war can leave behind.
His kismet came in the form of Germanic blue eyes
accompanied by a coquettish smile
atop a feminine form with an intelligent mind.
Paperwork was his excuse not to join his platoon on a trip to the outskirts of town;
The real reason was to chase a skirt he was mesmerized with in town;
What his fellow soldiers saw in the first discovery of a German Concentration Camp, scarred them for life;
My father was spared that horror and that trauma to his soul that may have made it impossible for him to fall in love with my mother that afternoon.
Were it not for his lame excuse;
Were it not for the chance to try out his newly learned German on a beautiful girl in a beaten down city in a defeated country;
I would not be typing these words in the autumn of my blessed life.
There would be no author to pen this tale,
No tale to tell,
Had that young soldier performed his duty that day
instead of drinking coffee in the cafés of Berlin.
Written and posted on 1/12/2016 for the "Last Line Prompt" contest.
I was off for my vacation. After a long flight and drive, I reached my cozy apartment. Stars like diamonds filled the cold January night. Exhausted I sank into my soft bed and fall fast asleep. A red roaster was my alarm clock. From my apartment window, three flight’s up, I looked down to the right. Grape vines stood as guards running up the mountainside. To the left, in the bright sunlight was a cute town with four cafe signs. The day turned into night and dinner time. The “Wine Café” was my first stop. Free wine with my wonderful home-cooked meal. My second stop was “Pierre's Café.” The music and dancers were lively as they taught me how to dance. Walking to the third cafe, I wondered why I had picked this cold month for my trip. The “Little Café” was filled with laughter. "Special," two drinks for the price of one. Hooray, I said. It was getting late but I must try the fourth cafe, the “Father and Sons Cafe.” A roaring fireplace with stories being told. My diary ended with, a trip of a lifetime.
Date Written: 2/18/2023
A long-ago January, my love and I spent a month in France. We rented a quaint
apartment up a hill from the road near a lake. The view from the window included lovely mountain flowers and grass down a path to four bar cafes, alongside each other, with outside tables. The apartment window captivated me. I could watch the people, hear their laughter and indistinct voices. All four cafes were quite busy, especially at night, which surprised me, as there is only one small village to support them. I would pour a glass of Cabernet, sit back and watch while my love was busy writing. The scene was enchanting, as if lifted from a painting. The lights from the outside dining made reflections in the glass of the pastel doors and windows. The waiters would go in and out, carrying large trays, while the patrons would walk back and forth between cafes. Sometimes there would be a shout followed by laughter It was a happy scene I'll never forget.
The prose above is entirely fictional.
March 4, 2023
for "Four Cafes" Prose Contest
by Julia Ward
I live in a quaint building high up on the top floor and from my apartment
window I like to watch the scene below on the wide cobbled square. On a
cold January night the lights of four Cafés are mingling with the twinkling
of the stars in the sky. A sign above each doorway poking out reads Café 1,
Café 2, Café 3, and Café 4. Each serve hot meals at moderate prices, along
with wine and liquor. They are well preserved wooden buildings separated by
alleyways. I find the comings and goings of the different characters entering
intriguing.
There are regulars like an old man. I see him cross the square and disappear
into Café 3. I peaked in the doors once and each Café has a different décor.
There is a young woman who comes, very pretty but alone, is she sad? She
likes Café 2. I Like to watch the sweet lovers that all seem to like Café 1.
Tonight, a man is entering Café 4. He is handsome with dark flowing hair
and my heart flutters. Do I have the courage to leave my window?
________________________
March 06, 2023
Poetry/Prose/Four Cafes
Copyright Protected, ID 03-1529-689-06
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, Four Cafes
Sponsor, Julia Ward, Judged 03/15/2023
Fourth Place
Riotous revellers' laughter drifts up from their apricot lit late night haunts, four cafes are notoriously avoided venues for overindulgent consumption of alcohol.
Across the street, from my thirtieth floor apartment window, remote portrait of bodies bent enthralled over their beers,
toads on stools at mushroom stem tables.
Flicker of forbidden recognition crosses my cortex,
- I'm a resident of Broadwater Tower now.
Unstated policy prohibits proximity with riff raff.
Our bar ensures we wear careful attire,
floor gleams mirror marble.
Chrome and cracked leather oud absorbs expensive scents.
Ladies laughter upscale conflicts the low fading mens' vocal.
Tipsy sensation enhanced by deck docked
rolling prestigious flagpole chiming yachts.
Over the road, neolithic neon signs post grotesque cafe names,
Salivate, Green Grotto among them.
Customers come from squat squashed suburbs,
five minute drive away.
Dive bar dark sparks alcoholic amphibians unremarkable bravado.
January holiday season sees sardines huddled heartily under awnings, abandoning next morning necessity.
24th February 2023
151 words
Written for Contest: Four Cafes
Sponsor: Julia Ward
Inside cooped up in my loft all autumn with writer’s block, it was time. I arrived on New Year’s Day. I wanted a fresh start, so I took a well-deserved hiatus.
Such grandeur, and glory, partaking in wine, croque monsieur and then champagne so decadent. I met him in a bar café, the one alongside three others in a row! He indulged my fancy with a Moulin Rouge cabaret, a real gentleman; flamboyant, debonair, and flippant. Montgenevre mistakenly booked my room. By chance of fortune, he overheard the desperation of my voice, cawing at the matradee. “I know my way around. We’ll find you a place to stay until they get their affairs in order.”
I heard a voice whisper, “You can stay as long as you like, mon chéri.” This morning I awoke alone, I remember late last night looking out his high-rise apartment window, down at the four cafés', to see what he sees, think what he thinks. Long leggy locals, intoxicating femme's, drinking peppermint schnapps to tame the harsh chill of January. Perusing today’s paper, I noticed his name, Emile Zola VI. He’s a journalist?! My muse reignited my passion to write. A work in progress.
A croque monsieur-is a hot sandwich made with ham and cheese.
Chantilly lace curtains of my apartment window ripple in the cold January night. From here, I observe mooring lights that illumine the docks in this petty northern port and four cafés that lean toward one another, side-by-side, though separate and apart. I wonder at their co-location. Their twinkling lights blur together in a loud kaleidoscope of color.
The harbor winds carry putrid odors to my window. Sidewalk signs cover most of the walkway. Though too distant to register detail, I discern the outline in flickering neon of two women outside the smallest café as men clad in oilskin foulies lumber into the second, barely a bar, as they all are. Faint modern dance rhythms announce a tiny dance floor inside the third. The brightest café-bar has no one visible. A lone figure in casual attire moves from café to café, not staying long. He moves in the same pattern, over and again, stopping once to chat with the women. I wonder what or who he seeks. The women disappear down a side pathway.
With a desultory outlook for the evening, I close my window, wrap against the cold, and descend the European-styled spiral staircase.
Four Cafe’s
It was post digestion time, 10pm ! uncomfortable bloating causing a staggering stand,supported by the apartment windows brass clasp, the torn green velvet digestion chair lilted just beneath. Nested above the Canal Madeline, perched in a loft atop hundreds of lonely books, which i have not browsed ! their prison the De Krook. Afar beyond the cracked glass, out into the January month night, wildly dancing snowflakes cause a cataract pin pointed view of the culprit of indigestion
“ Cafe Croix de Fer”!
Along the frozen cobbles, Ale fuelled, in-firms trudge and trip precariously, fuelled “by many Trappist brews” towards “ Cafe Le repaire des ames perdues” I myself, visit this lair to regularly, its chestnut doors, spit tainted in past blood, open 24 hrs per day 364 days each year , “ No ! The one day is not Noel ! Its Cask day “ And, on this one day, i visit " Cafe Noir"
My tipple of choice is a hand of cards ! held in gloves tattered and fingerless. This addiction to be found in the basement of the Library, a Cafe,174 worn steps below me, name “ Enfer” my light purse, confirms this.
Count.
Four Cafés
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Four cafés were at the extreme left of what I could see from my apartment window. There they were, sparkling in the cold night, trying to stand in for stars in the cloudy sky. I had visited these café-bars one by one as they were opened within the space of a year, all offering similar food: runny egg, soggy chips and pale baked beans. They had a touch of European chic in the quaint condiment containers, otherwise I could have been anywhere.
I looked for some time at them on that January night, their being the only buildings of interest in my vista. Word had it they were all owned by the same man, which may or not explain why there were no closures. As I stared from my high up space, a solitary man entered the third café, otherwise I saw no one. I expected he was the owner. There he would be then, in the café called "Bar Three", reading the evening paper. That evening the paper was full of a murder story. Perhaps, but no... He was a genteel type, wasn't he? But there again, one can never be too sure... I decided to look for a new apartment the next day.
THE END
2/16/2023
Four Cafe’s
It was post digestion time, 6pm ! uncomfortable bloating causing a staggering stand,supported by the apartment windows brass clasp, the torn green velvet digestion chair lilted just beneath. Nested above the Canal Madeline, perched in a loft atop hundreds of lonely books, which i have not browsed ! their prison the De Krook. Afar beyond the cracked glass, out into the January month night, wildly dancing snowflakes cause a cataract pin pointed view of the culprit of indigestion
“ Cafe Croix de Fer”!
Along the frozen cobbles, “Chartreuse” fuelled, in-firms trudge and trip precariously, Monkeyfied by the Green Devil; towards “ Cafe Le repaire des ames perdues” I myself, visit this lair to regularly, its chestnut doors, spit tainted in past blood, open 24 hrs per day 364 days each year , “ No ! Not Noel ! Its Cask day “ And, on this day, i visit four cafe’s.
My tipple of choice Absinth ! And a deck of cards ! held in gloves tattered and fingerless. This addiction to be found in the basement of the Bookshop. A Cafe, 174 worn steps below me, its name “ Enfer” my light purse, confirms this.
Count.
Four Cafes
Winter mists swirl up from puddles on the cobblestones blurring the names of the four cafes facing the narrow boulevard. Townspeople and visitors walk briskly with their heads down, collars up, against January’s invading chill.
From my apartment window I gaze hypnotized as people scurry through invading night like fallen leaves.
Madeleine and her small son, in a shopworn cap, wait outside darkened How Wheat It Is for day old bread. Breakfast.
Light from the bistro next door, scattered through the raindrops, makes prisms. A couple, identities disguised by distance, celebrate new love over chardonnay in bright blue like a rain painting reflecting on the street.
Old Charles slowly pushes open the heavy doors of Four Seasons Café, white paper box, leftovers for lunch in his apartment next to mine, clutched in arthritis molded hands. His apartment still smells of Marie’s Bellodgia and Arpege.
A golden glow scampers into warm corners of dimly lit Aubergine’s at the end of restaurant row where Jacqueline, Michelle and Annette share secrets of young women over rich expresso and lemon tarts to the strains of Mood Indigo.
January swirls above the street’s night life like a parasol holding this portrait in time.
3-4-23
Contest: Four Cafes
Sponsor: Julia Ward
200 Words
Before corporate café`s took over and Starbucks became so ubiquitous, on every corner of your city, small business cafés thrived. There was Antique Row Café Ave; four café`s that stood alongside each other, noted for their unique furniture and boasted their own peculiar interior. The antique row cafés were so cool, as you could amble around and observe intriguing artifacts and some for sale, and pictures of famous stars whom you grew up with. Very nicely decorated.
Tiperillo, sweet and husky tobacco smoke ascending from golden ashtrays, and lava lamps bohemian chic—purple plush couches, and stylish bars. We met twice a week, Flor, Cece, and I, and a few other college buddies. We studied, shared ideas and asked one another for advice.
I met Joey the manager of the café’s, resembling a young Salvador Dali`. He answered my questions about the unique and endearing bar café`s his father once owned, before they were drowned out under the heavy hand of corporate takeover. Hoping one day they’ll return with their indispensable charm and upbeat youthful ambiance. Until then it’s corporate dull and uncomfortable seating at the Starbucks!
Cafes of Berlin
By Delaney Keiper
These four walls
blank and boring - keep me in
Like a test rat, taught through shock and pain
I am safe within my helplessness
"You don't deserve it" the voices say.
I put this pain on myself.
Here is where I stay in and drown my sorrows in Gin
- instead of drinking coffee in the Cafes of Berlin.
That's where all my happy friends are
They don't stick around here no more, in these dark, dusty bars
I watch them all around me- sailing in the wind
I can't put one foot in front of the other so I stay put and fake a grin.
I'm stuck longing to complete tasks that I never will begin
Instead of drinking coffee with my friends in the Cafes of Berlin.