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GraciexJones Dec 3
Sitting on the beach on the coldest of days,
Winter chills which skims across my face and hands,
Watching the waves rising up and down,
Beating against the shore,
Roaring against the wind,
The smell of open sea rises across the land,

Birds are fleeting above my head,
Glimpse of the sun is peeking through the clouds,
My partner is drawing characters in the sand,
I run my hands over the seashells and tiny rocks,
I explore a combination of sharp edges and wet stone,

A misty gloom appears along the coast,
The sound of seagull’s squarking and dogs barking echo’s in the distance,

My partner lights a cigarette and sits across me smiling,
We hear the pitter-patter of a greyhound dog walking towards us,
The greyhound greets us with a curious gesture,
We welcome the dog with open arms and ****** their furry face to say hello
The grey-hound pondering between us,
Excitingly moving around,
We hear the sound of people talking in the background,
The grey-hound wonders off to accompany their owner,

A shift of temperature occurs in the atmosphere,
I feel the cold cracking my lips,
My partner begins to roll a spliff,
I contemplate about the warmth,
I propose we hit the Carrot Café along our way,
My partner agrees as he smokes his doobie
We get up and set upon our next journey.
We ate by this Café
Plates served and drinks placed
as I was just infront of you
Talking like we used to
Just coffees and silver forks
Our secrets and small talks
But then you took a sip
And one bite
Bid goodbye
Like the last time...
You didn't look back
To that waffle wasted
To the time you didn't need
I knew.
You didn't want to stay with me
Jing Xi Lau Nov 8
The air smells of ground coffee beans and freshly brewed tea.
A girl sits by a large window that, sadly,
Doesn’t provide much of a scenery.
She sees her reflected self,
Her glassy eyes staring back at themselves.
She sees the reflection of the strangers around her,
Their hurried moments of affection,
Their lipstick-stained coffee cups,
Their involuntary displays of vexation.
They see their mirrored selves,
Their idle chatter,
Their fake smiles,
Their forced laughter.
It’s like watching a reality show,
Watching the lives of other people,
On a single glass screen.  
Little do they realize,
That they’ve been watching themselves,
Watching their own lives become other people’s lives.
On the other side of the window,
Passersby peer through the tinted glass,
Into the lives of these strangers.
A woman with her lover but not her husband,
A group of teenage boys trying to woo a pretty barista,
Two college girls trading ***** secrets,
A girl sitting all alone by the window,
Staring into space.
It’s like watching a reality show,
Watching people go on about their lives,
Seeing life without actually being a part of it.
Mary Shanti Oct 26
Half calf with a twist
As the line stands
Thinking she is a superimposed *****
Foregoing on

Barista
Waist like an elastic band
Hair waving hello in it’s pinkness
Homeless man coming in
Screaming
Obscenities
Something about Romans and Euripides
As if in a round about
Circle the store like a hovered cloud
Then out again

The rocker dude sipping his tea
The older man in the corner
Who constantly leaves
Wandering where one can’t see
Trailing behind his laptop and keys
Somewhere in this madness loop
Latte’s and Macchiato's brew
And I
With a child's flair
Take it all in, while I throw back my hair
The terraces and neglected cafes stays pretty, and even quiet.
The weight of day. The sunset sugar pills. Blue lamppost, a big blue.
Teasing ******* friend, mocking the boy with the piercing on this left face,
The lipstick was twice priced, yes so, A one, five and two with two makes ten.

The chit chat after more chat of short people, talk people, spokespeople
and Notpoeople. Strike twelve, now boredom. His huffing flu resolved itself
"Yessum," he tried saying. For whatever reason. Was a boyfriend of hers.

Indecisive of the next blow. With his little socks and socks of red and green
Put on orderly. Hopes to avoid his thickening, unforgiving secret. Still mixed clues.
A puzzle, a puzzle piece in the centre of question. Arises the attitude remedy.
His only skill is comedy.  A blaze morning sun rises now. Oh dear, not now.

Strolls about resembling exactly of kings. A King, he told himself to be like.
Waiting, waiting, in a hurry he's waiting to wait for the girl to come, presently.
In Proportions, he waits presently. So easy and a little hasty, here she comes -

Sugar on ice, not all but a slice delight, my precise precise. Having lunch,
Delicacy lemonade, in likeness, with a perfect meal with sauce on fries.
There's too much honey in his drink - Tender change, good meal they say.

                                                                          *  

They lost each other in April,  A signal of hurt was played in a collection of rue.

She was left with a blister, mostly solemn, absent and good.

The terraces and cafes remain pretty, and even quiet.
Life at Seventeen
if i get the job
as a dishwasher
at the cafe or
the nursing home

i might get my
weirdly
tragically beautiful
cinderella story
after all
alone,
looking as lovely,
as a blossom
in the midst of Spring.

i see no haste
although
you are not of
an amiable ambience.

your eyes gaze and
speak of a million lies
you've heard
yet withheld.

fastened onto a
seat of comfort;
yet so tense
and susceptible.
Based on Juan Luna's painting of "Parisian Life."
02.09.2018
Patrick Aug 30
My favorite cafe sits five blocks from
the hospital stench of lysol and dysphoria
where those with temple-like bodies have
their sanguine veneers of health shattered
by doctors in white coats wearing pore-less masks
holding clipboards telling them you might have
two weeks of hearing left — four weeks tops.

No more whooshing of RTA doors opening wide
No more hearing your knees crackle
as you pick up a wallet you heard slap the concrete
Bon voyage to the rain pitter-pattering against
your roof in the early morning when
you can feel the stillness of everything

Sitting, I try recalling the sound of my
Mom’s voice yelling from the stairs
in that tone she knew would spring you
up out of bed just to make it stop
But all I’m left with is the memory of remembering.
I guess that’s all I’ll have in the end —
the agonizing search beyond a recollection’s mutated offspring
distorting the story of my own life to the point where
I won’t even know the serenity of this vacant cafe.
Jack L Martin Aug 23
Here I am
Where am I?
I stare at you
You stare at me

I see you speak
But hear nothing
My mind wanders
I hear some words

Birds are chirping
Why am I hungry?
I just ate lunch
Is the Earth calling me?

Phones are ringing
Tweets are tweeting
Are you ok?
Are you paying attention?

I nod my head
But heard nothing
You look apeased
My goal is accomplished
Vexren4000 Aug 21
Morning Joe,
Steaming up into exhausted nostrils,
A small pick me up,
For the morning scuffle,
Something some people wake up for,
Just a simple cup of coffee.

©BAS
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