Best Kiosk Poems
Are Flowers for Picking?
I question myself,
silently standing beside
the quaint wooden kiosk
in the centre of the square.
My eyes scan the freshly
picked assortment of roses,
carnations, lilies, and orchids.
The array of colours tempts,
softening niggling doubts
arising from tender pity.
I enter the hospice, briskly
making my way to her room.
Her haggard face lights up,
slightly masking her fragility.
A wan withering rose…
I swiftly hide my pain
behind a loving smile and
the fresh flowers in my hand.
-------------------------------
Placed 1st in Brian Strand's
Pick 1 Contest (April 2020)
The line of people out the door.
The queue that snaked around the floor.
The building's sleek art deco style.
The carpets' faded plush red pile.
The "Coming Soon" in convex frames.
The "Showing Now" and big star names.
The James Bond pose in poster shots.
The tickets from the kiosk slots.
The heavy doors that often creaked.
The seats on springs that always squeaked.
The fan shaped lights along the side.
The screen that stretched up high and wide.
The smoke that swirled inside the beam.
The shapes and sounds of Pearl And Dean.
The adverts that had overrun.
The trailers for the films to come.
The feature that would come on first.
The sudden pangs of extreme thirst.
The usherette's cool ice cream stint.
The fancy names like Midnight Mint.
The expectations in the place.
The action of the opening chase.
The talking scenes that went nowhere.
The plastic cup beneath my chair.
The glance at watches in poor light.
The stunts and guns and final fight.
The seats that sprung as credits rolled.
The exit doors and night time cold.
I embrace the nocturnal shade
coiled beneath tangerine lamplight
on the corner of the street
in case a certain little lady walks by.
I am ever watchful
in the telephone kiosk bathed in smells of damp
directories, of urine and pubescent vandalism;
silhouetted at the mouth of the
tubeway entrance;
sat in the rusting Lada across the road;
ever watchful,
gaze unwavering, unflinching.
I have perfected the dead-eye stare.
I am the vigilant sentinel.
I am watching you.
Wherever you choose to go I am
mere footsteps away,
dogging your trail.
At the salon I watch your pale tresses
cut and blown dry
through stencilled window glass.
That time I got a lock of your hair.
I like to collect souvenirs.
They bring us closer.
I know you know I am here,
I make certain of that;
dead certain.
I want you to know I am here,
always present
on the periphery of your vision;
live ghost haunting your existence.
The police have made empty threats,
charges of loitering with intent.
Intent to do what, though?
That is the question.
Intent to do what?
It is for me to know and you to discover.
This is the game, my sweet,
the game we play.
I feel your fear when you pick up the 'phone
and no one answers,
only the romance of dead silence;
I can smell your sweat leaking down the line,
taste your breath, sharp and spicy with fear,
burning down the line.
I sense your arousal,
the wetness of your loins, slick
with the lubricant of anticipation,
of desire,
of surrender.
But we do not speak, no,
not yet,
but soon.
Be patient, beloved, be patient as I am patient,
stoic and timeless and patient.
I hear you sobbing, crying down the line,
hear the crystal crash of vodka glass shattered
against the wall. Be patient, calm yourself,
for soon, very soon, we will meet...and
then my intent will become clear... as
clear as those shards of shattered crystal,
my sweet...
In solitude with eyes
closed, a bell flashes with a
little girl chuckling, chasing it.
In stillness, silence, the bell starts
tolling and the girl intently stares at it,
eyes beaming with glee and a radiant smile
expressing delight. I opened my eyes, shook my
head, thought of the childlike innocence, the display
of honesty, freedom, enthusiasm and suddenly remembered
my own childhood always excited hearing the church bells tolling
for they meant fun, cheers, good times. Hearing the bell at six o’ clock
in the evening for worship or Angelus prayer at our altar, meant having dinner
with my favorite dish or dessert for dinner was served after our prayers. Hearing
the bells after the morning Easter Sunday procession meant fun in the beach
for everybody went there for fun and lunch to celebrate the Resurrection.
Hearing the bells after the four o’ clock morning masses during the
Christmas season, from December sixteen through
twenty four meant eating delicious
rice cakes at the church
kiosk.
The moon had got itself tangled up
in a glass telephone kiosk.
Tricks of light do not apply to moonlight,
for it is a ghost
haunting its face only through earthy reflections.
It looks to us to see it.
The city was strangely quiet,
motorcars grew distant,
Like shadows upon cobbled pathways,
the clip clop of horse's hooves
could be heard to be passing-by.
For a moment,
time had slipped, between the cracks of the pavement,
I was convinced that the moon
was trying to phone me.
Standing as still as any wind-swayed lamppost
I listened raptly,
eventually the dull roar of modern traffic came back.
The moon had broken free and had returned,
to the darkening sky.
In the empty telephone booth
an old fashioned, Bakelite receiver
dangled from its curled chord,
while the night eerily hummed on.
Yesterday, I went to an exhibit which showcased the native products of the place where I grew up. It was held at the entire fifth floor of one of the premier malls of the city where I now live. The place hummed with the welcoming sound of the region's familiar lilt, as I edged my way toward the kiosk to meet old friends.
leather and rhinestones
on abaca wallets and bags -
women at their prime
As I recognized each smiling face of former classmates from the all-girls school, the impersonal place turned into a warm, familiar one. Everybody knew everyone, at least in our group of twelve excited, chattering women eager to catch up on each other’s news. A late lunch after the show stretched into an even longer coffee at a nearby restaurant. We laughed as we recounted comedic classroom situations, times of mischief, and romantic trysts with old flames from the all-boys school across the street. The food was not particularly memorable. The moment was.
your face lights up
upon recognizing mine -
friendship survives time
We eventually broke into groups of threes or fours. My group, which included the batch Valedictorian, decided to continue our chat at another coffeeshop along the way. Each one shared personal angst, the latest in her career, and the familiar topic of loved ones. We parted around midnight, promising to keep in touch, a fitting end to a day which I will treasure for a long time. It was one of those breaks in my routine which I did not have to take, but I was happy I did.
in my journey
I saw a sign to stop -
time to smell the flowers
* abaca - hemp, material for bags, shoes, ropes, etc.
05 August 2015
For Scott37's HAIBUN
This haibun is adapted from my journal of a not so recent real event in my life.
Her love was a parking garage kiosk
Take your ticket when you enter
The money saved is legal tender
Places money in the slot
Park the car in open spot
Her love was a parking garage kiosk
Promptly throws her arms around him
Said she'd never ,ever liked him
Plants a kiss right on the lips
As she's going leaves a tip
Her love's a parking garage kiosk
It's a different story different man
The miners gold is in the pan
Mounts with fury and with ease
Makes a slush fund if you please
Kiosk
Drive the car and the yellow mustang
Go to the moon and drink some Tang
She feels no guilt or no sorrow
Pays the ticket we"ll meet tomorrow
Park the car
All of Islam deserves our hate
Unlike ours—this faith can’t be great
The ground zero mosque
Is an evil kiosk
Our lord says to obliterate
What’s better than the Ku Klux Klan
And frightens the bad Taliban?
Yes—with a book roast
America will toast
Those evil who read their Koran
Burning books ain’t nothing to fear
Infernos are fun with a beer
So with drink all cheer—(hip hip hooray!)
To hate is nothing qu*eer
Hitler did it—and he we revere
Archie A. Agag, the American Idol Kaiser
Be hiding in an underground concrete bunker
Closed-eyed hate peeper sleepy late-riser
Dreaming of a bottom end H-bomb dumpster
Enter the REM meltdown maelstrom at every kiosk money mall
F-18's flying overhead the puny ant farm military parade
General Moronika making the Armageddon mushroom last call
Hells bells raining warning chimes on a pre-empt air raid
Idiocy is the devalued political currency ... a burn paper destiny
Jumbled lunacy is getting no checks-and-balance power scrutiny
Kaboom! Ain’t no more children in the classrooms
Love Apprentice Style for the siren sound of the war drums
Mutated babies delivered in M.A.S.H triage tombs
Nuclear jacks wanna be Scar boss king of the jungle beanstalk
Opioid delusions is giving ‘em rash hash hallucinations in bulk
Point the deadly sniper scope at the fleeing downtrodden refugees
Que the funeral violins upon the released vials of chemical disease
Recommendations coming from all butt-licking tongues on knees
Sanity trailblazers are on a sabbatical vacation from the con cartoons
Temple of Doom rescue ... Indiana Jones Hans Solo ain’t coming soon
Uncle Sam sez that permanent peace can only come thru war
Visions of propaganda lust being televised on a nonstop snore
Witness the apocalypse now being sold as coming-to-you later
X marks the spot where the patients zero fled from the crater
Yellowstone sulfuric lies be bubbling up to an AAA barren surface
Zuni sunrise setting on glow-in-the-dark places ablaze purchased
My infancy was the time for imagining your unique beauty
As the saprophyte danced in the magical fountain of ambiguity
You ingenuously stole my pulverized heart with your duality
Your ironware, I mean those muscles, were more than fruitful
Just like inner potency to inspire my spirit; they were my infinity
Because the dancing spirits obliquely touched me as I sat there in a tree
Dacoity imbued their roaming minds until they were ultimately free
And once I became as diametrical as the tides, I traveled across the sea
Let's take a kiosk to the dutiful trees that enchant me
Otherwise, the spirit within us will conically
Travel to an extraterritorial place which has yet to be freed
Like the uncombed hair of an angelic weeping willow tree
With its wild gamekeeper who keeps score of my latent thoughts
Such quandry thoughts will never cease to amaze me, verily
It's better not to be complacent about the future that humans will face
An annuitant flower bud will grow and expand our shared, ancient garden
Such flowers will invoke the threader in our imaginative minds
Your skin silkily makes everything resolve itself for me so that I finally smile
And you make peace with the challenges that prevail all the while
Because you're the one I love, the one whom I'd not beguile.
Your name evokes perfection
All the while, my beloved connection
An Impossible Dream (A Cry of a Truck Pusher)
The street is my home
It is where I belong
I know no love
So I make it not part of my daily vocabulary
One sachet of pure water
Enough to perform the magic
In cooling down the body
The small lotto kiosk is my sleeping place
My heart was filled with merry
The day she looked my way
I wish to dream a dream
Even if I lost my memory
Her beauty I will always remember
But we both belong to different worlds
I push and pick before the hand can go to the mouth
She is welcomed with smiles
With servants at her beck and call
What am I feeling?
Is it love?
But how can this be
Love is not love
I can only dream of her love
I can only visualise her embrace
I can only imagine her warmth and kisses
Oh! Allow me to dream a dream
I have long suffered on this street
For tomorrow may not be mine
Don’t blame me,
Maybe I have a slow faith
From her posture
I knew she were a creature
And it’s in her nature
To capture my heart
Oh! How I wish I were a preacher
To tell the world about the moisture in her love
Oh! How I wish I were a teacher
To lecture about how she will feature
In my future dreams.
But it is just an impossible dream
Because I am only a truck pusher.
THE RISEN HEADS
We know ourselves for long, since ages
A time we spent in a small kiosk as bar boys, in the weekdays
A time we spent processing fish in the odd days
A time we spent tossing tops hunted from *Tanu
Oh yeah, happy old days, formulating our dreams
We have a dream and dare live to it
Its true we change not in a day but overnight
That we called a miracle, but alas unclear and forgotten
The secrets and sufferings behind the curtains
The struggles for the new phases of faces
How the cogs of the mill chugs upon the flesh
sleepless nights for the dream
Empty stomachs just to save a dime
Long long walks away from home
I forsake the love of a family for it
It was like a trash beyond the debris of a torrent
Landed where it pleases, good or bad to be
This day I have the meaning......
Now, you shall define molecules to me
Now, I shall explain arts and meaning of poetry, if to recite this.
Dedicaded to Dr. Godwin Dogbevia. PhD (Molecular Biology)
(c) Lamptey Godson K. 30 th Nov. 2011
THE HOLY WEEK
I reminisce, I miss……
This week is Holy Week and I cannot help;
but to reminisce how we observed the
Holy Week, when I was growing up, that I miss.
Today is Good Friday and I remember
commemorating this day by being in church
at three in the afternoon, when Jesus
died, to recite The Stations of the Cross.
I reminisce; I miss the Holy Week then,
my father decorating the long doubled
strips palms for us to carry to church,
to be blessed in the Palm Sunday mass.
We gathered outside the church at night
on Holy Wednesday for procession around
our little town ending inside the church
to observe the Holy Wednesday mass.
The next night, we went to church
in observance of Holy Thursday and
we commemorated the crucifixion
and death of Jesus on Good Friday.
We continued on to memorialize
with another procession around
the town in the evening, followed
by the lengthy Good Friday mass.
Saturday was observed in silence,
while waiting to exhale and rejoice
the Resurrection on Easter Sunday
with all our town festivities.
Our resurrection procession started
outside the church very early in the
morning, ending at the plaza kiosk
with singers welcoming the procession.
We proceeded to church for the Easter
Sunday mass to celebrate the Resurrection.
We continued on celebrating by going
to the beach having fun and lunch.
How I miss observing the Holy Week then.
I reminisce, I miss….
4/2/21 I Reminisce I Miss Poetry
James Edward Lee Sr.
Off the market I dashed
In search of ingredients
To soup my poetry.
To all kiosk and stall I went
Yet I find none of it.
Fagged out on my fro home
Lost in thought of how
To soup my poetry.
There I stumbled on it
Ingredients of my soup.
On my way I paused
For the first stanza
My thinking personified
With a poetic licence.
I smiled with an imagery of simile
All over me was a pun of metaphor.
Only in consonance with an
Hyperbole of alliteration.
Paradox became my ordeal
With an echo of onomatopoeia
Still in an irony of oxymoron
Dancing with a metonym.
I got home with more
Ingredients from my mind
Then and there, I began to
Soup my poetry in poetrysoup.
Alayande Stephen.T
12.45pm
17th August 2006
On my way to Apagbon in Lagos on the behest of
IPC Chairman,Lanre Arogundade.
Specially packaged for www.poetrysoup.com, as a wonderful family.
I’ve been working since I was twelve years old,
But my first on-the-books job
Was as a sailor in the US Navy,
Gunners Mate.
Six years and three Westpac deployments.
Fifty months of sea duty
Changed me for good and bad.
Over the years since,
I’ve had many terms of employment,
Both full and part-time.
My part-time jobs have included
Hanging wallpaper and painting houses.
Building stockade style fences.
Landscaping and more landscaping.
Cleaning commercial kitchen exhaust hoods.
I’ve been a receptionist at yoga studios,
A registered yoga instructor,
A certified personal trainer,
A high school cross country,
Wrestling, and track & field coach.
I’ve been a substitute teacher
At every grade level, K-12.
I’ve also been a supervisor of
Student teachers earning their
Master’s degrees in education.
Most recently, I work as a museum docent.
My full-time jobs have included
Bartender in a low-life country dive.
(Yes, I drank on the job.)
Laborer in a garment factory,
(Yes, I drank on the job.)
A refrigerated trailer factory,
(Yes, I drank on the job.)
And a lamp factory.
(It was too hot to drink anything but water on the job.)
I’ve engraved gift items in a mall kiosk.
Yes, I drank on the job.
I’ve worked at a day camp for disabled adults
And was a resident advisor in a facility
For profoundly disabled adults.
I’ve been a public-school custodian,
And a teacher of high school history and sociology,
My longest tenure at any job, by far.
My final full-time job
Was as a maintenance superintendent
In a seventy-building garden apartment complex.
I’ve also been a writer of fiction
Who draws from experience
Attempting to fashion a plausible tale.