Best Tabletop Poems
She left one day, her Kiowa village
And stood proudly in the sun
Beneath the Tabletop Mountains
And walked among the golden sea
Of waving grass, fearless and alone
Waiting, with keen ears and sacred breath
For the setting sun to call her name
So that her spirit could cross the great divide
No more would she walk
Across my night or my day...
Except on the wind that touches my face
Or the laughter from a child
Or perhaps in the song a meadow lark sings
And surely in the pleasure of my dreams
And in slumber I can rest, knowing full well
That her spirit has entered the land of green pastures.
Inspired by t.c.cannon and his wonderful artwork
Sheer boredom has me at this torpid end
Another rerun; please give me a break
The short list of scripts to which they pretend
I simply just can’t find one flying fake
Perhaps I’ll jump up on this tabletop
Do my best impression of Bill Shakespeare
It may resuscitate this boring flop
Nah, not now, my blushing bride is still here.
It doesn’t tire you out, this rehashed chatter?
To blab straight past glazed eyes, what could it bring?
Please wake me if you say something that matters
Until then, I’ll just twirl my wedding ring
It’s manna from heaven, my pager screams!
My wife winks, it’s time to go home and dream
7/8/16
© Thomas W. Quigley
Scrubbing dishes in a cold kitchen,
on a tabletop rats nibble
through a leather bible cover.
She turns,
a lock of sweat matted hair over one eye,
shakes a red knuckle at a wailing child
sat on the floor by the door.
When Mary, in washed-out despair,
leaves, she leaves a bible, the rats
and a child there.
Mary drying his feet with her hair.
Mary at the temple calling for him.
Mary full of sperm on a street corner.
Mary full of a Grace,
a face that makes her invisible
to rabid dogs and drinking men.
I want to put all of Her together
old and young,
fat Mary on roller skates,
sweet Mary sucking candy,
badly handled and shady Mary,
to speak now for all the wet and dry virgins
slobber some words from a beaten heart,
for all the mother’s, all the worshiping foot washers;
a patchwork Mary, a working Mary.
Let us adore her from an upstairs room
where the cockroaches scuttle near
having no fear. if we don’t,
she might one day castrate us with a steely smile.
Today I walked for Mary,
the sky was a blue egg, robed with light.
I ate a chicken sandwich, lips slick with grease.
In the Chick-fil-A a family was praying over their fast food.
The joint was hopping
kids scooting in and out of seats.
A dozen Mary’s were trying to corral them,
get then to be nice like Christ.
Later I spoke to her at the foot of a crucifix,
told her all my s..t,
felt better, a kind of peace,
knowing she knew all the things I do in the dark
when she comes to me for forgiveness and rest.
I make the sign of the cross,
I make the sign of the cross.
I mean why not?
COOKING WITH JIM
actually, with him in spirit, in the kitchen
of his quaint brownstone on West 12th Street
in Manhattan, decades after his death.
And quite at home with him, I chop and slice;
bake, twice-baked potatoes — their skins crisping
to perfection; roast, the prime tenderloin of beef
he’d earlier instructed me to hand-rub with
coarsely ground black pepper and kosher salt.
(I used sea salt and that was ok with him.)
Right now, he’s reminding me to stir my roux,
then I should add the crisp bacon bits, made earlier,
to the finely chopped spinach I just finished sautéing.
He says I should wait till the last minute
to toss the mélange of local field greens with
the lemongrette he had me make in lieu of
vinaigrette, because, it seems that vinegar
often spoils the taste of wine. As for the wines
with dinner: for the salad, I’m chilling
a 2011 Seyval Blanc from New York State;
with the beef dish, a 10-year-old California
Zinfandel; this followed by a 2010 Pinot Noir
from Oregon, paired with artisanal cheeses
from Vermont and Connecticut, plus
crisp sourdough rolls and flatbread;
and, in the frig, chilling, a late-harvest, Long Island
Riesling to complement the secret confection hidden
away on a silver tray till dessert-time.
According to Jim, red wine should be served at
room temperature, and since older reds have a layer
of sediment in the bottle, he said the Zin will need
to be decanted, and that, right before serving;
he wants the Pinot to breathe 15 minutes, or so,
in the glass before being drunk.
(The aeration of younger reds will rid those wines of
their chalky tasting tannins.) All this for my guests
who’ll soon be sitting round my dining table akin to
Jim’s 60 inch round green marble slab of a tabletop,
where, before the first bite of the Jim-inspired,
5-star meal, I’ll raise my glass to the big bald guy —
James Beard, “The Father of American Cuisine.”
Ode to the Cockatiel
You exasperate me.
The most maddening creature
To walk,
Waveringly across the tabletop
Drawn by an invisible wire
To my bowl
You stand
On the tips of your claws
Four scaly toes strain
You peer
Over the edge
And take a nibble
Of what’s inside.
Did you like it, little bird?
Your beak smiles
As you climb,
Perch
on the rim of my bowl
And with neat bites
Eat my breakfast.
And I wonder,
Why do I keep you around,
You have no manners.
Sometimes I admire
Your slender tail,
Body the color of a storm cloud
Head the color of the sun
With two orange embers burning in your cheeks
And the elegant,
Filmy
Swoop of crest.
I pick you up
Light enough to sit on my finger;
I no longer marvel at that,
Long ago becoming accustomed
To the marvel living in my home,
I take you and
I scratch your head
I feel the softness of your feathers
Between my fingers
I feel your skull
And realize you are much more fragile
Than you like to let on,
You sweet bird,
Resting your head on my thumb
Trusting me completely.
And then my thumb displeases you;
You must attack it.
Hissing and pretending to bite it
And I smile
At my
Utterly confounding
Cockatiel.
I wonder, sitting in the corner,
mulling over the child cleaning tabletop for the owner;
Owner of the shop where i am drinking tea,
And feeling sad about the boy's plea.
I rose from my seat-
Moving ahead with trembling feet.
Then offered him a piece of cake,
Which he took gloomily and mutely ate.
As if his eyes questioning me:
“Could this piece of cake,
Change my unfortunate fate?
Is this really the ending of my all work and toil?
Will I be able to play like other (children) on the same soil?”
I could feel his desire’s ocean,
I was moved by his seamless notions.
I wish I could write sweet memories on his life’s pages,
Wish I could free him from entanglements, the bondages.
How he desired of getting freedom from his master’s rule:
And how he must be longing to go to school!!
Desire that I could stop his sufferings, agony and pain,
Could lessen his grief, could save his life passing in vain.
Every child hath the privileges to live thou childhood the ingenuous way:-
But the innumerable innocent questions remain unanswered.
Undiscovered – the child’s mind so curious,
Alas! The vice of old brains created child labor:
The unjust thought itself makes me so furious.
I refuse to cease writing these words
though all my bones have been broken
splintered and shattered
like puzzle pieces
scattered on a tabletop
their pointy ends piercing
every muscle each time I move
even an iota
I persist as I always do
despite the pain
perhaps because of it
to prove a point
taping popsicle sticks to my fingers
so they stay straight as I type
“Obstinate, stubborn”
my mother used to say
when I dared to disagree
or stand up for myself
Her insults like a high pitched
whistle blown inches from my ear
echoing in my malleable young mind
a cavern creating stalagmites
layer upon layer
with the constant drip-drip of disdain
sharp and spiky that would impale me
over the years yet to come
flat tabletop spreads
lush valleys buttress below
coarse mounds arch above
Pile drivers have replaced gandy dancers
And Mayflower trucks the circus, open-cage parades
Horse drawn down Main Street U.S.A.,
But overnight canvas bosses still command
Roust abouts to raise big top sails,
Over decks of prairie dogs and tumbleweeds.
There are gaudily painted juggernaut ride machines.
Smells of grease, heated white from oozing knuckle joints,
Calliopian music and rounds of happy screams.
A carney operator offers two a Scrambler car,
Teases riders with the tip of his bitten off cigar
A flick on your nose and ash that crashes to the circus grounds.
Jukebox music by Wurlitzer gets tinny with distance
On both sides of musty tented, kid show exhibitions
Mushrooming quiet translucent, sideshow shadow lands.
One sign says:
A WOMAN’S LIVING HEAD!
And inside there is a severed head up on a tabletop.
She answers questions easily, smiles and winks.
A kid shill says she’s doubled up
Inside a box affixed with mirrors.
Our cheeks redden more for her
Than the fact that we are led astray ourselves.
We leave to let more unenlightened in.
That day, I left forever past free throws
To win erstwhile girlfriends
By shooting hoops too narrow to be made. (4/4/21)
tabletop mountain
wildflowers everywhere
a gift from the lord
Written for Carol's contest
Santa's sleigh crashes to a rooftop.
Down the chimney he goes with a plop.
A woman stands in the nude
She's smiling with a plate of food.
"This Christmas we do it on the tabletop!"
as waterfalls tear* down my sheer cliffs –
sculpted by time’s relentless tide
defying the laws of nature
my age undefined; hidden
towering over my world –
a beacon for lost souls
enduring …
an impressive beauty
unapologetic
every angle precise
the lack of erosion
an enigma
as defiant as youth
the island suspended above the clouds
where rare species flourish
unattended by the hand of mankind
ageless banquettes of emotions
served on the tabletop
while impertinent shadows are teased out by
soft slanting sunlight
waterfalls of tears
wouldn’t erode
my façade
the command for respect reticent—
an enduring beauty
in suspension …
One two three pea leap. Wow. A slip knot is neither a sleep nor a striped strap. But stealing from an arsenal area is not a wonderful idea is it really? Well come on....is it? Best keep quiet then and sip on a buttercup ball. Oh how quiet simplistic and simplistic is good and carved from a singular form of an art. So bake a tart carefully then. Wisdom in a whisk. Waiting in a wish. And standing tall under a huge blooming canopy of personified petals whose playfulness can portray peaceful pianoforte to a breeze. Even the coldest winds can be mellowed by such charms. Amulets linking arms then. Good. Portray not a salad as a stew and a fortress created from several million potatoes is a potent power indeed. But not when baked. With or without chilli beans. Jump then. Go on. Jump up and down and wave the arms and legs around. Causing cake to care for cream. And legs on a train are the legs of the seats whose tired frames seat many a fat curdled ceo on a wild journey to an office. How rather exciting then for the many cups and glasses placed in front of a portly frame. Tickle a taste. And taste a tissue. Yum then. Oh look.....the right window is showing a pond and the left window is showing a sea. Remarkable. Oh no a tunnel tube duck then. But no quack. It is merely the antics of a rug that can hug the copper blue. And the throwing of one pebble can release a wind machine on the hill. Paperclip is not a paperweight nor is it a planed plank. Ok then. Understood. Uniquely. A sham is not a slam nor a spam. And the delicate floaty fish in a chiffon outfit can scare a shark if dressed in white tunics. So always adhere to colours in an oceanic ballroom. Wow. Vibrancy in scales and fins. Swoosh then swirl. Very nicely timed waltz that was. And equally effective is the whirring of five hundred rotary blades who sing the calling cards to the wings of steel at dusk. Surrounded by over a million translucent clouds. Iridescent beauty. And a clap to hear. And all whilst the tomatoes form a pretty pattern on the tabletop yard. Hahahaha salad singing shape song. Hahaha floors arriving mind your head. Xxxxx synergistic syndrome symmetrically symbolised syntax xxxxx crustacean Z z z z Z.
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Form:
To have my cake and eat it too
The best of both with no adieu
Pint sized comforts, nestled in
Where personal space is growing thin
Amongst the city that never sleeps
Behind four walls, no one peeps
A Consistently unconventional land
Safety first, but nothing bland
Taking only what we need
Skim illustrations, don't read
Why not, have it all
Forget the rules. Play ball
A boldly tasteful discoloration
Sweet apple pie, tobasco blend
A tabletop dance
Following tea
Steamy romance
Without the ring
All of the shimmer
Nothing mundane
A life giver
Pleasure, no pain
Fields on hills a patchwork of colour Green gold rice barley prairies
The sun filtering through the lace curtains danced on the tabletop
The cats unblinking yellow eyes exuded an air of quiet confidence
Square cut emerald ring perfectly bobbed red hair Table untouched
Spanish shawl embroidered in red blue+gold Freshly baked cakes
Incredible dishes innovative old receipes delightful establishment
Lavender, rose, aromatic coffee, talcum powder with a hint of lemon
The Chef tradition of long robes High headwear and flowing habits
Overhead speakers piped the singing of the sacred maidens songs
Wavy greying hair Family of baby ducklings Dying mans wishes
The air moist and heavy with sweet living scents of the woody forest
Lions leopards diamond pythons toucans cooed sidled and preened