Long Bistro Poems
Long Bistro Poems. Below are the most popular long Bistro by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bistro poems by poem length and keyword.
...She spoke to him in friendly tones,
dropped him DMs and made it known
that she’d like to meet up some time,
a pleasant evening they could find.
She even said she was sorry
for mocking him so easily,
that she regret her wild youth,
(she couldn’t say it wasn’t truth!)
To her surprise, the man set yes,
Carmena nearly lost her breath
when she met him at the bistro,
into a handsome man he’d grown.
The date was such a real delight,
they talked for hours, until night,
as if they had been friends for years,
Oliver belied all her fears.
He wasn’t dull, at least not now,
that was the gift that age allowed,
to be free of youthful passions,
to see a man, learn to know him.
And though she swore she would hold back,
that night, at her place, she attacked
this man and led him to the bead,
they tossed and tumbled, then rested.
She awoke to see him standing,
picked up his clothes, stared dressing,
she said, “Come on, it’s a weekend,
come back to bed, let’s go again.”
Oliver just gave her a small smirk,
said, “Yeah, I don’t think that will work.
Fun as this was, it’s over see,
in truth, you’re kind of old for me…”
She looked up, shocked, not getting why
such words were coming from this guy,
he laughed again, and said, “I must
thank you first, for the both of us.
“I wasn’t hunting trim last night,
but alas, it somehow felt right
to bang the chick who shattered me,
and taught me how a man should be.
“You see, back then, I was quite dull,
respecting the ladies in full,
and what did that get me? Nothing.
Girls like bad boys, no denying.
“They crave men who treat them like sh-t,
that Chad ******* just displayed it,
you’d chose him over guys like me?
I make six figures, it’s lunacy!
“But hey, without you I’d have not
learned their tricks and got what they got.
the bad-boy game’s not hard to play,
and I get sex most every day.
“Just act strong, play the alpha game,
they’ll come running and give up strange,
no need for weddings or divorce,
and I don’t loose my shirt in court.
“So I guess this circle is done,
by the way, you had no protection…
I’ll see you ’round, Carmena dear,
but I don’t think I’ll come back here.”
With that he just sauntered away,
Carmena cried for the whole day,
and wished that her whole life would burn
for what she’d taught, and what she’d learned.
Indirect interference into interesting iconographic inked inner initiative is not a carefully stepping clam, a carved tree cake nor a dune of a moon. Taking no bistro out for a walk or a cafeteria for a swimming lesson. For galas are won by astronomical gesturing garages who can do a high speed sprint in a pool. And high jumping competitions are competitively won by a zero rated steak sandwich with extra relish and cheese. Well that helps with the balance. Wow. Even eggs, explosive electric eels, erotic earwigs, economic ecliptic eccentric elves, and a fortified frog are capable of racing a tidal wave. Perfect. Pass. Perfect position. A country manor is not maneuvering on a dry day. Dry days deliberate drying dresses. And dance of the nine millimetre worm can be most admired in a pie of a circus tent. Whirling around carrying eighteen batons, a baseball, a silver jacket encrusted with rhino slices, snake shoes, and a tiny earring glowing. Lights that are lit at that moment will ensure a beacon built. And beacons are not big bakers they are brilliant bringers and bombarding battlers. So not a duty seen before in a table spire leg of a nineteen century church with a nice arrangement of flowers and candles. Watch how it moves around in the dining room. Arlington National Bank meeting Arlington castle in a tank ranking above all the little poor people. Nineteen fifty one and three quarters through the year but now overseas known as an overweight quarterback. General-purpose general genes. And the light from a single bin can foresee an evening gown in a long moveable mirror. Mirrors message movements making music movies. Instantaneously it is. How rather remarkable don't you think? And now take a little pixie and have a little dance in a bathroom. Great. Especially when carrying ten loaves of bread, seeded buns, apple cakes and the mucus from a very fat slug is said to be gold in a full moon. So kiss a grass snake and lean on a temple. Forty forms frolicking. Going boing. Wow. Marvellously enchanting is an armpit aroma? Hahaha the glass is staring at nothing today. Hahaha disrupted drainages hahaha left wing right tail light hood bonnet boom. Boot shaped milkshake on a intersection. Xxxxxxx millionaire monsters. Chat cheat. Xxxxx psycholinguistics z Z Z Z Z bang bang bing bongo. ***
Form:
cold rain
to slow-streak the
glass I watch you through -
you and your
christ ...
the ginger bread man,
sugar daddy savior, all that
I was not, (and less) ...
choices of
compromise, to provide
the lifeblood of your
"needs" ...
you, admiring
your bullion reflection in a
shimmering bottle of Armand de Brignac,
smiling for your
'badder' half -
a manufactured laugh for
the fools about who
find your pout a
bit too pretentious,
conscientious that the
pear-shaped
D/flawless Winston that
tickles thy freckled
cleavage, speaks as loud as
the painted bows
above, my dear love,
(once) ...
now I'm
just a jester, the
crowning kid of skid row, and
you'll never know I
eyed your trim - spied you
with him, picking a
bone in the
bistro I used to own,
with Sir Steadfast, but
alone - so aptly
and achingly alone ...
extrovert of extroverts,
yet you're EVER
unattended ...
even 'friended' to the max,
'midst stacks of your
fairest fans,
(and man), your loneliness
strangles - dangled on a fraying
rope of hope ...
a wish that life holds
more than your
this ...
my station
now mended, I've
ended my peerless peering, time
for steering my Wal-Mart
cart to that
toxic box under the bridge,
the fridge that I
call home ...
I turn and push, warmed by the
squeak-squeak music
of the wheels,
makes me feel all warm
inside ... I chuckle
out loud when I think
of you and your scarecrow-on-
a-cross, all warm ...
inside ...
I spin my
buggy 'round, just
digging the sound, and the thought now
searing my marrow -
oh, such delight, the slings and arrows!
now I'm back outside your
restaurant, you and "he" are on
task - Baked Alaska
flaming sweetly,
so I neatly ball my fist
and ... SLAM!
BAM! CRASH!!
with a flash, (and the
wryest smile - not used in a while),
the glass is shattered,
as I'm Mad Hattered in my
lovely Goodwill coat and weeping
wrists - stormy
mists and sad patter of the
reddened rain ...
now, just a bloody stain upon
your pretty pair, (a bonus - my onus)
I don't look up to
meet your startled stares ...
but stoop to
pick a shard, and
pocket it with utmost care ...
at least
my chest thrums,
I muse - you ...
have not heart enough to
share this broken
window's
pain.
Daylight fades, a city pulsates, and traffic is reflected in store windows.
Hurrying headlights come out of the darkness.
They crisscross like dueling knights. People in the crosswalk scamper
as if squirrels and streetlights leer gleaming yellow eyes, like watchful hawks.
The shrill trumpets of the charging gale force winds, rattle an awning,
and newly planted maple saplings bend and sway
in random pairs. Set in concrete planters, they hang on by tender rooted toes.
Pages of a discarded newspaper are hurled into the air,
buoyed on the steely breath of a frigid winter evening.
Several leaflets scatter into the street and down the sidewalk,
into the path of one lone pedestrian.
He slaps away the sports page, that flies into his chapped, red face.
Without hesitation, this castaway vagrant, down and out
by the rape of hard times, will accept an offered dime,
from a passing man in a Red Sox ball cap.
Head bent low, face hidden, a worn and dirty pea coat
pulled tightly around his thin frame, he carries all his meager belongings
in a large paper grocery bag, wrinkled and beginning to tear.
Serving as his satchel, the brown bag, damp and worn,
still displays big bold red and black letters
advertising "Smart and Final Grocery"--"Located in Three Convenient Locations".
A city bus roars by, splashing through three days of rain,
and a siren and a blaring horn is heard from the next block.
The dark silhouetted outcast, stops for a moment,
peers into a sidewalk trash receptacle, then continues slowly down the sidewalk.
A taxi pulls up along the curb behind him, and the attractive couple,
dressed in evening wear, emerge, pay for their taxi, and arm in arm,
enter Mario's Italian Restaurant, the brick bistro
that sits on the corner of Broadway and 1st.
It begins to rain again, and across the street people open umbrellas
and like the afore mentioned squirrels, they scurry home to supper.
The lone man walks in the rain, his pace doesn't quicken, his voice never spoken,
a spirit broken, ............ his sack held together by circumstance.
A passerby takes a brief glance...just a quick, chanced moment,
to take notice of "Smart and Final's" last stance.
(a series of micro vignettes)
Chella and I are reading our analysis assignments together because that’s how we link and build.
We read out loud too, because how else can you judge the flow?
When my phone, lying on the table, jiggled. The caller ID read, “Tommy’s girlfriend.”
Chella gave me a little look. “I never change anyone’s ID,” I confessed. “Neither do I.” Cellia agreed.
“She broke up with him years ago..”
I feel sorry for panhandlers, I don’t see them often but I saw one yesterday. Who carries cash any more (Noone)?
Along the same line, Chella and I are wired, it-girls - we’re noise cancelled. Were you talkin’ to us?
We’re hard to engage, not because we’ve got attitude - we just can’t hear you. It’s irritating when I have to tap-out of some stream to hear people.
Even if it’s the waiter from the bistro downstairs delivering their exemplary frozen-strawberry-smoothies and burgers.
Later, after the pool, we showered. As I was toweling my hair, I studied myself in the mirror.
“My skin is SO screwed up,” I moaned, “I need a ‘rescue spa’ facial.. Let’s go to New York (city)—I’m taking you there.”
“There’s a ‘Forever Young Spa’ on Beacon street.. about a mile from here,” Cellia offered.
“Ever been there?” I asked.
“No, but the ad says they have an AI-powered massage robot. I’m curious.”
“Ooo! Call ‘em up, see if it does happy-endings.” I laughed.
“We could get a home unit.” Cellia updogged.
“I think we’d need the industrial version,” I added, “that’s the sell.”
.
.
Songs for this:
Nothing Can Stop Us by Saint Etienne
Goodbye by The Sundays
.
.
Our cast:
Chella, A tall, lithe black girl, from Liberty City (Miami) Florida. She's a Harvard Master's candidate with a ‘Bachelor of Science in Global Affairs’ from Yale. She had it rough growing up - she was buying skin-care at Trader Joes! I'm showing her some things.
Your author, a simple trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia and a Harvard Master's candidate with a Bachelor of Science in Molecular Biophysics and Biochemistry from Yale.
.
.
Burgers = bacon cheeseburger w/tomato, sautéed onions, ketchup and fries - hold the mayo and mustard.
Wow well that's clever. I mean really really intelligent. Must have done all the research well. And drawn exact plans as to not make any errors. Roaring fires sit down in an ice bucket whilst wild seas are placed in shot glasses. Wow. How rather remarkable. What a notion. Ideal isn't it? And squashing the elephant into a child's bathing suit and that mammoth into a negligée meant for a petite lady frame. And as for the wild rampaging rivers well they are meant to be channelled into one centimetre alleyways built with cardboard cut-outs. Dugouts are neither pull outs nor are they pop up books. And bookshops selling their hardbacks with cushions for pages and covers of corrosive substances. Hardly hardy and built to last are they? Which causes the pavements and other concrete areas to crack resembling an old man's face then weep like a memory of childhood dreams. Landscapes link lines and lines frown. And frowning is not a frolicking fauna nor fawn and a dawn would always say hello to the tops of the trees first. Backwards belonging being beforetime bringing basting battling bullfrogs being birthday babies. And a naivety is a navel in a crested guild sitting on the top of a carved antique cane then tip tap down the little streets of old intertwining with the modernity of fashionable shops, markets and bistro bars. Late night stink. Burping. Rather a percentage than a percent sign then. And numbers drawn on a scarf is a scar on a material that was a one off item never to be sold in replicas on shelves. So stick a pin to hold the water of sinks and baths for this is often better than using plugs. Put all plugs away. They are no longer to be used and are now banned in most countries. Pickup puck picked puck pucks picking prickling prickle pickles. Running. In formations on a shelf. And a dive bomber went zoom down the stairs in a five centimetre breeze block house with several rooms saying oh. Z multinationalism multicoloured disco pants and ballet shoes. Turning. Z Socialization Z at thirty-three garden gnomes catching six fish in a snowstorm. And a savoury dip in a kilt dancing with a cracker in a hexagonal hat. Hahaha xx xx xx Z
Form:
Clump of earth. Green glow. Clump of concrete clapping. Green glow. A grouped nylon is akin to a skinny pair of trousers swinging in a breeze. Twisting with furry knees. But not ever in trees. It is the pointed cradle fork that envelops a mysterious marshy rock into a music score. How rather talented. And how rather quaint too. But a tulip in a tutu is quite wild so shut the door on a barm cake. Ok then. Good. So don't put it down carry it. Vast amounts of miles. And don't sit down. Twenty three hours of sit down in a basket looks rather like a very large dog snoring in a bed. Rather remarkable when the banquet begins. The very long jewelled hands beckon to the plates. Then consume. Vast amounts. While the skinny cat looks in from the window. It might be thrown a pea. Hum. Not substantial is it? And very very very unfair, feudal and unbalanced. Economic egg eats erotic éclairs. In a bistro. Large belly grumbling in hugh waisted pants. Circumference of injections cannot control countries. Calling the rain. Singing to sun beams. In an iced cave. Or a tree. Moat built around a house to house a lord is quite similar to a ladle entering a soup. Or a kettle whistling to water. External shroud. Internally baked. And the state signal of a lemon with pursed lips is spitting words like a sour lemonade. With hardly any sugar. Snow then. Beams budding booming bricking bridges bringing benign baked bomber blooms. And the dusk brings the tailored iconic broom heads. Watch for the tightly woven hairstyles then. In suits. Lean lanky laviscious lecherous limpets. Often dress in red gowns. And hide hair in wigs. But no gigs or pigs. Ok. Ridicule not a rabbit ear or tooth of a rhino. Smiling sunnily. In pendants. In palaces. Paint no fallen star on an erotic empty feather or a leaf. And flock is not a fleeced sheet nor sheets of printed plagiarised rubbish. Zoom then burn. And when burning swim. Very good. Hahaha lettuce loving leeches. Hahahahha twenty cows plus sixteen minutes equals moooo. Xxxxx derogation dogs. Xxxxx humanitarian z this is the p y q reporting from 89.0. On a windy day. Ooh. X. Z 0%
Form:
Crackling like lightning the scent of rainy sundays and sweaty youth enters my lungs like undesired medication
foot steps and introduction of generations and blood lines fills my head like crazy family stories
This time of night reminds me of you
I walked past the french bistro and absorbed young skins and loud jazz rumbling like a giants soulful baby
I watched day turn to night and rain drizzle upon this illuminated darkness of melodies and heart grabbing stares
Paranoia captured my follicles
and I swear that man on the train with poka dots and stripped hands
looks like you
I walked past the french bistro as my hair began to gather the memories of the year
and the world seemed to mirror my thoughts
this time of year reminds me of you
I remind me of you
I keep waiting for a newness to enter my heart
so Im not chained to my love for you
I forgot all our times together
because they remind me of wine dipped, swollen, broken hearts of mine
wanting to grow and develope more then ever I only revert back to ghosts of reality
The bone marrow inside of me was stolen by santa
and each joint of my body has gained such a heaviness
its hard to get up
from pillows of dusty broken skin cells
Shoulder whipped and ankles cold lonesome electricity
pipping in darkened roofs
hooved horses bellowing
below
me
whispers of cloud catching voices that aren’t you
and hands that roughen me
toughen me
lost to the shell of you
lost to the sparked foutainhead that spouts your
linguistic melodies in my head like torterous
hellish
key board clicking
ticking me away from existence
jumbled in condenced barren faces
desolate land erupt me
oh places places places
that feed me into monstreous children
forsaken
silly folly I forbid you to drink me dry
darken me so
leave me lonesome
take me holy
Thought I heard you whisper but it was only the mosquito sucking my rotting blood
This part of me reminds me of you
Movie: Untamed Heart
"AN UNTAMED HEART HAPPENED TO BE
MY BELOVED'S WEAKNESS"
A first date is so full of lingering whispers and sweet romances,
AN UNTAMED HEART can beat faster given many wonderful chances-
He held my hand gently as we shared silly nervous glances,
to think it all started being in the same high school classes.
We saw a moving picture of a young ill man with a heart condition,
it was no coincidence that this story HAPPENED to be non-fiction-
See, this man I was falling in love was diagnosed by his pediatrician,
since a young boy he suffered from leukemia but now he’s in remission.
When I heard the news that same night sitting at the down town bistro,
my heart broke in a million pieces and at first I wanted TO quickly go-
But my intuition remained at peace as I listened and went with the flow,
for I realized my soul had been connected to this man I longed to know.
With our hearts untamed we had uncontrollable desirous nights,
passion beyond comprehension noticing each other’s magnificent sights-
I thirsted for his touch and we craved to reach all the fervent heights,
he needed me to walk down the aisle, and BE his kindle to ignite.
Remission can only last so long and I knew the day would arrive,
when MY BELOVED'S health would decline and he would not survive-
The end of his life was spent in a hospital bed when he was only thirty-five,
the blue line went flat and his debilitated heart they could not revive.
I stayed and held his hand and laid my head upon his warm chest,
it was tamed with WEAKNESS as my heart was still full of zest-
Little did I know at sixteen this heartbreak would be my greatest test,
I took a sigh of relief, for my beloved’s heart was finally at peaceful rest.
Movie Mania Contest
Sponsor: Nicola Byrne
Date Written: September 12, 2016
Van Gogh's Yellow House
On the corner of a cobblestone street, a yellow house is located,
and nearby, there is a bistro to eat at and a café where friends meet,
which are illuminated by a sulphur sun under a cobalt sky.
A train barrels past the sunlit house of unfulfilled dreams
as I enter the building and grin as life passes me by,
because I can’t see the future for the tears in my eyes.
Through cracked-open green shutters, as reclusive as I can be,
I see gawkers with their arms outstretched and fingers pointing,
saying to each other, “Look up there, the painter’s crazy.”
My heart has grown cold and dry. Destiny has been mean to me.
And now, the police come to my door to force me to leave,
by decree of law, with a petition signed by the community.
Still, the scenery inspires me, and I can’t relinquish my painting.
With palette in hand, I mix red, green, blue, and yellow paints
and brush their hues, tints, tones, and shades on the canvas to create
“The Street” (with audience) on 2 Place Lamartine, Arles, France.
***
Note:
On May 1, 1888, Vincent van Gogh (1853–1890) rented four rooms in the Yellow House at 2 Place Lamartine, Arles, France, and lived there from September 1, 1888, to March 1889. Fellow artist Paul Gauguin (1848–1903) shared the house with Van Gogh from late October 1888 to December 1888. It was here that Vincent van Gogh painted many of his masterpieces.
Van Gogh was forced to leave the house in March 1889 when the police, acting on a petition signed by thirty townspeople claiming that Van Gogh was mad and a threat to the community, closed the house.
The house was severely damaged during an Allied bombing raid in World War II and later demolished.