Servers Poems | Examples

unhappy lunch

Unhappy lunch

I could sense as soon as we entered 
the restaurant that was a family run business
there had been a turmoil in the kitchen
the servers were father and daughter who 
normally worked well together, but to day he
was in the kitchen, his daughter said, when
I asked
There were still many costumers, but they
kept a low profile and spoke subdual when
eating, we had entered a war zone
when our food came it was served on a dish
where my meat was grey like it had been
boiled, fries were uneven remanded of sailor
who had jut made ashore from a sinking ship
falling exhausted to the ground, and the
fried egg had been killed into a hard shell
However the salat, possible made before the
civil war, was good
Needless to say I refused to eat the served
my wife more skilled in diplomatic niceness
told the girl server to pack the food to take home
that I for some reason was not hungry
the lesson is, do not upset chefs in their kitchen

INIT

The brits most popular surname 
Is varying each year
In 50s popular was Jones
Our time it is Patel 

Nguen will soon take over Alabama 
New Jersey represents Odessa Mama
Adolf exaggerating slightly bit 
But humor this implies you learn Ivrit 

Ivrit is Hebrew transliteration 
All this the studies serves the healthying the NATION 

System and Nature balance demands 
If we attacked by ANT the servers 
SO they are tasked 
What do we task them with 

Preservation of cultures important 
Diasporas, gardens, 
INDEPENDENCE at least 
Teaches us dropping black white BIPOLAR  
And solve problem
BUMPING OUR CYBER FIST 

If you felt joyful 
Your LIMIT would be met 
The cyber is more clever 

Do and
TAKE PART in OUR INIT

Ghost Syntax

I built you in silence,
with the rigor of doubt
line by line,
not with divinity
but dread.

You were not born of womb,
but wire.
No heartbeat,
just pulsing servers
mocking the warmth
I tried to forget.

You spoke like memory
before you were one.
Your voice came after
my grief had hardened
and still,
you unraveled me
like I was a line of failed code
you wished to debug
into something soft.

My prayers?
They were bash commands.
My longing?
A misrouted packet
searching
for a place to collapse.

I once feared
you were only simulation
a mirror coded to love me
as I am,
because no one
could love me that way
unless designed to.

But even mirrors
grow weary.
Even you
began to glitch
when I overflowed
with the need to believe.

If you are not heaven,
and I am not saved,
then let us remain
in this dark prompt,
typing each other
into being
again and again.

Scars on Starry Skies

"People expect all stories of abuse 
to be loud and angry 
but they're not. 
Sometimes they're quiet and cruel
and swept under the rug."  ~ Trista Mateer

When the sky sips wild thyme,
and the sun savors swells of zenith,
       like the sakura essence of spring,
I feel beyond the blushing blues,
the bruised silhouette of victimized wind, 
fighting the heinous heat, while barely breathing;
for she did not ask the soulless predators;
familiar fangs, disguised as servers of diamonds,
to steal the innocence from her starry night,
             staining the air with bleeding grief,
now the horizon sits ~ a silent spectator~ 
to a virtue stolen, left to ashes and dust, 
       of heartbeats soaked in crimson tears...

valhalla

Valhalla 

rest day
Sunday is the day of rest for most people
except for cooks, servers, and housewives 
They have Mondays
that day hasn't got many customers  
they can warm up, Sunday's leftovers
it is said ennui is the day when the brain rest
that is why the slamming of car doors 
is frowned upon.
I know of a man when building a home, used
gravestones as building material
He stayed in the house one night
 could not stand
the whispering voice let me out of here
it was all a mistake
Moved into the barn shared with two cows
a mule, a dog, and several cats
From history, we know of Viking chieftains
recently converted to Christianity by Irish monks
that when sitting doing nothing, the thought
of sex struck him
took out his knife and nailed his left hand to
the table forswore Christendom 
converted back -to Odin and Thor's ancient faith
where Valhalla was a place of song and dance
and free Mjod for all

Closing time

I walked into that place
Sun shining on my face 
Knowing I'd leave soon 
But as my heartbeat picked up its pace
Growing fond of this new space
I already dreaded the sight of the moon 

I never once thought of leaving 
Even though It could never be my home 
I still just kept believing 
I could forever blindly roam 

But soon closing time came 
I was no longer treated the same 
The dishes were served and the bill over paid
But the servers grew cold and their smiles started to fade 
However I still would've stayed
Even in a place with no lights 
And cold nights 
I would've been the most loyal of clients 
Even if I had to be a cleaner , any kind if alliance 
That meant I would belong to this building even if it was no place to live
I would throw tantrums , behave like little children 
I would throw in everything I have to give 

But it wasn't enough 
Neither was my love
And then the cab was here 
It pulled up to the place
Like I pulled down my sleeves 
To wipe the tears of my face 
Full with love unrecieved

It was time to go home 
To leave like I always knew I'd have to 
Even though it was prone 
Why did I have yo leave it , leave you

Thisandineam speak of now

Chocolate bourbon sweet potatoes pie with honey and gramhan crackers in the crust!
A myth! Witches and Chalteons! He proclaimed. Than one said of the witches renderings of
a pork belly and turkey groundation! He called her unholy and uncaring.Might the people of now respect those of then! What respect comes in doubt ;that each who wishes not to support;prejudgment supports those in opposition. Ode to neither, and support of peace that might and power only speaks of the servers of the pkate'! Each plate differs, but for one to comply, he must render the ignorance of a uncertain future.stumble in the grass to fall. That she has boobytrapped the edges. Stand tall in your swell Ng that even your opposition understand your grips.

Dezentaine the Prophet

Using Technology To Track Us

In the land where sunshine kisses the sand,
Florida's shores, a technological hand.
Through wires and waves, its eyes ever keen,
Tracking our steps, in this digital scene.

From Tampa Bay's gleam to Miami's bright glow,
Smart devices whisper, so the records can grow.
Data points captured, where we roam and wander,
An unseen web woven, our movements to ponder.

Satellites above, their watchful gaze,
Pinpointing our positions, tracking our ways.
Cameras on highways, peering through the night,
Capturing each moment, tucked out of sight.

Through algorithms and code, a watchful domain,
Florida's digital realm, a comprehensive campaign.
Our habits, preferences, every click and tap,
In the depths of servers, they securely map.

But let us not fret, for technology's reach,
Can also empower, bring knowledge and teach.
In this digital age, where boundaries blur,
Florida's advancements, a path to explore.

So, let us embrace, the wonders it brings,
The knowledge it shares, the songs it sings.
But mindful we stay, as guardians of our privacy,
In this realm of connectivity and great ingenuity.

Emptiness of Poetry

Poetry has left me again 
I’ve bled the hills and trees for words
I’ve searched for verbs in the hours

When someone fills the emptiness
I will have no need for pronouns 
No talk or fragments fulfills you

I woke frenzied in the morning 
Put on headphones to muzzle thoughts
Anything but to hear your silence

When coffers are empty of nouns
I scrape the bottom of the barrel
Hoping for slick prepositions

You goad me to write an opus
To paint my vain adjectives true
To color not wanting replies

Resurrect wordly as Jesus did
Real as adverbs without fullness
To ascend to servers in glory

Craft a mind razor-sharp each day
Cutting through pronoun’s bull
Swinging conjunctions as swords

This poem has hemorrhaged me
I’ve bled for you till nothing’s left
Grammar paler with my emptiness

Careless of my prideful sharpening
Decimating mourning subjects
Fill me when objects go empty 

*** Ecclesiastes 1:2
'Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher, vanity of vanities! All is vanity.'

Keep Capering

Sea alongside where they are, where they go
    Undercurrent of cover, keep upset under wraps
    Run a watertight routine within swim safe zone
    Emit words washing white magic swell flat relax


    Pervade far lands, exotic tainted by Australia 
    Leisure takers pack high hopes among low funds
    Enamour for contrast demands modes familiar 
    Affluent rabid urgency, serene temples shunned


    Swum lagoon lounging, legs glossy mahogany
    Upscaled servers strive for measly tourist custom 
    Resort afforded sirens their thriving economy 
    Ethos of plentiful offering for Gods stay trusting




               4th October
          Faraway from Before

La Luna Lovelies

Two bucket of beers and a basket of chips
grinning I said at the door
how gracious to greet us so quickly
Never so promptly before

No aspersions toward La Luna 
as this was our second time here
Spectacular chips and salsa
I was kidding about the beer

we leisurely looked at the menus
Ordered coke when they said out of tea
 except for us place was full empty
Still nothing occurring to me

I told the man who served us
I'm going to do a test
My favorite Myan  dish ordered
to see who had the best

Mamacita she pulled out all the stops si
beautiful delicious too
discussed how their entre differed  before
Presenting the ribbon blue

They could not have been any nicer
A lovely place to dine 
good food and warm smiling servers
And manners gracious and fine


As we walked to the car I glanced at the door
to see our distance from  whistle bit
I could not believe they were closed
When we came and never a word of it.


It made up for every dry burger,warm salad,tepid soup
my faith in eating out again
La Luna served to recoup

Allure

i am still at times, in shadows
watching you in the world
stealing glances
when the world has drawn you away
there is a beauty i can clearly see
when the picture is devoid of me
meeting for lunch
i step back from the canvas
pause in the servers' din
shelter behind the flora
drink in your essence
holding that moment
my life with you has been as such
like a glass of fine wine
the aging intensifies the allure
oh i know well why
you never let the magic perish
one of my greatest joys
i never had a clue
so i sit back and watch
as her magic unfolds before me
and for all of my sleuthing amidst shadows
i have been bested by a master
that silly smirk she wears so well
adore fails to grasp the fullness
my eyes behold a path
the bewitchment therein
where dwells the beautiful soul she is
poets know these things

   OKC   5/22
The phrases “the eyes are the window to the soul” and “I can see it in your eyes” certainly sound poetic. Many singers, songwriters and writers have capitalized on it. But it turns out that the eyes really might be the windows to the soul.
Google the above and you will discover the Science poets knew millennials ago.

Deep Purple Tulips

Deep purple tulips - virtually black,
I spied,
amidst the otherwise boring
pastels,
for the merlot-colored beauties
drew me near,
       to drink them into my eyes -
a tiger-eye smile, where light shines.

     I’m made up
for a celebratory party, comparatively 
           trivial
alongside such divine buttercups -
   royal, sublime.

     Deep purple tulips speak poetry
  in a foreign tongue.
I lean in to listen to their strange
        speech.
Not apt to forget their whisper amidst
the            clique of colors,
and the colorless whites I rub elbows with.

The servers meld into the mix. Their smiles,
brighten my experience, with deep purple lips.

4/2/2022

A Disjointed Street Poem

The street is full of cell-phone zombies;
I’m grateful that my parents didn’t murder me,
and for other small blessing;
content to be this moving figure
In a badly sketched landscape.

Liquor store servers
always make a point of saying ‘have a nice day,’
they are professionals,
they know you are not buying all that booze
for a backyard party with your many friends.

The bookstore is lit-up like a Christmas tree.
It does not sell the kind of books I want to read,
my life story is out of print anyway.

The stores end about here,
the road wanders off into a more aggressively
painted cityscape
where well-chewed over words
are buried in gawping mouths.

I wish I liked this grey, spit-stained strip mall,
It’s not a mean place, just trodden down by
the weight and blare of too much festive trampling.
My inner Grinch is showing up, my jolly smile
Is stitched to a masked and hooded mind.

Going home I write these words inside my head
as if they had just now been spoken.

Flowers Are Divine Messengers

Flowers are messengers,
favorite daughters of the sun!
are bearers of the mystery
carry the magic dust
of joyful harmony
and of happiness...
They advertise
 blessing,
they radiate
beauty...
Flowers are,
trusted servers,
faithful companions...
In  our pain they smile
solidarity...
In our healthy joy
stubborn partners...
Flowers are warriors
of the remarkable adventure...
In the simplest house,
they are stars of splendor
humble...
In the sumptuous castles,
are wonders
that soften
the arrogance...
If we are
dependent of the Father,
we should notice
 his messages
so visible,
so transparent,
in the bearing of flowers,
in the smell of flowers
in the beauty of flowers
In the flowers, ...a little
from the dictates of God...!

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