Beau Scorgie Apr 4

My Saturdays belong
to a quaint Parisian cafe.
I only have to think about carrying coffees
and baguettes
and they pay me for it.
It's the cheapest therapy I've had.

I've come to know some of the regulars.
Some days I wish
to tell them I love them
and I don't quite know why.
I suspect they remind me
in some part of myself,
or how I wish to be.

An almost elderly lady
always comes alone.
Her hair still retains some of her blonde youth.
She orders two very weak flat whites
and sits for hours,
writing letters to distant loves
and reads the paper.
I clear her cup
and she smiles
with both her lips and her eyes.
She makes you feel like your job
means something more than it probably does.
I bring her a second coffee,
a very weak flat white.

In the afternoons
a couple comes in for coffee.
She is quiet,
the artistic type,
and wears their son in a sling.
A sweet little thing with cherubic cheeks.
The father is a darling man
with a softness many men resist.
I watch the way his eyes sparkle
when he tells me of his sons milestones.
I make an effort to see them smile,
bring them water on hot days
or just talk.
But sometimes I leave them be,
watch them from a far,
and let myself be swept up in their love,
before they leave.

My Saturdays belong
to a quaint French cafe
with dark timber floors
and French antiques.
I haven't quite mastered the art of conversation
but I'm adept in the science of smiling
and that's enough to get me by
for now.

Kevin Côté Mar 30

scorning sun bursts into the aisles of graying curly waves,
punching yellow teeth and candied sweets with the
green of loving laughter that i've not heard in years.

you taught our fingers to bleed of bramble dew.
so sticky in our attempts to keep Genevieve's crystal filled but,
clear of improper pounds. collected ounces that rudely
overflow, are picked with mudded, forested feet.

consumed so clean and sweet, from thorns
between the brush, the aisles buzzed of summers paths
that only lead us where we knew.

through the scales and passed the cords
where drying life would heat our warmth,
nights would drop with echoing sounds like trains
slowly passing through our country's vacant crossing.

you voluminous sap of unaccounted ooze.
you sweet maple so never barren or dull.
you flame of northern light.

take me back to the path we passed
where cords are dried to burn
where frogs croak in Côté's creek
where my memories live and yearn

These are the memories I have of my lovely French Canadian Grandparents. My grandfather died when I was three, my only memory of him is collecting sap from maple trees and making maple syrup. The memories of my grandmother are her Crystal Candy jars always full, her yellow teeth stained from cigarettes, going blueberry and raspberry picking barefoot in the summer at our log cabin, her undeniably infectious laugh, and snoring so loud at night it could keep the dead awake.
somewon Mar 30

i still recall the way he kissed me
on those late summer nights

away from all the world's noises
down near the flowing river

against a firm fetching tree
he leaned in so
gently

i didn't know why he loved the french
kisses so much
but i went along because that's what
he liked

yet between those tender kisses
here & there

he'd chew his mint gum
& i wondered if he really cared

i guess he didn't

O sweet pain, help me
your claws sends me to paradise
but it rips my soul and humanity
and that is too high of a price

I got nothing left, Im broke
and yet, I keep paying
I hate it I'm disgusting
all I wish is to be gone in smoke

Without a soul I'm dying
It hurts so much; I love it
I just deserve it

Life was short and painfull
but Im just dust
with a heart filled with rust

O douce soufrance, reconforte moi
Je te hait mais j'y revien toujours
Tes griffe sanglante me font roi
je te hait et m'en irai un jour

Esseyant de me tuer
Je suis mon Antechrist
Je suis mon Christ
Esseyant de me sauver

Je rampe a default de marcher
s'il n'y a de héro je le saurai
just, va t'en laisse moi soufrir

Si tu continue tu ve redevenir
rien de plus que poussière
avec un coeur de verre

I personnaly prefer the french version
s Mar 28

There's some cinnamon left on me
From the morning French toasts and tea.
There's some cinnamon between my creases,
Sweet, spicy and filled with teases.

That smell of nostalgia  
And love whipped with eggs;
Could we spread some Nutella
On these golden brown breads?

A pinch of salt and a drop of vanilla,
A kiss on the cheek and a song for a filler.
Some milk in the mix and sizzle that butter
It's nine in the morning and my heart's a flutter

There's some cinnamon left on me
Can you also smell it on your tee ?
A sneaky whiff floating around disguised
I can almost taste it when I close my eyes.

Tessa Calogaras Mar 22

In your body I can breathe,
your fragrance,
my exhale,
your voice,
my internal sigh.
The bed is our familiar,
so hard for us to go.
To leave this oasis,
where we fit so mosaic
like cherry blossoms in spring
or rooftops filled with rain.
I hate how vapid I become
as I stargaze at the sun.
Leave me dozy,
laughable at best,
dumbstruck devotion.
You are my only.
Tu es mon amour.

Tessa Calogaras
Copyright 2017
J M Surgent Aug 2013

I never told you this story:

The story is, when we first me, first falling in love, I had a choice. I was at a party, with my friends, and you texted me. You wanted to get drunk, bring a friend and show off some new guy you met.

And I was talking with a beautiful French girl.

She was impeccable, with long dark hair and she scared many of the guys away with the intensity in her stare. Her accent made every word a masterpiece, and her style strict Parisian. She did it all like we could do it, but she did it differently. And she could dance.

I asked my friend what I should do.

He took a drink and told me “If she comes man, she’ll only want to dance with you.” He said this as he glanced at the beautiful French girl smiling at me, and I smiled back at her. And that sealed the deal in the kitchenette.

So I walked backed to her, and she held out her hand. She pulled me in close, and I could smell her hair. She smiled as she taught me, laughed as I failed, and it took a while to get the hang of it, but I finally prevailed.

And I danced with the French girl.

I ignored your texts, blocked your calls. And it was her that I was texting on my walk home, forgotten about you at a bus stop far from home. It was the feel her of her body against mine I missed, not yours.

And even though I later chose you, I later fell for you, and I later lost you, that night, I chose her. I chose the dream over reality; someone knew over a scene well seen; I chose love, I chose me.

And do I regret that decision?

Well, out of all the decisions I made which lead me to loving you, I have absolutely no regrets in dancing with the beautiful French girl.

Maybe it was a precursor, a sign I should have taken. But to me, it’s just a memory, and a memory I’ll never forget, a memory I'll always have about dancing with the French girl in the downstairs kitchenette.

I guess it's kind of a short-story-meets-poem type of deal, but I don't know of a specific website to post that on.
Him Feb 24

Une silhouette
Devant la grande mosquée
Une ombre se perd

Fusée propulsée
Les petits bras
D'un bébé porté

Une mère basse
Loin de l'ancienne église
Eclate de rire

Des terrasses pleines
La marque d'un violon
Redessine un visage

Une goute de vin
En plein coeur de mon esprit
Perce un gout amer  

Ma route s’en va
Vers des océans
Devenus pierre

Dans la nuit
Le cavalier trouve
La poudre colorée  

Les humains sont
Une tapisserie
Sans motifs

La route du vin
Trompé de chemin
Je vais et viens

Dans le metro
Le charbon s'entasse
Pour ses vacances

Demain, dès l’aube,
Je partirai,
je sais que tu m’attends
-mon chéri,

Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure,
La vie est si triste
et coule lentement,

Le temps se plie comme
un vêtement
Dans un coin,

Je mouille la page,
Avec ces souvenirs.

Tomorrow at dawn,
I'll leave,
I know you're waiting for me
-my darling,
I remember
the old days
and I cry at
their fondness,

how sad is life
and how slowly
it flows,

time folded
like an old
coat
- lies in a corner,
I dampen the page
with these
memories.
ezra warhol Feb 2

elle l'embrassa.
il a laissé arriver.

      (trois mots d'ambivalence ont tout changé)

       ce n'était pas de l'amour; pas très envie
mais comme leurs pupilles se dilataient de la poussière de fumée,
ils ont baisé.

d.d. #33
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