Short Regulars Poems

Chairs
Tables
Breakfast thoughts
Starting the day
The regulars at the corner cafe...

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There once was a bunch of nice poets 
Who always wrote glowing comments 
They remedied  my rhythms
They helped with my haiku
They are poetry soups, super hero's  




inspired by jans rainbow poem...

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we trim their hair, necks, noses, and mustaches too
They come on Saturday morning, when the mail is due
we hear their stories, they gossip about their farms and such
we like our regulars, and we hear so much!
only one gives us a tip we try to get him...

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I hear them in the hall
They are whistling and laughing
School has not started yet

These are the children
Who are here early
Who have been here for an hour

The regulars who will not be whistling or laughing
When they are the last ones picked up
At six tonight...

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A banjo on her knee
A phrase that makes me smile
I have never seen this myself

But I have played a tambourine
Not in church like two of the regulars,
But in my house, and outside, in my forest.

It makes worship ever jazzier, 
In both a church and the woods.

Brings congregation and songbirds alive, 
Competition on....

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In the corner of his studio,
three stories high above the street,
a view of the city
where sun rises on undying population.
Regulars amidst daily routine
mixed in with unfamiliar faces.
Tens of thousands of tales untold,
several hundred added daily.
In verses their lives are painted,
his only canvas being a notebook.
Expressions never fail him
as long as he lives on
a writer's block....

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Old Lady Wilomae had the loudest voice in the church.
When she opened her mouth, strangers fell off their perch.
We regulars were used to it, it was no news to us.
But newcomers sometimes lost it, made a giggling fuss. 

The pastor had given us many sermons geared about her.
He told us over and over that a Christian soul cannot be beat 
Who will sing out loud and long, with love for the lord, pure.
We like watching the newcomers though, fall out of their seat....

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The playground hadn’t opened;
The sun had yet to rise
And many might think walking
In the dark would not be wise.

A mist hung by the river,
A tugboat pulled a barge;
The cars inched down the F.D.R.,
Their headlights looming large.

The puddles, partly hidden,
Glinted dully in the gloom,
Soon to saturate some sneakers
Not expecting them to loom.

It was magic to be walking;
The few others I did see
Were the regulars who love
Their early exercise, like me....

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He strolled into a local diner
Nobody knew him or his name,
The regulars just stared at him
Employees done much the same.

Blue jeans and dress shirt
An unfamilar person's face,
Not your typical tourist man
A man thats so out of place.

Quietly sits and eats alone
Don't stare at me he wants to shout,
But, instead he just finishes up
Paying his bill and walks out.

On to yet another journey
He will do this all again,
New people and scenery
Life as a salesman that never ends....

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