Buffets Poems | Examples

Lost Love

(Note: taken from a diary of a young lady)
 
In memoriam of Jose` Maria
aged twenty, drowned.
 
I lounge on an uneven stone
under the uneasy shade 
of an ancient carob tree,
away from the hot rays 
of the summer sun.
I sit alone, abandoned,
I contemplate in vain,
for my thoughts wander on you,
who left me in the lurch.
 
I stare vacantly towards
the mighty sea that 
like a cyclone of frigidness
buffets the darkened rocks 
that form the inlet. 
Wave after wave 
enters the narrow strait
and rumble onwards
to the horrendous shore
throwing iridescent sprays
over the plaque of cold hard marble
that hides a tragedy of life.
 
Under the Iberian sky
prickly pears ripen
a stone's throw away 
from the glinting shore
amid the green olive trees
slightly wet with sea spray.
The plaque seems to glow 
in the hot summer rays.
 
I wonder what made Jose` Maria
swim in that turbulent sea.
Maybe he searched for treasure lost,
or hunted for the slippery octopus,
or mourned over lost love.
A life destroyed.
 
Am I not astray too? 
I am so far away from you, 
forsaken and unloved,
for you are like the sea, drowned 
in a cyclone of frigidness.

The death of leaves

The mighty wind buffets
And the trees cry bitter tears
I try to hang on to my limb
         "Don't let go!"
shutting my eyes to the debris 
     
                                        I'm torn loose, 

                                                               blown away
    
                     through the empty air


                                                   nothing to cling to
     
panic sparks as I'm rolled
                                            over 
                                                     and 
                                                               over
     pulled this way................................... then that
  



                           too much wide open space
     



I'm battered against something solid
breaking,
                cru
                      mb
                            ling into dry pieces
I 
fall 
to 
the 
ground
           into a mass grave 
of mirror images. mirror images
     mirror images. mirror images

Life's Menu

Life's Menu

The world is a feast 
hosting many beasts
lodging its beings
In a palace of bliss 
Serving mystery meals
with knives and forks
tending to fangs and claws 
Ripping through life’s menu
Feeding on scorn
Feeding on hate
Feeding on the love of men
Lavishly Catering out despairs 
Stylishly rummaging
through the hopes 
Spreading buffets
of selected illusions 
spiced with chaos

Mandarin Buffet

Always hot plates.
Always refilling clean slates.
Always lots of food.
Always yummiest dishes.
Always the best of buffets

Pleasure of Pleasures

The full moon followed us here, there and everywhere with its madcap mischievousness, but brought us home safe and sound. — poet

Pleasure of pleasures to be home.
A pleasing treasure of the front door.
Opening, stretching, seeking solace.
Practically diving inside, turning
the faucet back on; releasing air
conditioning and oh…oh…the joy
of the showering spray, removing
the night before, the morning after
from Delta delays. Oh the laze…
did I say the laze…oh no no no…
working to unpack, just to wash
and refill the suitcases. Laboring
for a reunion in Atlantic City.
Mercy and mercy and fun, fun, fun
in the Jersey sun and buffets too,
and much talk talk talk…until
our threshold greets us again
with a chummy slap on the back.

Leadership's Triggers

Not gas, not oil, but leadership
  Yes, it's leadership pipelines we lack
    Young people coming up through the ranks
    For their mentors' devotion giving thanks
  
  It's every individual for himself today
  That's the internet and social media way
    Instead of bringing us together
    Instead of inspiring us
  All this 'technology' misinforms and divides us

  So it's up to us oldsters who still know how to do it
  To direct these youngsters, channel their raw vigor
    For we sorely lack leaders, no Buffets, no Reagans
    Let's get our youth in the pipelines ~ pulling leadership's triggers

The Artist

From my window, I see him.
Squalls of wind wire his hair,
charcoal snaps and smudges
between his fingers.

The tide churns debris
to the sands.

He reaches for another piece,
measures
the rocks,
huddled together,
where tide meets shore
sky, the water.

The iron colossus of the pier
grinds in the gale,
gulls screech;
he paints their feathers,
soft, ethereal,
ghost-winged.

Paper buffets
in the breeze -
he nails it,
flapping onto a board,
with pins.

His skin’s
ruddy.
He wrestles
with the canvas,
a boy bringing in his kite.
My words
paint his character
submerged
below the surface.


He’s at one with this
corner of the world.
Words roll
with the surf,
then crash
and burn. 

Suzy Davies, Copyright 2020. All Rights Reserved

Hunger Pangs

poetry’s starved -
                after days of bountiful buffets and open bar

Revolution

beside the dirty wall there was a shadow,
the signs painted by some graffiti artist
made even less sense in the dark.
lying on the damp floor was the skinny dog.
stare into my bird's eye.
it seemed to say get out,
this hell is mine alone.
so I threw a piece of bread
that I had in my beak.
he salivated and snapped.
the next step was a caress with my wing.
was conquered.
so we made this kind of alliance.
now he follows me around town.
two savages without destiny.
but soon we will be three,
for the skittish cat meowed at us.
sure we will form legion,
let's occupy that hole in the hill,
coming down when hunger strikes,
then we will attack all the buffets,
scandalize the bourgeois,
co-opt the cockatiels,
the turtles and the badgers,
time to attack in pack,
this land will be ours again.

Staring Into a Window Pane Space Full of Quadrilaterals

sandpaper savage today
buttermilk wavelength tomorrow
directions are like buffets in multidirectional earthquakes
yet and still i cherish the day

downward spiral clouded pepper today
scallops dipped in butter sauce tomorrow
arrows are like indecisive enthusiasts continuously banging their heads
yet and still i cherish the day

driving off of an embankment today
sucking nipples carelessly on a pillowtop mattress tomorrow
pathways are like emotional guessing games defiant to antiquated rules
yet and still i cherish the day

Terror Date

26/11 not just a calendar date
166 got killed, over 300 wounded.

Gun shots rattled pub pillar
Guzzlers gulped fear in lieu of beer

Patrons served bullets
While they were out for 5 star buffets

Commuters shocked to see firing of AK 47
While they waited for train at railway station

Hospital lay under terrorist scary seize 
Terrorists not doctors took rounds of wards

26/11 since 2008
Is a Terror date ...

_________________
© Hitendra Mehta

Leona

An old friend died today.
I lift my head and look back, 
Down the long fabric of my past.
I remember us at a party –
We partied a lot in those
“Salad days” of our youth!

At one another’s homes
Babies, bolstered with pillows,
Slept on upstairs beds.
Good-natured competitions
Produced late night buffets.
The 20-40 Club – surely we’d
Never be more than 40!

What skits we put on!
The picnics and treasure hunts,
Singing in Musical Arts
Concerts at Troy Music Hall,
New Year’s Eve – a dinner-dance,
Then on ‘til dawn and
Bacon and eggs
At the all night diner.

In later years we kept in touch –
Calls, Christmas cards, rare visits -
Time always dropped away,
And we were back there yet!
Even now I only see Leona young -
Smiling that wonderful smile
That would light a room –
And singing, always singing!

Better Days Part Two

"Better days" Part Two

Down and broke. Had no mattress on the floor, sleeping on the tiles, got frosted and caught a flue.

Had nothing to eat, no Hope just chaotic predicaments, confrontations and a season of hard luck. Tears on granny' s face and no fees for the kids.

But one day!
It all changed, it was the rebirth of Jonah to David the Victor, the Survivor!
Those days gone, now a memento l cannot quite recall, it does not matter for today is a new day.
A new dawn, luck on my side, cloud nine my couch. No more hunger pain!
Pockets deep like the  Pacific ocean.

'Every dog, has it's day.' That's what they say and it is indeed true.
Blessings on blessings, doors opening quick, swift decisions. Buffets, Barbeques and lots of treasure like a Lepacon' s layer.

Betters days!

Disabled

You made me a whore
In the guise of romance

Blond, blue-eyed
Skin like a porcelain god

Decent enough to pass
For a real boyfriend

With your gentlemanly
Opening of doors

And your macho job
Operating a bus

All you wanted I willingly gave
For the things you paid

The giant buffets
The bowling games

Then a stroke took away
Half the man you were

Left your right hand
Right foot paralyzed

I wonder what you can still do
With your good hand and foot

Ninety pounds gone
The spark still in your eyes

Predictable

In a world where change is inevitable we never see it coming 
new and more advanced search engines 
hairdos that shock us with color and multi dimensional form 
faster cars that run on solar energy 
foods syringed with synergetic fibre, may or may not be  
lethal to our health...
Plastic trees and recycled items that make us wonder,  
what was it once before ? 
weather buffets that whip us one day and stroke us the next 
hyper media intoxication that makes us beg for temperance
In a world that is one day your best friend and the next 
your adversary, 
I'm glad I have a home to come home to every night 
I'm glad I have a family that never leaves my sight 
I'm glad I don't like change enough to give up being
 "predictable" 
In this volatile world where nothing ever stands still for very long,
I'm glad I reached an age of appreciation, for the same old song. 
  
Dec. 3, 2019

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