Long Bistros Poems
Long Bistros Poems. Below are the most popular long Bistros by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bistros poems by poem length and keyword.
Harsh Mission / San Francisco, CA 2011
Through the harsh white sunlight
the random bits of cast offs tumble and stick
smeared to the pavement and layered upon
upright posts, from pillar to post they roll
on bikes and trikes, on roller blades
and skate boards, down and out,
drunk and oh so sober, they meander
as if on the streets of Paris
in their mock Bistros with their
fake hair, their primal piercings, and their
do me do's just screaming of abuse...
The childlike sibyls and torrid sirens
howl at the fog banked moon
as they stumble on the dole from room
to rented room, or huddle in the bus shelters
waiting to sneak a cheap ride down town.
Bizzaro meets his mate in the masked
denizens of the mission district
breasts starred, caped and on display for all to see
face hidden behind plastic lunacy...
The giggling effervescence of misspent youth
crumbles into a heedless epicurean
mosh pit of aimless wandering
joyous neglect...
It is truly hard to know where the
garbage ends and the art begins.
Paris by night is gay,
I prefer Paris by day
I love the ambience and style,
French fashion stands out a mile,
From all the others in that trade,
The best designs are Parisienne made.
The French have flair beyond compare,
I praise the food and savoir-faire
Visiting a French bakery
For cafe au lait, gateau or tea,
Little bistros are a treat,
Place where young lovers meet.
Romance in Paris Ooh La La,
For love, one does not need to look far.
Couples walking hand in hand,
It could be just a one night stand.
The French love to love, so they say,
Even if it lasts for just one day.
The feeling of romance is everywhere,
Strains of music in the air.
People reading while sipping wine,
The atmosphere is simply divine.
The lake shimmers like glass
As children's toy yachts come bobbing past.
I have lost all sense of time, as I'm
Captured by the contentment on the faces
Of people of different ages and races
Enjoying their day,
In their way.
I loved my life on the fish quay,
among the fisherman's bays,
Just to be involved in fish,
And learn a skill that pays.
Filleting fish all-day long,
For chefs with Michelin stars,
Local chippies,hotel chains, bistros and certain bars.
Some people could not stand the smell ,
of fish upon your clothes,
No matter how much soap you use,
the smell is in your pores.
We had our local fishing boats ,
sell there produce everyday,
A great selection of North Sea fish ,
caught just outside the bay.
Crabs and lobster all alive ,
We'd grade and place in tanks,
Dover sole and halibut,
so fresh and stiff as planks.
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 day’s hours were worn down and a sudden sunset, that
resembled a master’s painted glimpse of Valhalla, was upon
us, its majesty of deepest blue, blood red and black.
From our tenth-floor skew, the river looked, for all,
like a wrinkled sea expecting a storm. Boats moved
to tie up before the dark body of windswept clouds arrived
trailing a wall of downpour and flickering, electric thunder.
Our study group had run over, as they tend to do. Most of the
members urgently moved to pack up (they’d be campus bound).
An unpropitious rumble and fierce flare of light, revealed that mild
twilight had swiftly faded to a darkest stormy night.
My pinched-pleated curtains thrashed before this tempest for
the almanacs, feigning a life they do not possess, like twin ghosts
stured to wrath.
“We can order in,” I offered, waving a menu from the downstairs bistro, as I closed my French, glass doors. “Why not eat here and wait it out?” I shrugged, “My treat,” I offered, “and I have wine.”
A pleasant embracement of relief and consent followed. What held
more power, I wondered, the society, natures coerce or the gratis fare?
Later. as we parted, a young man paltered, repaying me with a quick hug and cheeky kiss. The valueless touch, was itself rewarded with a small grimace of a smile, but the sin did not overset the mood.
.
.
Songs for this:
Riders on the storm by the doors
Stormy by Classics IV
When limbs of Montmartre tint the glow
chemise de nuit falls to the ground,
belle de jour, come moan a pale sound
through alleys winding lamp light’s flow.
Her fine heels toss on follies’ show
she, au naturel , caprice bound ;
taunting stars to rouse below.
Uphill, this mistress wraps fired lips
fleeting sighs mixing red-hot drips,
amidst night bistros’ fragrant plight
where rows of faces wet love’s sips.
Then like a dream, her bedgown flips
denying passion, oh one last bite.
©french sonnet/personification
*Montmartre—famous Paris hill where art,
music, romantic atmosphere, and bohemian
culture thrive despite its religious strains.
*belle de jour--- beautiful lady
*au naturel--- in a natural state, also, nude
*chemise de nuit--- nightdress
. …. .
by nette onclaud
for Cyndi Mac Millan’s Un, Deux, Trois contest
31 may 12
At uncertain times black ice sheers the wind,
The nights snorts a frigid fog
into the fumes of idling cars.
Ohio, once was a light in a hissing bowl.
Land was laid out like a plain bible,
it offered salted potatoes
to the frozen and freezing,
it played a wheezy bellows into rural glimmers.
This night knows how to fang a wrist.
Grit nips our tender tongues.
The lights of bistros cannot withstand
their desolate backyards.
A scree of black curb
can be crossed, but not by the lightly shod.
At such times, Autumn lends
a shivering hand at its own burial.
After the sermon, small ice sculptures
of raw priests, congeal into humps and heaps.
A sweeping wind pushes rotting leaves
into vacant lots.
This land is played out on a plain bible.
Nightlights smear a frigid fog, the fumes of idling cars.
A flat-lined wind plies its wheezy bellows through burrowing bones,
smothers the distance, douses the glint of rural glimmers.
Knuckled chills know how to fang a wrist,
nip tender tongues, freeze the rivers run.
Here in the burbs the lights of bistros cannot withstand
their own desolate backyards. A scree heap of black curb
is not crossed by the lightly shod but must be booted-in and leveled.
At such times, winter lends a shivering hand
at its own burial. We become priests all frocked in fleece,
heads bowed or we howl a tune to a faceless moon.
Good or gone to the bad, we are there, in Ohio, anywhere.
Black-ice sheers,
it cuts deep into paved-ways and lots.
Night snorts a frigid fog,
the caked and idling cars
only sludge a gripping freeze.
This glacial dark fangs wrists and hearts.
Grit nips at tender cheeks and tongues.
The lights of bistros cannot withstand
their desolate backyards.
A scree of black curb can be crossed,
only if the heavily shod
mash and smash through.
Are we in the end days or
in an age of small uncertain fears
that cannot now truly thaw?
We slip along
uncover small pockets of glee
in these long frozen hours
where exhausted minds sleep
and walk.
Death is upended,
lungs mask against a stabbing air,
small ice sculptures appear
in snowy humps and heaps
as if this time will always be congealed,
nailed like this to scraps of eternity.
Later, these days,
with all there residue of lost souls
will be swept way
from the crusted edge
of mall steps and clogged paths.
Then it will be a different time,
a forgotten time, one only recalled
as a mist behind wintry eyes
as we, all unmuffled now,
glance backwards into yet another
uncertain future.
This year more than ever
I long to surpass myself
The clock is ticking
No longer can I recklessly
Take the gift of time for granted
I dream this year more than ever
To give wings to my muse
Release the buildup
Of pent-up energy
And let her loose
Free reins
With canvases and color
I dream of releasing
The artist in me before
She sleeps her life away
This year more than ever I dream
To dress in artist garb and
Wear purple feather in my hat
More than a wannabe renaissance groupie
Parade down the streets of Paris
Break bread with starving artists of the day
Be it as it may crossing lines of time
Hang out with the likes of Leonardo
Rembrandt Picasso and Sartre
Artists and philosophers alike
While away the hours in bistros
Pen in hand living on coffee and croissants
Hang out in bakeries while kindred spirits
Sit to chat about their latest works and passion
This year I dream of making each day count
Remembering time can seem both infinite
While being abruptly finite
Who knows what the new year will bring ~
Published in my photo/poetry book ~NEW YEAR~ 2019
AP: 2nd place 2021
POTD December 19, 2019
Submitted on December 17, 2019 for contest NEW YEAR DREAMS sponsored by CHANTELLE ANNE COOKE - RANKED 1ST