Best Terrace Poems
from beyond his
vibrant palette
that bore all his
lifelong scars
is what I see
beneath his sky
and myriad
of stars
a scene of shades
and silhouettes
formed by the
yellow light
that hints at
The Last Supper
at that café
in the night?
Stir my moonlight coffee
with your freshly dipped brush
in bright yellow ochre ~
I will not complain.
Sprinkle pigments from
from your pallets
on my unflavoured coffee~
I will not complain.
Even when
your indigo eyes
spill Prussian blue
to veil my night sky~
I will not complain.
Come sit with me
share this coloured coffee
on this café terrace
where unfinished canvases
lean on metaphoric walls,
where unwritten poems
bathe beneath starry nights.
Huge red-orange sun slowly recede,
Upon the sky seem to bleed;
Whispers of night, calling home,
Such sunset days rarely spent alone.
Look ahead to starry skies;
Not time for early goodbyes.
Without love cannot the heart grow-
A new day comes beyond the rainbow!
Warm Paris breeeze gently blow-
Roses atop the bureau;
Music with a certain ease;
Smooth jazz, if you please.
In darkness of shadows, waits he!
The night is young-for me!
Stars appear, quiet avenue.
Farewell dawn skies of baby blue.
When from misty dreams awakes,
When tomorrow sunrise overtakes,
Come listen music play,
On gold terrace of the sunny day!
CAFE TERRACE AT NIGHT (Van Gogh)
Orbital focus of assured kindness and hospitality
From the waitress in long white apron
Where time stands still for a moment,
Where the golden interior glow of the shelter
Gravitates under the canvas roof and
Permits a little topaz flavor to anoint the cobbled street,
Its dark forbidding geometry of the night,
Its silhouetted shapes of blackened houses
Whose dead windows suggest only a half life,
Whose clock tower suggests the running sands of time,
While dizzying stars, circular orbs of cold white,
Stare unblinking at the colors uncertain
In a neighbourhood of crumbling age,
On the pavement of uncertain difficult cobbles.
The café is not crowded but it is the sun
For the people orbiting its warmth.
Café Terrace in Arles, France
Beneath stars of heavenly grandeur,
In a café, romance prospects dwell brighter.
Patrons’ entertaining escapades of camaraderie
Charismatically whisper away the evening.
Visible under the illuminating gas lantern
Of sulphurous yellow, revealing customers
Who say, “S'il vous plaît” to the French waiter
As passersby stare at empty tables.
At the street’s end is seen a church spiral rise,
And in-between the buildings’ windows of light,
Over the cobblestones, the calèche chatters
As people yield to the horse-drawn carriage.
Une nuit d'été de bonjours et d'au revoirs
(A summer night of hellos and goodbyes)
On Place du Forum in Arles, France.
***
Note:
“Café Terrace in Arles, France” is an ekphrastic poem describing the painting “Café Terrace at Night” (1888) by Vincent van Gogh (1853–1890).
He remembers times with her.
Sharing moments alone in,
the cafe terrace at night.
Not too long ago.
The Cafe Terrace At Night.
Vincent Van Gogh
For the "Famous Art" contest.
http://artsunlight.com/artist-NV/N-V0002-Vincent-Van-Gogh/N-V0002-0019-cafe-terrace-on-the-place-du-forum-cafe-terrace-at-night.html
(An Addingham Poem)
With the strength of
gentleness, sparrows make love
upon the windowsill,
frigid glass pane pulsates
within the pageant of nature,
numerous battle scared plumage
float wanting, towards earthly cracks
that conceals another world, where
rain and sleet beat down a
forest of subversive weeds,
if only to perjure
hope and fortitude.
The wind! Screams imperfections,
orchestrates the misery of the
telegraph wire, summons
the hardy, those across the
sawmill dam, there where the
village sons live on, as faceless
images upon the park epitaph.
The moon abandons the paperboy
hides behind a turbulent haze,
the greyness segregating
the dawn from the night,
as a hundred kettles sing
behind dimly lit backyard windows,
and a hundred harmonies
perfume, the bowel of the tippler.
Row upon row of decrepit
doorsteps host resident jugs, those
that waits in anticipation of the ladle,
whose wholesome contents still
encompass the warmth of the beast.
Through the mist, a stony siren
executes the industrial anthem,
a musical excursion into pain
and manipulation, a weaving shed
that creates a spinneret
of dreams, a threshold to one’s hopes.
“Yet! Given nothing more, than a
wry sense of insecurity.”
© Harry J Horsman 1999
Terrace of crops
Down under the sky
Down under the terrace
Terrace of neighbour
Terrace garden
Garden of Eden
Garden of tulips
Tulips for bouquet
Tulips for wedding
Wedding so opulent
Wedding is bliss
Bliss of union
Bliss for life
Life is wonderful
Life is short
Short film
Short dress
Dress of satin
Dress of queen
Queen of music
Queen of palace
Palace of pearls
Palace so royal
Royal cuisine
Royal chariot
Chariot of horses
Chariot of love
Love is eternal
Love is sweet
Sweet children
Sweet smile
Smile of content
Smile so cute
Cute teddy bear
Cute little face
Face the challenge
Face the race
Race of cars
Race of power
Power of friendship
Power of words
Words of sympathy
Words of relief
Relief from cold
Relief from rains
Rains of blessings
Rains for crops
Crops of glory
Crops plenty
Plenty....
Glory!
©Anulaxmi Nayak,2015
For contest:Down under
sponsored by: Debbie Guzzi
date:4th September 2015
"SATURDAY NIGHT ON THE TERRACE"
run where there is only room
to walk.
how else can you understand
your strength?
put the possibilities up and
create new steps.
the word will always be there
unlike the whores of the
night.
although some whores stay in
at night the blood for the
leaches trailing behind them
at every attempt to gain
attention,
stays wet.
let the wind come in so it
can blow and make them go.
isn’t the feeble attempt to
gain a particular
individual’s eyes pale?
isn’t it a miraculous
coincidence that one
will follow every move just
to gain access to her pussy?
but maybe here, there is no
fight to gain access.
much more to go back and see
if one can fit through that
door.
we all grow from children,
their curiosity of filth
never fails.
**** or get off and shutter.
there isn’t an unexpected
move in your chess game.
the darkness after the light
is a clichéd move.
continue with the desperation
as I continue with my
laughter.
open the doors to the things
that have been closed.
giants in a land of midgets
make nothing but fairy tale.
By: Chicano Eddie
9232017
Terrace in Azayba
On the white terrace
the sky sieves
sapphire earrings.
From the nests of the minarets
deep trembles
embalm the horizon.
White halo
the city travels
through the desert -
a ship
of prayers.
Poverty sneaks
through her wet garment
on the terrace
she talks to herself cursing
the day she was born and left
to negotiate truths
of gender, sex and adulthood
in the middle class
one-room apartment
physical rigmarole
buries sick delight
hope of wellness
fast and Sunday mass
sink into dusk
and darkness eats
into her silence
--R K Singh
Oh! No. I won’t wait until you’re seriously terminally sick
Or to expire in order to send you bouquets of ritzy flowers
Today is indeed the time, the hour to stand above the big brick
To show my love amidst the hubbub of seasoneless showers.
You are profoundly loved, dear colorful and calm princess
You are always on my mind, in my guts, my heart and my soul
You are always on top of the unbiased poll, on my pole
And I love you with an incredible passion since you are the best.
I want to give you a garden jammed full of exotic flowers
And invite gobs of colorful rainbows to dazzle you daily
While exposing my love despite of a series of uneventful hours.
Oh! It’s rewarding, classy and marvelous to celebrate joyfully
Under the pristine blue sky. It’s our anniversary, let’s enjoy life
To the fullest. Let’s move on, forget the sad past and the vile rife.
Copyright © August 2023, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
enveloping warmth....
pungent aroma emits
lingering sweet taste
Every day she was abused at home,
She was locked up; not allowed to roam.
Her mother breathed for the last time
when her father was charged with a crime.
She was reared up by her cruel uncle,
who never permitted her, to see the stars twinkle.
Tears dried up; heart never failed to ache,
Her days used to end with just a piece of cake.
She would run up the stairs, with a tear-stained face,
People noticed and pointed out, “See, that girl on the terrace.”
Days , months and years passed,
No one could remember, where they saw her last.
She had gone missing just at the age of eleven,
Her uncle was relieved to get rid of that burden.
13 years got over, everyone forgot her face.
Nobody could find that girl on the terrace.
On one fine day, there was an important announcement,
Saying that a flat race competition was being conducted by government.
Participants of various religions and different ages,
Were going to represent their cities and villages.
All of them were ready for the race to begin
The third participant held a brighter hope to win.
It was time to start and the whistle was blown
The judges were ready to judge the best power shown.
Hearts beating loudly, drops of sweat counted every second,
The brighter pair of eyes was fixed on the trophy, even if others threatened.
Time was over, and also the patience,
All continued to pray for the best, in silence.
Chief Guest stood up to declare the names,
“Winning and losing are part of all games",
And then… The winner's name was called
The third participant was astounded and enthralled.
Tears rolled down her sweet face,
She was that abused girl, who stood on the terrace.
People who hated and always made her sad,
On seeing her that day, helplessly became glad.
No one knew where she was all these years,
Her story was untold... Happiness took away her tears…
My
tranquil
oasis,
terrace garden,
by July- serene
hues of green foliage,
and sweet scents of rose drifting.
A repose from the humid heat,
and oppressive sun- where the murmurs
of bird twitters bring a divine stillness.