Short Croissants Poems

The perfumes of hot croissants,
The bakery is open,
I’m going to enjoy Sunday....

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Playdough
       to bake a pie
to make tiny croissants
or to bake a chocolate cake
          Buscuits



Copyright McCuen 2009...

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La Maison Rose
She is a landmark restaurant
bringing fame to Bateau Lavoir
I dine on dainty croissants and sip my orange tea
We are both elegant and rich,
And now I am feeling French....

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A hailstorm of brunch and some juice.
Sweet dough in a coffee cake boost.
A casserole got ‘em
with croissants on bottom.
When time for clean up, fed friends vamoose.

8/29/2021...

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A lighthouse,
With its romance,
Stretches,
Into ocean expanse,
Stars dress the night sky,
Where has my love,
Sailed,
For roses,
and croissants,
I miss her,
Gazing at our moon
Reynaldo Casison...

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On hushed lawn's carpet, glisten drops of sunshine
   On fences, soft winds whisper prayers to sleepy vines 

In kitchens early risers on dainty croissants dine
   Whilst cross the ocean, lovers sip daydreams of wine...

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You're all invited to my party.
No, not Jack or Jill or Marty. 
I'm inviting apple strudels,
pies and tarts, the whole caboodle, 
custards, puddings, buttered scones 
(with muffins and bagels, I'm not alone), 
cookies, croissants, an eclair,
and my lovely baklava, so dear....

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Willy, a wild mammoth lives in my yard
Shedding head all over in clumps
Neighbors come by and collect it in bales
Making comforters, pillows and plush cushions
They bring casseroles, carrots, croissants and canapes
Willy has the best life, and he knows it
Milking it for all it is worth...

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When I close my eyes
This world melts away
Revealing to my surprise
The world I left astray
A low lit room
Watching a stage
A rocking tune
And comedic craze
The smell of cuisine
Italian of the sort
Croissants in between
This I report
Cool, crisp air
Pure to my skin
It is my happy place
I want to come again...

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I don’t need the sun; 
no friends, no car 
I don’t need books,
no name, no telephone,
I don’t need Homer,
neither croissants, nor cat,
I don’t need medication
Neither table nor sugar,
I don’t need a watch,
I don’t need a hat,
No coffee
I don’t need to think,
to dance or write, 
I do not need to seduce,
but I need to love you
To need all this.

...

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it isn’t all hard,
the world I mean. 
there are soft things, too. 
it isn’t all
coffee stains, shattered glasses,
dead cats, and broken streetlights
but sometimes it just gets so dark
in the middle of the street
late, on a Tuesday night 
that I forget about
fresh baked croissants, my mother,
alive cats, and stars. 

There are a lot of those out tonight,...

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The midnight streets,
Are empty,
And the ladies,
Are filled,
With longings,
And croissants,

The moon,
Has lit,
Its candle,
From within,
And the songbirds,
Are filled,
With nostalgia,
And wine,

The autumn trees,
Are shedding,
Their leaves,
And the jazz,
Is shedding its blues,

Some quaint irises,
And exotic roses,
Adorn the lakes,
And the moon,
And their love is yours
Reynaldo Casison...

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Sounds of spring
Appreciated and everywhere
Islands of green
New shamrocks wishing us good luck
Tea so delicious with croissants

Patrick a favoured name
Always a march holiday
Time so precious
Real four leaf clovers
Isles of the british
Crumpets so delectable
King and queen so regal

Daylight savings
Attitude so cheerful
You know when St. Patrick's Day is here

Author: Gwen Meyer-Erlach Schutz...

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Through wildflower meadows we skip,
feasting on sunbeams and friendship,
trailing to a river's dip.

Beach towel extended with our spread,
guest seagulls partake of our bread.
Sun our blanket, brunch in bed.

Orange glazed croissants, yogurt parfait.
Fresh picked wildflower bouquet.
Tree shade chandelier display.

Giggles ripple like current bends.
Our imagination transcends
trickling shores, summer weekends.

2-2-2021...

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The croissants of buttered hills
glisten in the searing marmalade
of August's arid oven.
September's cinnamon swirl
scorches muffin-colored homes,
the flames smothered
as October rains
send lives and mud
sliding into the ravines
like apple butter.
On Thanksgiving morning
survivors eat fall's charred breakfast,
then praise God in church.
In the milk of spring
they rebuild,
just like the last time
and the time before that....

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A European holiday, breakfast in the finest city in the world
Paris, so beautiful in the morning.
She sits with her back to the Eiffel Tower, 
because this is her sixth day here,
And she is being witty and charming. 

The croissants, and eggs are made to order.
Silver teapot and coffee pot old world charm.
Her handsome young man faces her, not seeing
anything on the table or the Eiffel Tower.
Her beauty takes precedence over everything else....

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Parisian nights magical made for hand in hand walking
Along the light sparkling Seine,
Across bridges running to old left bank enclaves
Magic nights soft city lights
Footsteps echo into alleys
Taxis purr catlike in misty morning dew
Who walks in these early hours just before dawn?
Bakers rolling croissants, freshly baking
Deliveries of flowers, papers, breads
All in sleepy just light …
You and I, hand in hand,  find our way home
Under flowering purple trees...

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A passing tram
and people
on Sunday morning walks
provide the pretext
of direction and give
a vague, comforting hope
that movement
has a purpose.

But the hard stuff
has a fuzzy core.
A ghostly roulette wheel
of what could be
makes the morning
ride the vagaries 
of a spinning ball.

Yet all is anchored,
somehow,
to this lovely illusion
of a cafe table
on which there is
an arrangement
of perfumed flowers,
two cups of coffee,
two warm croissants
and you and me....

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