Best Table Poems
When all is but
dark and dreary,
and coldness wraps the
silhouette of
my wooden surface,
I listen to the
wafer thin whispers
echoing in whimsy tones-
when the moon
wind-chimes sway
to the balmy breeze;
hung on the side
of a weathered balcony,
where the sun sometimes
unfurls her feathery fingers,
to rest upon timber
corners of my psyche,
I search for compassionate
caresses to comprehend
unsung serenades.
But tonight I feel the
burden I carry in
somber stillness,
as my voice is unheard,
amidst pen and paper
wrapped around
my chestnut skin,
with scribbled poems
of ancient tales.
For I’ve long been
sitting like a
silenced marionette,
letting my bones
serve beyond I can give.
Somedays I am your listener,
whilst you grieve in seclusion,
as obsidian tears stain the
edges of my tanned shoulders,
when fears sink into
the depths of carved linings
within my hollow heart.
Yet, sometimes,
I hear your laughter,
sharing the redolent rainbows
within your soul,
when storms steer away,
to paint your crystalline
canvas with mauve
memories entwined
with mulberry musings.
But I still stand frozen;
a three legged table,
with nowhere to hide,
whilst the world
remains oblivious,
to the aching heartbeats-
imprinted between
cinnamon glazed bruises.
Perhaps, there will be a time,
when clocks shall halt and
tick to the rhythm of my thoughts,
and you’ll feel the heat
of my unshed truth,
and I will no longer be just a mere
ornament designed to
perform as you please.
Periodic table of elements
Periodic table of elements,
the true heart of chemistry,
Law of periodicity clements,
Mendeleev is not a history !
Bonding between two hearts,
ignoring all the negatives,
When breaks and rips apart,
defying the electro positives,
Atoms randomly disperse,
Directionless, blinded and betrayed,
Valencies in their course traverse,
Swaying in the numbers brigade !
Written January 2nd, 2015
For contest "Periodic table of elements" by Anthony Slausen
Insistent starkness claims a leafless day
Where morning breaks with silent calm and dread
The slope of field is framed, behind the glass
reveals a fallen tree, with jagged edge
and grassy hills now laced with autumn rust
Inside we find a plain and cheerless room
The table sparce, an empty chair
A plate, a knife, a saucer, without spoon
One empty cup, will wait for no one there...
Ambiance of what has been,
...still lingers in the air,
as amber glows, with threats of snow,
are just a hint, instead
Lonely hours, and lonely days, and lonely shadows blend
The endless songs of yesterday, slip in from window's ledge
A meager meal will spread upon a table set for one
Where breaking bread alone without a friend
is companioned by a solitary end
The angled sun, casts shadows deep and long
A somber mood, reflects this quiet calm
Upon the walls, where gardens grew, are faded memories
where yellow blooms of yesterday, are just a step away
Where, once were two, who loved and knew their sun would rise again
There now is one who sits alone ...at the table set for one
Where hope has gone, when morning comes...
to sing a lonely song
Based on the Painting by Andrew Wyeth ... "Groundhog Day"
http://www.andrew-wyeth-prints.com/gallery_andrew-wyeth-groundhog-day.html
Humankind shouldn't despise its own,
let love be reaped after it's sown.
Many people's shelves sparse from
high inflation,
come to His table, all generations.
Who sits at the honored seat?
Radiant Christ, the harvest is complete.
His angels summoned the needy,
some of them shunned by the greedy.
They've brought their famished children,
no more hunger pangs of billions.
So much to thank Him for,
bread from golden wheat for the poor.
Juice from abundant grapes,
flowing down from a heavenly
airspace.
Rice cakes and vegetables, so
filling,
His earthly workers heady joy,
so willing,
to sow again neath a mellow sun,
for the grateful, every one.
It doesn't matter how humble
your station,
come to His table, all generations. ~
Laying my head back, eyes closing,
reminiscing, the years falling away into decades ago
to the 1950s at my grandparents' grand home
for Christmas.
It was a gracious dining room.
Noontime sun streaming in.
Chair rail with deep red wallpaper, white trim.
Decorating the lace clothed "Big Table"
was a tallish 1870s porcelain Meissen fruit centerpiece
with lovers circling the stem.
Even the adults had to look around it.
Grandmother "Lil" and "Mister B"
were at their nouveau best.
All their progeny seated in good form
awaiting the traditional invocation by "Mister B".
Also seated were the ones that were to be
"seen but not heard" at our side table, the "Kids' Table."
Draped card tables for the dozen of us -
me, my brother and sisters and cousins.
Everyone all scrubbed in dresses and ties.
Mine was a clip on.
As expected, a milk glass got tipped. Spilt milk.
Besides that, we kids had great fun and
became friends again as we did each year.
The thing of it was, none of us liked
being at the "Kids' Table."
We felt lesser, unworthy, subtly so.
Even when I was ten, I knew there were
only two ways to get to the big one:
marriage or go in the army.
We all wondered what it was like to be adult.
After all, most of them smoked.
They all had drinks.
The women had figures, swishy swirls.
The men wore suits like they knew how.
At the "Big Table" they all talked like experts
about stuff we didn't understand
and they laughed loudly at Uncle Bob's jokes.
As the years moved on, things would change,
always do.
I saw virtually all my cousins
disassemble their lives too early -
marriages, divorces, addictions, lost jobs, left school -
beleaguered into inevitable submission.
My family miraculously unscathed.
But they're all gone now,
"Big Table" and little table too.
All that's left from the 50s
is my brother, sister and me.
For years, I was at the "Big Table" since my brood and I
took over the Christmas tradition.
The "Big Table" conversation was
superficial and posing was prevalent.
So one year, I put myself at the "Kids' Table." Just for fun.
Yes, milk got tipped.
But oh, the wonderment and hope. A meal that truly was
food for the soul.
Now that I'm old and looking back,
with a quiet smile, mulling it,
I kinda liked the "Kids' Table" better.
Colored pencil illustration by G.Gaul
early morning dream
a butterfly on my eyes
tiny fingers' touch
an innocent face
eagerly waits with closed eyes
daily breakfast kiss
rush hour traffic jam
flower girl at the window
dew drops on fresh rose
ringing telephone
nobody to attend it
quivering roses
afternoon tea time
rose petals on my table
another sun set
© kashinath karmakar(21st August 2011)
=============================
Placement:5th;(Sept.2011)
Contest:Morning,noon or night senryu
Sponsor:Francine Roberts
A poetry convention is a wow
Our writes we endeavour to plough
We'll meet so many friends
To enhance writing trends
Our strengths are as thick as the bough
To my table I have decided to seat
Three ladies whom I'd so love to meet
They are favourites of mine
And they will be for some time
Their poetry to read is my treat
The first lady to seat is a gem
Her novels just shine from her pen
She's a New Jersey girl
Who makes my heart twirl
Her poetry flows 'tres bien'
The second lady to sit at my table
If given the chance, I'd surely enable
She's Maltese, she's Celene
A Mediterranean Queen
Her name would be beautifully labelled
The third lady who I now show to her chair
Her writing just makes me openly stare
It's oozes life's desire
It makes me aspire
Table Top Mountain, I wish I was there
Not for any contest, but I thank Michael for the idea, ty
Thank you Carolyn Devonshire, Celene Crescent & Wilma Neels for being you,***
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/poetry-soup-16.php
DESSERT TABLE
Yes, it’s a beautiful spread
A tantalizing sight
With not Cezanne depth or solidity, but
Our hostess’ fond delight
She’s gathered not justs -
Not just cakes, cheeses and fruit
But a famous pot of snowball flowers,
A tall bottle of ultra-expensive wine, to boot
Now witness her many noted guests
Completely sated, become indecorous, loud,
A regular old-times gathering –
This flouncy, pot bellied, gut roaring crowd
And there are eager eyes, thrust noses
The sober might spy
Peering through banister slats, through cigar smoke.
For just one taste they would die
A wedge from an extant white, coconut cake,
Circus of green wrapped sweets,
Strawberry shortcake, cheesecake
An invitation what they seek
I fear, though, this luxury shall go elsewhere
The pastries, cheeses, fruits gathered all,
The youngsters, discovered, sent off to bed,
And cookie, chauffeur and butler shall have themselves a ball
I don’t know about you but I think it right
That kids should eat at the table, most every night.
Sit down with mum, sit down with dad
For these are the best memories you’ll ever have.
There will come a time and it creeps up fast,
When past days are gone, for they never last
When you will wish those days were back
When there is something in your life, you will forever lack.
It had been tradition, it had always been
But today at mealtimes children are never seen
They sit with their takeaways on their lap
Whilst the video games will, their attention sap!
And these days parents are forced to compete
With mobiles phones as their offspring tweet
For conversation at mealtimes may well be lost
And the lack of table manners will be the cost!!
King Arthur had the right design
For when ideas abound
Discussion goes much smoother
At a table that is round.
When more than four sit down to talk
At tables long or square
The conversation’s aimed at who
Sits in the closest chair.
So little groups will splinter off
And miss the latest news
Of those down at the other end,
Affecting points of views.
But when the table’s round, all those
Participate as one
And everyone’s caught up before
The meal is even done.
soda sparks
and lemon juice
on every lip
and candle wick
explosion
of the champagne kind
to bubble brains
and swirl the minds
when summer limps
upon two heels
we break our vows
and kneel to feel
the rhythm of the losing heat
when soda sparks
in weak appeal
as sidewalks bend
their thoughts to me
while overactive melodies
complete themselves
in summer nights
I barely fall without a fight
and candles dim
and lights grow white
I know the drill, tonight's the night
I lick the summer off my chin
and grab September, and head on in...
The Supper Table
by D.A. Brooks
Steam rising, sifting through
The kitchen air that we once knew.
Collards, peas and sweet iced tea,
Hoping they'd save some for me.
Sliced tomatoes, juicy red
Triangle cuts of hot cornbread
The smells from days so long ago
Still linger in my head you know.
Golden chicken, crispy fried
Countless veggies on the side
Knowing if we cleaned our plate
Our prize a slice of caramel cake.
The nine of us sat 'round each day
Waiting for a prayer to say
Then mannerly, we'd pass each dish
"A leg for me" was what I wished.
Now years have passed the four of us
Can fellowship and oft' discuss
Those simple times, those happy times
Those Momma, Daddy, Aunt Ruby times.
Now loud and laughing, fam'ly fables,
Around that supper table.
The image burns within
my brain of an
old medieval hall,
remembered from childhood
picture books.
The food is heaped
upon the board,
the shields are on the wall.
The lords and ladies
round the groaning table
flirt and watch the fools,
the one in the silly hat,
and the others huddled
against the walls.
As the eaters of the banquet
gaily proceed on in
drunken bloated revelry
they display their earthly faults,
with arrogance,
to a huddled mud stained peasantry.
The bottom of the hierarchy,
in the shadows serving, or
shut outside the door,
hope to get the garbage
leftover from these bores.
But before the lords and ladies leave,
to pursue their flirtations in
exclusive privacy, the hounds
are let in to lick the floor
and eat the droppings and the gore.
Finally the fools from the shadows
and the huddled groups outside
are allowed into the abandoned hall
to lick the plates,
to glean whatever
greasy scrapes and food
have been left behind.
I think of this scene often
as I read the daily news
In this hour
they called it the French lace minutes
the sound of autumn leaves falling
unbearable to the ear
I slip out in the
echoing space
between now
and then
it's an insect like feeling
that buzzes around
too fast
to be recognized
then a coat slides to the ground
heels are clapping hands with wooden floor
ashtrays are laid to rest
and on a bus ticket my pen is scribbling
you are here
you are here
you are here
© Gry W Christensen
As a child
I sat beneath my grandmother’s table
And listened to the stories and whispers
Of all who gathered 'round
If mom was in a really good mood
A cover could go over and make it into
The most exciting of hideaways
As I got older my friends would gather 'round
To watch me blow the candles from a birthday cake
The streamers, the noisy horns
The spills dripping down the middle
It became the place of games
Cards and much fun
And sometimes a wee bit too much competition
But always
Laughter and friends
It’s the place the women stay
And discuss everyone, everything
After dinner and football is on
It’s the office
Mail in stacks waiting to be dealt with
The weekly writing of checks
It’s the place my children have gathered
To pound play dough
Stir brownies
Carve pumpkins
Do homework
Paint masterpieces
And blow out their own candles