Best Waitresses Poems
These Hands, These Hands
I have seen hands like this before
In every size and color
Hands that are parched and withered
Strong hands, tired hands
Hands that can bear any load
Hurting hands that are calloused
And bent, yet these hands can be
Gentle as a kitten’s paw
Ready and able to hold and heal.
I have seen hands like this before
In upscale bistros and small-town cafes
Stashing meager tips
for the American dream.
I have watched as these hands
Hawk “The Herald”
For pennies on the dollar
Shovel coal into buckets
And black death into their lungs.
I have seen hands like this before
Hands of everyday heroes
Carrying bodies from burning towers
Pulling girder after girder
From twisted wreckage,
Hands that wipe away dirt and ash
To salute a tattered flag with pride
Determined to stand tall
In the face of terror.
I have seen hands like this before
Caring hands that teach and guide
Encourage and praise,
Motherly hands nurturing, holding
Rocking, gently disciplining
without ever harming,
Hands always willing to reach out
And help their fellow man
Always ready to volunteer.
I have seen hands like this before
Hands that create masterpieces
Deliver hope and build nations
Hands that with hard work
And determination grow stronger
Each time they reach out to others
To protect, pardon or applaud
Hands of the working man
Hands of the mother and father
Hands of teachers, doctors, nurses
Laborers, soldiers and farmers
Hands of waitresses, secretaries
Firemen and police
Hands that give comfort and aid
Hands that heal our pain
And join together in prayer
Hands that touch our lives
In simple but profound ways.
These hands, these hands
These loving, generous hands
Never resign, always giving
These hands are your hands and mine.
The middle class here can't be saved
When 0.001% act so depraved
Their wealth without end
These royals* still pretend
Did not come from us—their
enslaved**
*The Royals: CEOs, Banksters, Revolving Door Regulators, The FED, Congressmen for sale, Lobbyists, Board Members of Big Corporations, Major Shareholders who vote for these Board
Members, Corrupt Managers, Dishonest Used Car Salesmen, Presidential Candidates with more than two Residences, Elected Presidents (and their lackeys who pretend to regulate but look the other way)
**The Enslaved: Workers, Career Regulators who are trying to protect the public, Honest Hard Working Citizens, Students--some with oppressive loans, Immigrants, Soldiers, Police, Firemen and Firewomen, Parents, Children, Orphans, Disabled, The Sick, Small Business Owners (who don’t hire lobbyists), Volunteers, Health Care Workers, Welfare Recipients, Inventors, Investors, Entrepreneurs, Actors, Artists, Journalists who do in-depth investigation (not like those with FOX News, ABC Radio or many other of the outlets where they mouth the status quo), Non Profit Corporations, Charities, Teachers, Transportation Workers, Waiters and Waitresses, Dishwashers, Servants, Farmers, Managers, Ship Hands, Cooks, Unemployed
Author' s Note: Have been at Occupy Wall Street 8 days in the past two months--which is why I haven't been here--plus I have to work. Miss you all, but it's for a good cause. I am very briefly seen on Conan's feature: Triumph the Insult Comic Dog at Occupy Wall Street if you are looking for some humor with a little umph.
Everybody, and his brother
Stopped in, at one time, or another
Not for the greasy hash browns
Or the coffee, with a half a cup, of grounds
They weren't there for Ruby or Ruth
Whose numbers were in the phone booth
At night when the honky tonks closed down
It was the only place open in town
The regulars sat at the back
The bar was reserved for the hacks
Nobody ever stayed very long
A blue plate special or a jukebox song
The burgers were extra greasy
Waitresses a little sleazy
But there were always people around
It was the only place open in town
My mom, warned about it's reputation
My dad, more concerned about damnation
I used to go there, from time to time
Back when a pay phone was just a dime
On occasion wound up in jail
And one might say, I've been through hell
Anything one needed could be found
It was the only place open in town
We saw the smoke, from miles away
Heard the fire trucks, early that day
Everybody not working, went to see
The roaches and the mice run free
When the honky tonks closed that night
Everybody had to go home tight
Cause before the old cafe' burnt down
It was the only place open in town
Looking back, had some good times there
Just sit by the window and stare
Reflections of places and faces
Kinda like a memory, oasis
Life was a whole lot slower
I was a wild oat sower
But anytime, one wanted, to hunker down
It was the only place open in town
by Daniel Turner
Las Vegas nights
Bright flashing lights
Guests arrive in droves
To visit gamble and let loose
Their private jets and stretch limos
Hollywood royalty on tour
Dressed for a neverending gala
The glamour and the pomp
Living it up at The Sahara
Exclusive parties in penthouse suites
Cocktail waitresses in skimpy outfits
Pouring lavish drinks as you desire
High on oxygen pumped through the air
A different era of glitz and glamour
Has less than everything really changed
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~RANDOM MUSINGS VOL.2~ 2020
AP: 1st place 2020, Honorable Mention 2020
Posted on February 19, 2020
Originally posted on January 20, 2020
Froth
spilling
from large mugs
brimming with chilled
Bavarian beer.
Spiced delicacies tempt.
The aroma of grilled meat
pervades the night as senses reel.
Waitresses in traditional dress
serve folks to the sound of music and song.
------------------------------------------------
23rd September, 2015
Contest: For Love of October
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
Placed 5th
Waking I wander where did those happy days go.
My New Year resolution is to shed those unnecessary thoughts.
My Comforter will guide me and wants this for me.
Patiently He answers my unspoken prayer.
And childlike I stomp them where they lie.
They will tantalize me no more as I crush them.
And I play with those toys in the dirt where i was free.
Mother calls me to dinner and washes my hands and face.
Tomorrow I will clean up the mess I left.
I need to rid myself of the filth.
I wear my past like new clothes that are stiff.
They need to be washed and dried and softened.
The doctor will have me lie on her couch and prattle.
She will take me to the cleaners and steam the past.
Sitting at the top of the stairs and listening.
With my tears running famously and glistening.
I hear the television and you slowly drink your beer.
Mom waitresses while father and his greed cracks another year.
Tomorrow I will clean up the mess I left.
I need to rid myself of the filth.
I hear you sing the song as I sit on the doctors couch.
Crying and wonder if it is my fault and the rope is lowered.
The strangers hand reach for me and they hold me tight.
Bathe me with whispers not to tell every night.
Remember the times
We used to hang out at that club in the city
The music was hot
Drinks were cheap
The chicks were there
The bar was crowded
But there was always room for us
And all the waitresses knew us.
Everybody’s gone now
But don’t tell anyone
I still get shivers remembering the times we had
Like it was yesterday
Standing shoulder to shoulder
Drinking
Laughing
Buddies forever
When the door to the old club
Was wide open
Waiting for us to walk in.
Stymied synergistic stoolcumers synchronized
of gifted glib galb garbage run of mouth
nicotine rings of one night
no promise quickly spilled
ever taxed gestured pocket
pool. tandem coulpling random
access eye spew askances for a
tainted night glow. Weak whitewine
whispers office yupslugs curtaling on a
Friday nnite feeding rampage
cock'll doodle do ya, hopefully, fixed
******l trans plant stilted blue
libidious carneverous ego ectascies
exaggerate trip the gonad fantasy fantastic
click, click, click, scrape,
click females ina crowd leave ina crowd
***** puffers everywhere cancer
croonies suck lips with sunken jaw
jumping jill frenzy paste posted tooth
smiles--only gum grin where prohibited
white collar/blue collar share a
once beer of sorts, while linley smoke
figures haunt backwards in a sitdown dismal
denial comedy for the no show waitresses
geese gatheing empty of poignant personality
through bar riers of in-finite age range ripe
rituals for meta phor women to the restroom!
The plot hair thickens. my lungs hurt from watchexisting
Blue suit sancturary slugs offer office onslaughts through
oppulent openings via perservance in a temperate tampon
express meal head long into a pubic partisian oblivion?
True bar tintilation touting tempting tidbits of tumultious
temptations tilting time, tantilizing tremors, tracking
tricks of professional preference and sexosocial sinny
secular satisfaction. Gomer Pyle just pissed by.
Judy, Judy, Judy. Poor Judy.
occular preferences occlude
The dam broke in Quebec.
My thoughts,
my words,
and my pen
all moved.
Moved like the thin layer
of brackish water
over the icy depths
of le Fleave St. Laurent.
Moved like the evening breeze
over the cobblestoned streets
past the lighted shops’ doors.
Moved like the flags flying
over le Chateau Frontenac
as the high winds whip.
The French
from the tongues of
the waitresses
and bartenders
and patrons,
and the strums and songs of
the brickwall guitarist,
all worked as white noise,
and the glasses of wheat beer,
the plate of white cheese and
cold red grapes,
and the warm amber candles,
were all sustenance to the soul
to move my pen across the notebook
and break the dam.
Valentine’s day supper
Village restaurant booked
Vexed diners! We wait for
Venison steak meals but
Violins screeched out six
Viennese waltzes, the
Very drunk chef is sacked!
This is based on a true experience, with some poetic licence it was my birthday not Valentine day and we were having beef steak not Venison. My husband ordered a starter and main whilst I’d opted a beef main course and dessert. The starter arrived, then we waited and waited but there was no sign of the main course. We asked when the meals would arrive and were told there was a ‘problem in the kitchen’. Then the 2 young waitresses got out violins and tried to entertain us. About an hour later we were given badly cooked meals then offered free desserts which we declined as we just wanted to leave. We later discovered the chef had been very drunk and got sacked and the owner had tried their best to cook the meals. The fact the waitresses had the violins made me suspect it wasn't the first time there had been issues with the chef. Not long afterwards the restaurant closed down.
Pleiades V Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Kim Merryman
05/06/21
The old wood building is sadly vacant and needs repairs,
but I have a dream to purchase it and bring it back to life;
it was a general store so I will call it, The General Store Restaurant,
I will retain the bygone day character, come step back in time.
I will blend the past and the present and serve comfort food,
baking crusty breads and serving maple syrup baked beans;
on certain days pea soup, and rich stews like grandma made for you,
a Canadian born chef will be helping me in the kitchen with ideas.
He knows a lot about restaurant makeovers and good eats,
all my friends want to help by being waitresses and cashiers;
they are a happy bunch of smiling faces that will greet the customers,
the people who will come to my restaurant want down home cooking.
The best thing about it is that a rapid river runs right by,
it is situated in a small village right outside the city limits;
on warm summer days I will serve afternoon tea and treats outside,
oh it will be lovely and I do hope you will come to my grand opening.
____________________________
September 8, 2016
Poetry/Verse/The General Store Restaurant
Copyright Protected, ID 16- 826-564-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, My Imaginary Restaurant,
sponsor, Silent One
Third Place
Customers are like bouquets of flowers passing through our twenty-four hours.
Breakfast, lunch, or dinner all 365 calendar days guaranteed for a full twenty-four seven.
“Hello Sir”! Welcome to Waffle House America’s favorite place to eat!
Some say we are the closest thing next to God's Great Heaven!
We have a confusing language of our own, the blabbering towers of the real “April Showers”
Service with a smile that has walked the many hard-earned extra tenths of miles,
Nothing computerized with files, just organized by our own genuine unique styles.
Waitresses are serving with hard enduring time and each crosses over a mighty fine line,
Master grill operators optimize a divine talent marking your plates perfectly aligned.
Friday and Saturday nights the party train arrives blessed coffee to the many lips we’ll revive.
Regulars and irregulars you’re served just the same, pardon me did I really get your name?
Loud ones, quiet ones, and even the picky ones strive to come back to us,
Here we bring back the basics of being alive.
Scattered, smothered, covered, chunked, diced, peppered, capped, or topped?
So do you want them “All the way or just partly aflame”!
Young, old, or different at being indifferent just being sane,
Especially when the “Waffle House Way” is to say the first “HELLO”!
“Morning Mam”! Can I get you your usual or will you be having something different “TO GO”?
Brief moments of insanity with the moods that walk through our doors,
Thank God for every single one of those Jukeboxes!
The quality of service opening an eye to the sly foxes,
We’d really be in trouble if we sold liquors!
Foreign, military, and even civilian are in and out,
Our servers are like the gold stored at Fort Knox.
So what can we get you today that you haven’t already had before?
“The Waffle House Way” America shouts!
It’s like being home because that’s what we are all about.
Before Trolleys, the Streetcar
A streetcar could write a book of its own,
It could tell of love and hate.
Young girls proud of their very first job,
Men in ties and suits, their fate.
Ladies in hats and gloves shopping,
Laborers, waitresses in uniforms,
Mothers with babies nursing,
Anyone who rode, rode was the norm.
One time on Hallowe’en, the boys
Played a trick on the downtown line,
The conductor let down the steps for board,
The boys tied their shoes, said “that’s fine.”
It was humiliating for people of color
To have to move that hideous sign one back,
Sometimes they were crumpled all together,
Before Rosa Parks taught us better.
Boys didn’t have cars in those days,
Rode the streetcars to go to the shows,
We wanted to be proud he was “cute,”
He’d slip his arm around you, it goes.
Parents would demand the schedule,
We waited on corners in heat and snow.
Older, we had midnight breakfast at diners,
Waiting for the next one to go.
They rattled along over bridge and street,
Bouncing with human stories to tell,
When crowded, hanging on straps above,
Men were polite, gave their seats to the gals.
Rich and poor alike rode the streetcars,
A drunk man on mine, would say,
Tipping his hat with a goofy smile,
“How doin’ day.”
In the beginning, the fare was three pennies,
Though that didn't last very long,
Still they stayed economical,
And punch cards came along.
Bright advertising on sides and in corners,
Electric lights good for books inside,
Dependable were those clacking old street cars,
Wouldn’t mind another nostalgic ride
A chorus of the hungry
Father, we are here, singing choruses
To a crowd of witnesses
A scattering of utterances among crows
Muttering things
About this and that
Unknown quantities of baloney
Seasoned with desert salt
As the scene arranges itself with the usual players
Preachers, Pimps, power brokers, pen pushers
Worshipers and whisperers
It will not matter whether I lived
Or died begging. What matters is that we are here
Unnoticed
Watching with the watchers
Herds of putty faced plutocrats filing past us
Past decorous doors
Into the depths of the pleasant places
Inside
Lettered sous-chefs salt
And season yet another crowd of butchered beasts
Where lingers another hearty feast
For hunters, gatherers and whisperers
Armies
Of half butchered waitresses with painted faces
And battered souls attempting to hide
The bandages and splinters that hold together
Their fractured internal structures
And ignoring the empty laughter. Like us
And they try hard not to stutter
There may be a tip at the end of the shift
And chatter hovers
In the many places, above the clinking of glasses
On the other side of other doors
Cutlery gathers and clutters
In the able hands of busboys and dishwashers
And more grease spatters
Waitress can I have a cup of coffee?
Maybe, one day, you will join me
For you never stop, you never stop
You serve, always with a smile
Taking orders all the day long
For you never stop, you never stop
Seeing you always brightens the day
Cleaning the tables for the next diner
For you never stop, you never stop
So keep a thought for all the waitresses
Coming to your table, serving good food
They never stop, they never stop