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Norman Crane Sep 16
A billiard table imprints its damp shadow
on a yellow wooden floor. The game still
unbegun, mere fragment of the sorrow
felt by the patrons whose wilted heads will
still be here tomorrow, if tomorrow comes.
Red walls distended by burning lamps
and burned out hearts beating blood through ear drums:
Reverie to the night god /   Dreaming tramps
drowning in their heads in lakes of absinthe
color of the ceiling better than being
awake but indefinitely absent.
The lamps blink, eyes floating, speak all-seeing:
Vincent, let us meet before you entreat
the crows out of your head into the wheat.
Inspired by Vincent van Gogh's painting The Night Café.
Sherlene Sep 8
The clock strikes at 2 pm,
While you stare blankly at the coffee half empty,
You watched the water vapour formed into thin cloud,
Vanished into thin air as time slipped away.

The conversations in a cozy cafe became louder,
Everyone's conversations became part of unnecessary music in your ears.
They sang about life's trouble,  
Questioned the whereabouts of their food,
Pounded if they should get a dessert.
And then, it went to silence again.
Your gaze drifted off,
Back to your troubled mind,
And suddenly you heard them again.
Tryniti Aug 9
I drive myself to the cafe
Cracking a smile as I let my fear fade
Let the music in my ears take me away
It may have been cold, but I was living in the shade

Working up the courage to drink alone
Never allowing myself to enjoy what I love
Freezing in fear, I turn to stone
But today I drive myself to rise above

To a place with voices, fresh pastries, warm coffee, smiling faces
Swirling, twirling, I'm surrounded by choices
Wood and marble, rough wool and soft laces

Pouring a cup into the depth of my soul
I breath out and finally remember how to let go
Can't I find my own way to be whole?
Filled with coffee and music, I can finally flow ~
Diljeev Jul 20
This once I dreamed about
a rainy day in Paris,
when I saw you out of the blue
nailing the business grey,
I subtly walked across the bridge
hoping to run into you which is
exactly what I did,
sorry for the coffee spill
one can't possibly be allowed to
look that good in business grey.
With all the catching up to do,
towards a café near the tower
we made our way.
Amidst the anecodets
and the laughs,
time passed and the café
now turned into a bar,
not wanting the day to end
deep down I'd slowly pray.
Now it was midnight
silence echoing in the streets
and then came the two,
completely wasted,
wandering around and giggling away,
stopped by a bridge when you asked me
"who knew we'd meet again like this."
I replied "I knew... I knew
all along the way.",
everything that followed after this was
consequential to the beauty in this day,
That's when I woke up,
adding another one to the list of
dreams I hope turn into reality someday.
b e mccomb Jun 7
there’s an open
wound on main street
and i wish people would
stop asking about it
because every question pulls
the hole a little wider

something was always
just a little bit

a constant drip
in the fridge

a fruit fly trapped
in the bake case

missing corners
of floor tiles

pictures hanging
slightly crooked

one foot of a table
unscrewed to a wobble

the rattle
of the heater

smiles from those
i couldn’t trust

a tiny pinprick of
stress behind my eyes

every year was
the year that would
make it or break it

so nobody was
except those who
couldn’t see the scuffs

last year
things were supposed
to be so good
everyone talking
mad **** about their
incredible ideas

i had a few
ideas of my own
nobody ever had to
teach me how to
dream big
overexert myself
and fall hard

the quiche crusts stuck
to the bottoms of pans

and there was no way to
get the slice out
without the whole entire
thing falling apart

i might have been
the first slice to go

but at least i got
out of there

before the hand that
pulled me out
was the hand that
dropped the pan

a glass pie plate
shattered and
the way things were
supposed to be suddenly


and i’m still
on the sidewalk
staring at the
empty shell of
something i once loved

big hopes
big dreams
big plans
small town
too small to
hold them all

every piece of my
future points
arms of a clock
working their way
into the past

it’s not in how
the damage was done
but in how you
heal from it

there’s an
open wound on
main street
maybe if we gave
south street stitches
we could pull it closed

but still i question
my existence as if
scones and coffee
and thursday mornings
before sunup were
the only things that
gave me

they were

maybe people
pull themselves into
an orbit around that
which keeps them grounded

an orbit of
routine and the
dissonance needed
to stir ice cubes
in a plastic cup
to create peace
in the moment
of chaos

or maybe
the one place
that always felt
like home to me
was just a cafe
on the four corners
and now there’s
an open wound
not so much
on main street
but the pocket of my
heart where hope lives
copyright 2/17/20 by b. e. mccomb
Salvador Kent Mar 24
This coffee looks like Socrates,
Just a thought dear blue eyes...
You know I love you dearly...
Read on and you'll see why.

They say Athens was the place thinkers could think free,
Didn't think thought could **** me,
Turns out thinking can **** Socrates,
He thought and now he,
He gotta drink a drink that puts him to sleep.

Turns out Socrates isn't scared of a drink,
Says eternal sleep would be refreshing,
So why fear death
When you'll be free,
In the land of sleep.

Drinks a poison,
Bitter drink.
Talks about esoteric dreams,
Begs the poison oh **** me please,
And his throat becomes a gutter.
His body a stone,
He's dead now.
And a man watching called Plato is all alone.
All alone.


No more BC.
We AD.
We in the year of our lord,
Jesus gonna save us all.
Man walking down a corridor.
Man forgot to pay tax.
Man only a peasant.
Man gon get hanged.

Man don't want to hang,
But he knows he has to die.
If he drinks a bitter drink,
Perhaps his death would be fine...

Elegant, quick...
Man goes to his wife.
I haven't paid tax he cries.
Man hasn't paid taxman.
Die. Die. Die.

Wife says go to taxman,
Ask him for mercy,
Maybe if you asked nicely,
Taxman wouldn't hang thee.

Man goes to taxman.
Asks for his pardon and apology,
Taxman says wake up.
Bad dream bad dream.
You're going to hang tonight,
To sleep away your life.
Go home to your wife.
He cries.
Say one last goodbye.

Man goes to his wife,
Says he's gon hang.
Wife says **** that's it.
Unluckiest man in the land.
You're gon hang tonight,
There's nothing you can do.
"I don't want to hang tonight"
(She says)
"You have take your plight
All alone."

All alone.
Man wants a solution,
Wants a bitter drink.
Goes to an apothecary,
Man wants to die in Shakespearean bliss.
Man buys a bitter drink,
Drinks it all in one,
And just before he's gone...

In the corner of his eye

Before he goes to sleep.
He sees a ***** old man,
Who thought like no other in the land,
The land of Athens.
He sees Socrates.


It's been 1000 years.
Now It's me that's all alone.
Socrates and a man from the catholic church
Are present. They lurk
In the corner of my mind,
Wanting me to die.

Die. Die. Sad poet.
You've forgotten how to love.
You loved a girl called blue eyes,
Yeah. You loved a girl called blue eyes.
But you're all alone now.
She decided to go away
Leave you behind.
Just friends not the same.
Walked out a room on the sabbath.
You were so scared.
Why was blue eyes sad?
Was it '*** one of those ******* lads...
Said something bad...
About ***.
Hate those ****** lads...
Love that ******' girl.
But you just hate.
Hate those ******...


Poet stares at a bitter drink.
Not poison now, its coffee.
Poet wants it to be poison.
Christ he wants it to be poison.
What's in that mind.
Bitter, twisted mind.
He sees Socrates. Drinking a bitter drink.
A man from the Catholic centuries,
seeking Shakespearean bliss
And then he grabs a pen and makes it write...

This coffee looks like Socrates,
Just a thought dear blue eyes...
You know I love you dearly...
Read on and you'll see why.
I wrote this one in December, it's part of a chapbook I'm putting together which is lots of poems I wrote in cafes, this one is a bit obscure but looking back at it I like it. Enjoy :)
If You Come to San Miguel
by Michael R. Burch

If you come to San Miguel
before the orchids fall,
we might stroll through lengthening shadows
those deserted streets
where love first bloomed ...

You might buy the same cheap musk
from that mud-spattered stall
where with furtive eyes the vendor
watched his fragrant wares
perfume your ******* ...

Where lean men mend tattered nets,
disgruntled sea gulls chide;
we might find that cafetucho
where through grimy panes
sunset implodes ...

Where tall cranes spin canvassed loads,
the strange anhingas glide.
Green brine laps splintered moorings,
rusted iron chains grind,
weighed and anchored in the past,

held fast by luminescent tides ...
Should you come to San Miguel?
Let love decide.

Published by Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times and Muddy River Poetry Review. Keywords/Tags: San Miguel, vacation, summer, love, affair, cafe, cafetucho, anhingas, cranes, sea, tides, bay, moorings, green, brine
Nigdaw Feb 18
we make camp at the coffee shop
turning a table and four chairs
into temporary home
decorated with a decor
of scarves, coats and bags
an invisible wall
focusing in on our refuge
the intimacy of the cups, saucers, plates
and conversation

in the corner
a man on his own
invades the whole room
conversing into his mobile
which I am not convinced
is in a call
nudging everyone into looking
beyond the realm
of their comfort zone
maria Feb 7
We're in a cafe
drinking coffee.
I'm loving your voice
listening to your lies

what a routine our lives
tied to what's not right
as usual
we forget to love ourselves
by being with people who really don't define us

written on Febuary 07, 2020
© ,Maria
Liz Jan 29
He was the aura of autumn
With a beard of falling leaves
He was guarded from the cold
With his long orange sleeves

He was the aura of autumn
With a brisk walk into battle
He was alone in the cafe
I heard the doorbell rattle

He was the aura of autumn
With a hand on his case,
Coffee in the other
And fogged glasses on his face.
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