Long Diner Poems
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Their reserved table was already in use
and their solid chair backs were so loose
This refined gentleman diner felt quite rough
as his tenderloin steak was extremely tough
His wife’s jumbo shrimp portion’s so small
maybe the huge serving plate’s their downfall
Her hot chocolate fudge sundae was served cold
and though fresh, there were flecks of green mold
She’s complimentary about the poor food
although the charming waitress is terribly rude
The couple said they’d never come back again
then immediately booked for a party of ten!
Nonsense Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Charles Messina
09/09/21
Over the years, looking across the tables at you
ambiance may change
meals range from simple
to aromas meandering tropical islands
roaming ports of call in far-off lands
the little Diner of long ago
caught in a torrential downpour
afterwards the petrichor aura
riding home with you
there remains that infrangible moment
when your tableware searches for another morsel
caught up in a moment intent
looking up, your eyes meet mine
a Duchenne smile adorned by doves perching
upon the Cupid's bow you wear
the moment i am reminded
reaching across the table
the oxytocin in touching your hand
rainbows are forever
Eugene 8/25/26
A treat that should be most exalted
Is a real vanilla malted.
Made with ice cream, milk and malt,
It’s oft forgotten, by default.
It must be mixed by a machine
Endemic to the diner scene
And served inside its silver mixer
Meant for holding this elixir.
Pour it in a Coke-shaped glass.
Use a straw (now, don’t be crass!)
Take a sip and be transported
To your childhood days, distorted…
For when seen through such a taste,
Negatives all get erased;
And once you start to reminisce,
You’ll just remember days of bliss.
Today I passed a luncheonette;
It’s been there eighty years, I’ll bet.
I thought of malteds, got the urge –
For $7.50 (!), I could splurge.
Happily, I did indulge
And that is why I here divulge
It’s worth those calories amassed
For that connection to the past!
birds gather and sing
they’re lined outside my window
as I awaken to the touch of sun
and a faded dream
I cover my head with a pillow
a soothsayer says a new life
I wish for a miracle
now that my friend and I
no longer see each other
and the forecast calls for rain
I look for an answer
but it’s not the answer
I want
I call some old friends
that will have to do for now
a story lingers in my heart
it longs to be told
and told again
I’ll order an iced tea
and flirt with a waitress
in a diner
before I put a dollar
bill or two
in the palm of her hand
I’ll drive toward sunrise
and drive as the morning stirs
office buildings will cast shadows
as I take the one-ways
in and out of the downtown
I’ll turn off the radio
and listen to echoes
of my exuberant youth
when packs of boys
and packs of girls
drove the streets back and forth
and shouted to each other
through open windows—
we called it cruising
Hungry taste of wanderlust,
Roams within this flesh,
Can’t stop now, have to go on—
I haven’t seen it yet.
Where I stop next, I don’t know
Can’t even make a prediction,
Just something new before my eyes
Sating this addiction.
Homes I knew and left behind,
Were only in my mind,
The spirit chaffed, burned to leave
The body bided time.
Don’t know if they live or breath,
The family I once had,
Lovers, children, fade away
I was never a great dad.
Can’t say why I wander on,
What I think I’ll find,
After twenty years I’ve seen it all,
But can’t leave this behind.
Another truck-stop diner here,
Another waitress in bed,
Tomorrow she’ll be far behind,
To her I will be dead.
I remember when this was fresh,
All that was on my mind,
When I was young and knew it all,
And had nothing but time.
The youth is gone by the wayside,
But the impulse still remains,
A forty-something wanderer,
With nothing to his name.
My feet they ache, my back is strained
My reason cries to stop,
Why is it that the drives me on?
Why can I not block,
The urge to go ‘round the next bend,
To trudge on through the cold,
I rue the day God gave to me,
This cursed vagabond soul.
Tympani, thy tyranny.
Prisoner of the noise:
Soulless is this symphony!
Deepen, O my ploys!
Tangled in an oak tree s roots?
Tide rushing in fast?
Succor, sailors? Little boots!
Life preserver, cast!
Where do pining poems go?
Carrion, feed thy crow.
All lost souls to heaven go?
Hell, thy rows to hoe.
Blessed are the blasphemers?
Not entirely, sir.
How the hungry tiger purrs!
Vision, now to blur!
Old diner, thy jukebox.
Play simple tunes for folk.
O Elysian fields, thy phlox.
Dinosaur egg, yolk.
But, in times of warning?
The panic bell is best.
Sweaters wool, thy darning.
Pirate treasure, thy chest.
Sorted out? Without a doubt.
World unfriendly, be.
Cursed demons, give a shout.
Sunken in the sea.
Hope, be with the poet!
Grant shelter to the bard!
Otherwise, you know it!
Fry deeply, O my lard...
Around the corner in an alley
Behind a run-down diner
On a nameless Los Angeles street
Two strangers converge slowly on
The appointed location where
Their mutual connection set a meet
On their first point of contact
An explosive reaction that
Produced something violent and divine
They continued their encounters
Coupling, colliding, entwining, dividing
Nearly every day of aught nine
Like every age of greatness
The trysts gradually abated
Until the two hardly met at all
Behind a run-down diner
On a nameless corner
A memorial in graffiti on the wall
May 26, 2017
(This is a fictional poem)
I had the special at a diner here in Tennessee.
When I learned what I was eating, I tossed my cookies.
I was eating some kind of tough stew.
It was chewy and it tasted bad too.
When I asked the chef what was in the stew, I couldn't believe what he said.
He said he put horse meat in it and I vomited.
When I puked, I made a decision that wasn't great.
I cussed out this chef who weighs 250 pounds and stands six feet eight.
After he beat the hell out of me, he used my body to wipe the puke off the floor.
You'd better believe it when I tell you that I'm not eating there anymore.
Form:
Wide Awake At Two Plus Hours After Midnight...
(actually, now at present time juiced
well nigh high noon same day)
On this January nineteenth
tooth thousand and nineteen
dogged by an earlier notion
searching soul to glean,
(while at Collegeville Diner)
above place previously wrought
poem hammered from this peon
expounded possibly seen,
asper belated birthday
outing now I mean
to expound upon nagging, yet keen
existential question, sans what purpose
validates yours truly within skien
of terrestrial webbed wide world,
no...no...no not
simply pocketing green
backs (banknotes, legal,
tender, money, et cetera), but now bean
older, and displeasing lee not so lean
when just a slip (pre) youth decades ago
yea, that would be
when I hapt tubby a teen
with nary a concern,
nope not even to preen
myself much to the dismay
of my late mother, nay
no idea why lackadaisical, illogical,
and antithetical bee hay
vee yore prevailed, but more to the point
rarely when young and naive did stray
thoughts besiege my mind,
that LX vintage sketchy,
shady, and seedy gray
area bothered concerning,
hounding, pestering and fill lay
mignon noggin ready toboggan
any price you say
for this staged coached blarney
finding this mortal questioning... ray
zing meaning, purpose,
and underlying importance, gestalt, design...
of life more so today
meaning since recent past
also taking stock of
accomplishments from way
back, and feeling stymied okay
at a loss to delineate
any rhyme or reason
to shout hip...hip hooray
quite the contrary, which following
admission might appear cray zee,
but aye decry barely
living capped off with oy vey!
+++++++++++++++++ SLIPPERY
Three ice covered rocks
sure footing is not assured
balance is the key
GINSU - KNIFE EASTPORT , MAINE USA
Notes : My sister wanted to know more about this poem.
What did it mean , if anything? She thought it sounded simplistic.
But she knows me and some of my facets , nuances and quirks.
Etc. So , OK , Anne in Ocala , Florida , here you go.
Three icy rocks Childhood , adolescence and adulthood.
Sure footing not assured No guarantees in this world.
Lots of forces at play. Best to pay attention.
Balance Not always easy to stay upright. Even with our best efforts
So thats a little about this poem.
Yes perhaps more to discuss.... perhaps not.
Glad to listen to others on this one. Im just a scrawler.
And Ill buy you a coffee at the diner if you make it to Eastport , Maine.
Patrick March 4 2021