Long Croissants Poems
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They told me from the time I was two
“One day prince charming is coming for you!”
They made me read these inspiring fairy tales
About mermaids, evil step mothers and
servants whose childhoods were unfair,
They told me that even if I was troubled and had to put up with a lot,
That someday my adversaries would have to surrender
to me and scrub my pots,
They told me I wasn’t alone; animals would be my friend
So I tried that, then one night they bit me,
I suffered another tragic end
They said to always be kind-hearted that’s what all man want,
When I got into high school I found out no one wanted to talk to the fat girl in the corner who ate chocolate glazed croissants
They told me to find seven dwarfs, a crew of little people
My school only had four of them
Their names were; scuba, geek freak, muffin top and meatball
In eleventh grade they said, "ask God for a fairy godmother to get a dress for the prom"
I went to a Catholic Church, got one for 75 cents,
with red stripes and one missing arm
They said after graduation the wise thing to do would be to go to college
and Not rush into getting married
So I got knocked up my senior year by the school janitor,
His name is "Prince Larry!"
I dropped out a month before school ended and you’ll never guess where I reside
I am currently employed doing Disney parties, where I get to dress up as all the great characters who told me those fabulous lies.
Got to Love fairy tales…
By: Sabina Nicole
1-24-13
A soft rain rippled across the apartment window distorting the rainbow of lights emanating from the Four Cafes. That’s what the locals call them, The Four Café’s. Each had a flavor all their own as do the street musicians offering their insight into another’s recipe. January cold limited the number of street walkers, saturated the aroma of croissants with an urgency. Perhaps the scent of snow on the air had stifled the urge to choose a café. Better to pass by splashing in the colored puddles and settle in for the night. Still, I stood at my window hypnotized. Drawn into the flow of the jousting neon lights defending their colors, brightly slashing at one another.
The snow had come, the jousts over, the lights extinguished. Sunrise chased an echo through the streets as Café bell chimes welcomed the baker. A soft light played on the snow. The frantic rainbow would follow later.
©3/7/2023
157 words
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
A witch built a neat house out of sweets
to entice boys and girls off the streets.
Hansel and Gretel did rove,
threw the old witch in the stove;
They both filmed it and posted some tweets!
Three bears found a young girl in their bed.
Whatever to do now, they all said;
We could invite her for tea;
strawberries, croissants, and brie.
They decided to eat her instead!
A young prince put a pea in his bed
as a test for which princess to wed.
Only one felt it there;
Will you give me an heir?
I’ll give you a whole pod full, she said!
A pig built his house out of bricks;
two others of straw and of sticks.
A wolf came to town,
blew two of them down;
then a double pig roast did fix!
The old King in his new suit did strut;
of invisible cloth it was cut.
A boy in the crowd
then shouted out loud
look I can see his big fat bare butt!
Rapunzel, please let down your hair,
I can climb and be with you there.
The princess looked down
and said, with a frown;
Dear sir, can’t you just climb the stair?
She once slept for one hundred years,
awakes when a young prince appears.
Soon after they wed,
I’m so tired she said.
Don’t sleep for too long, the prince sneers!
A reflection of the coloured pencil drawn sky
skates on the glass smooth surface below it.
While a rebellious group of shades take their positions
on a glorious stage to express themselves artistically and
I...
i think of you
Wisps of clouds shaped like a palm leaf
fan the winds that stoke the fire
of a randomly sketched sunset.
I...
i think of you
The cool of an ocean breeze
travels the shadows of this low lit evening.
Caresses my skin like the essence of romance.
Enthralled by the allure of a candle lit sky,
I...
i think of you...
Our French Bakery early mornings.
Café au lait and croissants.
Our freesia soaked baths.
Your mink soft body.
Its milk and honey scent.
As I fall off
the edge of the world,
I...
i think of you.
March 19 2015
Armand
Mashed potatoes, Mom’s heavenly creation.
Such a gourmet creation, was an alpine white.
Green beans, like a Christmas decoration.
Candles were benevolently, not bright.
I can still inbreahe steaks, sizzling in a pan.
Hot Croissants were nestled on the table
Tinkling glassware in my young girl’s hands.
Angelic youth, ever, tender, soft and stable
Prayers were recited.
Then, our dinner began.
3/27/2023
Dedicated in memory of the the loss of the three children and
adults murdered in Nashville this morning in a Christian school.
The birds understand us, it’s true,
They understand us better than men,
Observe the grey heron when it is afraid,
listen to the Robin
Who asks to play with you,
Go for the lint
She doesn’t want any wrong notes,
The birds understand us,
The thief has always known you,
She knows how far to go,
They understand us better than our ministers,
Better than the gendarmes to guard you,
They understand us better than the bakers
too busy making croissants in the morning,
The birds understand us,
listen to the duck, who chooses beautiful oranges,
listen to the Blackbird,
who whistles when you are depressed,
When you think of Martine or Marie Noëlle,
listen to these dear birds,
They interfere with what you think,
They are wary of alley cats, domestic cats
They are suspicious of everything, of the time that passes slowly,
They guess your dreams, your fantasies,
They have nothing to lose by watching you,
Let them speak to you of God, of Bonaparte,
The idea of lying never crosses their mind,
They understand you better than psychiatrists,
They know what you think,
let them, they have a thousand things to say
Let them sing the coming of spring.
NB When I go for a walk a little before dawn, the singing of birds is like a medicine, it gets rid of the physical and moral heaviness, due to sleep.
When I go into a store, I take no prisoners, especially if I like the merchandise.
I ooh, and awe. I exclaim loudly the attributes of a variety of items, asking
“Is this new?” “Are there any more?” “Is there a limit?”
I enthusiastically throw my shopping prowess all over the store in sorted ways.
“ONLY ONE!” I yell, holding up a lopsided pink flamingo. “I have to have it!”
I pop it into my cart, trying not to notice the sneaky old woman who is now following me.
The next time I see her, she and the pink flamingo are checking out, which pleases me to no end.
All the sales people rush to help me. I memorize their names quickly, and give them compliments.
They are whirling and twirling, not doing their jobs when the boss comes out of the back office.
“I wish I could BUY this store!” I yell. The owner stops dead in her tracks, forgetting to chastise anyone.
“You can!” she says. “It is for sale!”
If I had a quarter for every time this has happened, I would be driving a new car, probably a Lincoln.
The next thing I know, people are bring me warm croissants, hair clips, and whatever else I need so I can
Shop “in peace”.
I am the only one who ever gets to use the employee restroom in some stores.
As they want me to BE an employee.
Sometimes the manager gets permission to take me to lunch and treat me.
I almost always get offered a job, because people seem to love enthusiasm.
Do not ask me why. I see it every day. I work with children.
By the time I am ready to leave this adventure, a favored store clerk is asked to put me on his shoulders and carry me to my car.
There is a little parade behind me, and the owner hands me a key to the store as I get into my old vehicle.
I wave all the way to the interstate with wild aplomb, and they wave back enthusiastically.
I watch them clap each other on their backs as they turn.
I am apparently the only one who knows I will probably never be back.
She is new, this servant girl, a wench, who should mean nothing
I am the lord of the manor.
Anyway, someday I will be.
Not yet, for I am but sixteen.
What is her name? I wonder, straining to hear it.
Beyond the kitchen I hear a name, but barely.
Not strong enough to make it out.
Dare I enter the kitchen? It is never done.
I am too high brow to be welcome in there.
She comes through with a plate of croissants.
Smiles prettily, making me angry for some weird reason.
Why does she haunt my dreams? This common beauty?
I want to ask her name, but dare not. It is not done.
Lord of the manor, but not lord of my words?
I glower at the croissants.
How dare they bring my dream into fruition.
Bleak winter Melbourne morning,
a cold wind coming in
from across the Bay
and blowing down the street,
past the Esplanade Cafe
with the smell of coffee
and warm air spilling out
from an open door.
I stop, look at the cake
and pastry display through
the window, the basket
of freshly baked croissants,
Danish pastries topped with
strawberries and apricots
and glazed with syrup.
A cloud of steam
from the espresso machine
adds a touch of the surreal.
Anticipation moistens my mouth
on the sight of French vanilla
slices plump with custard
and cream, muffins erupting
from their papery patties,
Portuguese tarts, thick slices
of carrot cake topped
with icing. I savor each
with an imaginative bite
and decide my treat…
then groan. I've left my wallet
at home.
( for Deb M )