"beignets" poems - Hello Poetry

I want to go back, back to my New Orleans This place that I call New Orleans is actually Louisiana But still, the gorgeousness of this dirt and grime The live oaks stretching over the 6-lane wide streets, Touching leaftips, making a canopy over the passerbys Crepe myrtles showering streets with lacy pink faerie dresses Smells of beignets and seafood fill the French Quarter Intense, consuming, warm, loving sun burning through your shirt In New Orleans to say horses sweat, men perspire and women glow is to be ridiculous. In New Orleans everyone sweats like pigs. As for the grime I mentioned, this exists mainly in the sidewalks cracked by live oaks which make an adventure of every walk down the street And in any semi-deserted street To have a Mardi Gras or St. Patrick's Day without a parade and citywide party is to toss aside traditions and the New Orleanian way The New Orleanians are welcoming, hearty and heartwarming, tough and unafraid to talk to a stranger on the streets. An old black man once greeted me with 'konichiwa' as I walked past A middle aged white man once struck up a conversation with us as he realised we had shared the same ferry earlier in the day An old asian woman conversed familiarly with our family at Cafe Du Monde simply because we are Vietnamese as well A teenaged white boy waved at us as we drove past him jogging A different old black man stopped and serenaded my siblings, mother and me with his trumpet just because we smiled Several young mothers and women have stopped my mother to gush over my siblings and me, usually when we were very small I, myself, have given directions to a tourist or two, lost near Cafe Du Monde or the levee, And I hope that the warm smiling spirit of the Big Easy will remain forever immortal.

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Oct 11, 2012

Oct 11, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC

luckyqueue

longing for my new orleans

I want to go back, back to my New Orleans This place that I call New Orleans is actually Louisiana But still, the gorgeousness of this dirt and grime The live oaks stretching over the 6-lane wide streets, Touching leaftips, making a canopy over the passerbys Crepe myrtles showering streets with lacy pink faerie dresses Smells of beignets and seafood fill the French Quarter Intense, consuming, warm, loving sun burning through your shirt In New Orleans to say horses sweat, men perspire and women glow is to be ridiculous. In New Orleans everyone sweats like pigs. As for the grime I mentioned, this exists mainly in the sidewalks cracked by live oaks which make an adventure of every walk down the street And in any semi-deserted street To have a Mardi Gras or St. Patrick's Day without a parade and citywide party is to toss aside traditions and the New Orleanian way The New Orleanians are welcoming, hearty and heartwarming, tough and unafraid to talk to a stranger on the streets. An old black man once greeted me with 'konichiwa' as I walked past A middle aged white man once struck up a conversation with us as he realised we had shared the same ferry earlier in the day An old asian woman conversed familiarly with our family at Cafe Du Monde simply because we are Vietnamese as well A teenaged white boy waved at us as we drove past him jogging A different old black man stopped and serenaded my siblings, mother and me with his trumpet just because we smiled Several young mothers and women have stopped my mother to gush over my siblings and me, usually when we were very small I, myself, have given directions to a tourist or two, lost near Cafe Du Monde or the levee, And I hope that the warm smiling spirit of the Big Easy will remain forever immortal.

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Summer was ******* on sugarcane and cinnamon peels handed from your grandparents, occasionally mine when our roller-skates made love to cracks in the sidewalk our knees were drunk on its feathers so many specks of moss get caught in there, too you taught me not to cry or have that formaldehyde-chugging look until I hit the bunkbed; your sheets made my sweat look so much worse we got anything we could want. I wanted to kiss you when your wore your Popsicle lipstick, a freeze cracking the crib of your mouth and circling buzzards around. But how does a girl say she would rather have someone than a cigarette stick of candy from the ice cream man – the ones she would twirl like cherry stems and feign middle school maturity? We would whisper about things at night with the lamp off, our pants down but never ever love: love is for adults. Love is Mardi Gras in the city not powdered sugar from beignets or the kind of beads you settle around your neck. I wanted to be the bayou you swam in, cast your fishing pole at the underbelly of and counted how many seconds it took to lift back up. I wanted to be a chest you put your personal belongings in, a treasure box. Most of all, I wanted to be your personal belonging the treasure you immediately thought of – but that is not what Summer was.

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Apr 2, 2013

Apr 2, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC

sarina

camellia drive

Summer was ******* on sugarcane and cinnamon peels handed from your grandparents, occasionally mine when our roller-skates made love to cracks in the sidewalk our knees were drunk on its feathers so many specks of moss get caught in there, too you taught me not to cry or have that formaldehyde-chugging look until I hit the bunkbed; your sheets made my sweat look so much worse we got anything we could want. I wanted to kiss you when your wore your Popsicle lipstick, a freeze cracking the crib of your mouth and circling buzzards around. But how does a girl say she would rather have someone than a cigarette stick of candy from the ice cream man – the ones she would twirl like cherry stems and feign middle school maturity? We would whisper about things at night with the lamp off, our pants down but never ever love: love is for adults. Love is Mardi Gras in the city not powdered sugar from beignets or the kind of beads you settle around your neck. I wanted to be the bayou you swam in, cast your fishing pole at the underbelly of and counted how many seconds it took to lift back up. I wanted to be a chest you put your personal belongings in, a treasure box. Most of all, I wanted to be your personal belonging the treasure you immediately thought of – but that is not what Summer was.

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For ShirleyB Feel your heartbeat quicken For these pasta-salad days: I am bringing chicken. Bulging bellies thicken Laden with crab hollandaise. Feel your heartbeat quicken. Sweet Siobhan seems stricken By the puddings and soufflés. (I am bringing chicken.) Insert thy toothpick in Anastasia’s canapés: Feel your heartbeat quicken. Beatrice (she’s Wiccan) Brought a heap of warm beignets; I am bringing chicken. Jealousy shall sicken Those who brought their best entrées-- Feel your heartbeat quicken: I am bringing chicken!

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Apr 28, 2016

Apr 28, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC

LettingGo

Villanelle On a Summer Potluck

For ShirleyB Feel your heartbeat quicken For these pasta-salad days: I am bringing chicken. Bulging bellies thicken Laden with crab hollandaise. Feel your heartbeat quicken. Sweet Siobhan seems stricken By the puddings and soufflés. (I am bringing chicken.) Insert thy toothpick in Anastasia’s canapés: Feel your heartbeat quicken. Beatrice (she’s Wiccan) Brought a heap of warm beignets; I am bringing chicken. Jealousy shall sicken Those who brought their best entrées-- Feel your heartbeat quicken: I am bringing chicken!

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Collage of College Sharpened carrot sticks Twenty hundred lettuce leaves We eat this salad Fall Fails Summer: The Sequel Starring Flora S. Fallen Directed by Son Sweater Weather Snow covered beignets Cider and cocoa rivers Gingerbread people Mojito Vice Muddled leaves of mint Lime juice and syrup downpour Ice cube avalanche A *** and fizzle drizzle A spri(n)g of mint to garnish Meat meet Heat Baritone beer belch Sweet symphony of pig parts Oyster orchestra Beef, chicken composition The sun sings A Capella

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Sep 17, 2013

Sep 17, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC

kingomar69

Some Haiku

Collage of College Sharpened carrot sticks Twenty hundred lettuce leaves We eat this salad Fall Fails Summer: The Sequel Starring Flora S. Fallen Directed by Son Sweater Weather Snow covered beignets Cider and cocoa rivers Gingerbread people Mojito Vice Muddled leaves of mint Lime juice and syrup downpour Ice cube avalanche A *** and fizzle drizzle A spri(n)g of mint to garnish Meat meet Heat Baritone beer belch Sweet symphony of pig parts Oyster orchestra Beef, chicken composition The sun sings A Capella

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I miss the street theater at the moonwalk, The coffee and beignets, The late-night walks down Bourbon Street, The scorching summer days, And I miss you. I miss the one that I once held Beneath the city lights. I'm going to find my way back. I'm setting out tonight. I miss New Orleans. I miss the slow ferry rides Across the Mississippi river deep. We always stood on the very top, So we would be sure to see The skyline Of the Vous Carre. Don't you know, Somehow, one day, I will return. I'll sleep out under a bar's alcove While night-time tourists crash and burn like stars. I miss New Orleans. I never thought I'd ever see the day That I could feel so swept-away. I'm going home, and there I'll stay. Only now have I come to realize Marie Leaveu must have my soul Locked inside a voodoo grip And She just won't let go. I'm captivated. I miss the one that I once held Beneath the city lights. I'm going to find my way back. I'm setting out tonight. I miss New Orleans.

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Mar 23, 2015

Mar 23, 2015 at 1:36 PM UTC

cecil-miller

I Miss New Orleans (a song)

I miss the street theater at the moonwalk, The coffee and beignets, The late-night walks down Bourbon Street, The scorching summer days, And I miss you. I miss the one that I once held Beneath the city lights. I'm going to find my way back. I'm setting out tonight. I miss New Orleans. I miss the slow ferry rides Across the Mississippi river deep. We always stood on the very top, So we would be sure to see The skyline Of the Vous Carre. Don't you know, Somehow, one day, I will return. I'll sleep out under a bar's alcove While night-time tourists crash and burn like stars. I miss New Orleans. I never thought I'd ever see the day That I could feel so swept-away. I'm going home, and there I'll stay. Only now have I come to realize Marie Leaveu must have my soul Locked inside a voodoo grip And She just won't let go. I'm captivated. I miss the one that I once held Beneath the city lights. I'm going to find my way back. I'm setting out tonight. I miss New Orleans.

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Picture this: I'm walking on the boardwalk In New Orleans On Christmas Eve I've got Nikes on my feet Beignets in my hand Smartphone in my pocket The memory of my mum handing a 20 to a funny street magician And a really nice home to visit in When I pass a group of the homeless Five or six or so, and they're all talking Half have signs asking for help As I pass by, one man, not too old and quite young in fact This man, he looks up, sharpie etched cardboard in hand Knees drawn to chest Hair touseld, generally disheveled appearance Our eyes lock and he says In the most meaningful and sincere way possile Have a very Merry Christmas By instinct, I flash a smile And then I hope he noticed And hope he knew I meant it. I felt so quietly sober afterwards Walking in complete meditiation On those five words The man had so little And yet he gave me a wish

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Dec 24, 2012

Dec 24, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC

luckyqueue

my merry christmas wish

Picture this: I'm walking on the boardwalk In New Orleans On Christmas Eve I've got Nikes on my feet Beignets in my hand Smartphone in my pocket The memory of my mum handing a 20 to a funny street magician And a really nice home to visit in When I pass a group of the homeless Five or six or so, and they're all talking Half have signs asking for help As I pass by, one man, not too old and quite young in fact This man, he looks up, sharpie etched cardboard in hand Knees drawn to chest Hair touseld, generally disheveled appearance Our eyes lock and he says In the most meaningful and sincere way possile Have a very Merry Christmas By instinct, I flash a smile And then I hope he noticed And hope he knew I meant it. I felt so quietly sober afterwards Walking in complete meditiation On those five words The man had so little And yet he gave me a wish

28

Jazz music and drunken slurs, Passing streetcars turn to blurs, Bite off more than you can chew, Seafood gumbo, thick brown roux, On shoulders sit sons and daughters, Ferry ships, Mississippi waters, Dancers dressed like voodoo queens, Clad in purples, golds, and greens, Yell, "Throw me something mister!" Flying beads barely missed her, Pralines, king cakes, and beignets, Maid of Muses smiles and waves, Rex, Zulu, Endymion, From Decatur to Bourbon, Floats, masks, a feather boa, Sweet iced tea, jambalaya, Big Easy on Fat Tuesday, Lent is just a day away.

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Jan 23, 2015

Jan 23, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC

forgivemenot-4

L'anarchie Frénétique

Jazz music and drunken slurs, Passing streetcars turn to blurs, Bite off more than you can chew, Seafood gumbo, thick brown roux, On shoulders sit sons and daughters, Ferry ships, Mississippi waters, Dancers dressed like voodoo queens, Clad in purples, golds, and greens, Yell, "Throw me something mister!" Flying beads barely missed her, Pralines, king cakes, and beignets, Maid of Muses smiles and waves, Rex, Zulu, Endymion, From Decatur to Bourbon, Floats, masks, a feather boa, Sweet iced tea, jambalaya, Big Easy on Fat Tuesday, Lent is just a day away.

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The Cathedral-Basilica of Saint Louis, King of France, now called St. Louis Cathedral in New Orleans was first built in 1718. They hand out glow-in-the-dark rosaries for Mardi gras so folks can find their way to Jesus in the dark. Come, pick your way through the park cross Decatur to drink coffee at Cafe DuMonde, have more beignets, trail powdered sugar and beads to stare the Old Man in his muddy eyes. Hanging ferns and foibles line balconies where voices speak but you cannot understand on Toulouse Street: you are but a traveler here even when you've walked these cobbled stones for twenty years. Bend warp and weave your dinner; string the lost beads to sell to the unsuspecting because anything goes and the party will go on anyhow. Beyond the sequined mask naught but hollowed eyes you do not want to see and that clown you laughed at, but did not pay juggles souls behind your back.

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Jul 10, 2012

Jul 10, 2012 at 7:30 PM UTC

robin-moyer

Vieux Carré

The Cathedral-Basilica of Saint Louis, King of France, now called St. Louis Cathedral in New Orleans was first built in 1718. They hand out glow-in-the-dark rosaries for Mardi gras so folks can find their way to Jesus in the dark. Come, pick your way through the park cross Decatur to drink coffee at Cafe DuMonde, have more beignets, trail powdered sugar and beads to stare the Old Man in his muddy eyes. Hanging ferns and foibles line balconies where voices speak but you cannot understand on Toulouse Street: you are but a traveler here even when you've walked these cobbled stones for twenty years. Bend warp and weave your dinner; string the lost beads to sell to the unsuspecting because anything goes and the party will go on anyhow. Beyond the sequined mask naught but hollowed eyes you do not want to see and that clown you laughed at, but did not pay juggles souls behind your back.

26

Im from oak trees Reaching limbs that shade The sizzling concrete Tailgating before a game Im from Sunday breakfast Family gathered round Loud music & conversation Filling the house with sound I'm from a sprinkler Placed in the backyard In the summer time The cheapest way to cool off I'm from biting tongues Southern by a grace Taught feelings are better bottled up In attempt to save a little face I'm from photographs, artifacts and names used In vain to help my grandmothers memory pull through I'm from the place Where music is constantly played At every occasion, no matter the time of day I'm from a culture, deeply rooted Through mardi gras, beignets, and family reunions Where English occasionally gives way to French Like a tree. I branch In every direction I am from home

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Feb 7, 2014

Feb 7, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC

heather-sarrazin

Where I'm From

Im from oak trees Reaching limbs that shade The sizzling concrete Tailgating before a game Im from Sunday breakfast Family gathered round Loud music & conversation Filling the house with sound I'm from a sprinkler Placed in the backyard In the summer time The cheapest way to cool off I'm from biting tongues Southern by a grace Taught feelings are better bottled up In attempt to save a little face I'm from photographs, artifacts and names used In vain to help my grandmothers memory pull through I'm from the place Where music is constantly played At every occasion, no matter the time of day I'm from a culture, deeply rooted Through mardi gras, beignets, and family reunions Where English occasionally gives way to French Like a tree. I branch In every direction I am from home

27

early morning, the hoses out, washing away the fluids, the **** the ***** hallmark low points of the prior night's, bons moments de roulement, rolling, burning, down into the sewers dark coffee, beignets, white powdered sugar, a cleanser of both dirtied bodies and souls, makeup~coverup of human excesses this morn, the sun, aidez-moi with an assist of a canon and a gigue, a string ensemble (parfait!), three violins and a continuo, a quartet in the quarter, blossoming Johann, budding now in my ears and my purification process de bourbon is now fini the Nth new day has begun, the Nth purification has begun, but my first in the French Quarter 7:35 am May 23rd, 2014 New Orleans

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May 23, 2014

May 23, 2014 at 8:47 AM UTC

third-mate-third

Morning In The French Quarter/Quartet

early morning, the hoses out, washing away the fluids, the **** the ***** hallmark low points of the prior night's, bons moments de roulement, rolling, burning, down into the sewers dark coffee, beignets, white powdered sugar, a cleanser of both dirtied bodies and souls, makeup~coverup of human excesses this morn, the sun, aidez-moi with an assist of a canon and a gigue, a string ensemble (parfait!), three violins and a continuo, a quartet in the quarter, blossoming Johann, budding now in my ears and my purification process de bourbon is now fini the Nth new day has begun, the Nth purification has begun, but my first in the French Quarter 7:35 am May 23rd, 2014 New Orleans

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make poems make good vibes make sense make love make silly dances make friends make healing make paintings make a life worth living make tea make ritual make plans make love make gumbo make good children make cake make a stand against evil make sculptures make things grow make beignets make bouquets make a truce make love... make good love... just not war... not war... im just sayin

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Sep 12, 2025

Sep 12, 2025 at 3:34 PM UTC

carla-marie

So Many Other Things Instead

make poems make good vibes make sense make love make silly dances make friends make healing make paintings make a life worth living make tea make ritual make plans make love make gumbo make good children make cake make a stand against evil make sculptures make things grow make beignets make bouquets make a truce make love... make good love... just not war... not war... im just sayin

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J'ai Goûté Ta Myrtille, Ta juteuse brindille Bleue violacée et sauvage. J'ai Goûté ta baie obscure À la peau entre cire et argile. Je l'ai longuement goûtée. Elle me toisait, effrontée Et je me suis imprégnée Malgré moi dans la lecture avide De son poivre et de sa solitude. C'était comme un sirop d'ermite Qui egrenait en moi Ses grains de chapelet Et j'explorais tes saveurs Et je te dégustais en confiture Car tu es digestive En tisane Car tu es antihémorragique En eau de vie Car tu es astringente En vin Car tu es antiseptique En liqueur Car tu es antiputride En beignets, en clafoutis, en muffin Car tu es diurétique Je me faufilais entre ton sacré et ton profane Tandis que tu t'insinuais dans ma chair Et que ta sauce philosophale Parfumait délicatement le gibier poétique Qui te poursuivait Dans l'arrière-train Qui te menait vers notre nuit bengali.

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Oct 28, 2019

Oct 28, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC

cyclone-wolfok-baltimore

J'ai Goûté Ta Myrtille

J'ai Goûté Ta Myrtille, Ta juteuse brindille Bleue violacée et sauvage. J'ai Goûté ta baie obscure À la peau entre cire et argile. Je l'ai longuement goûtée. Elle me toisait, effrontée Et je me suis imprégnée Malgré moi dans la lecture avide De son poivre et de sa solitude. C'était comme un sirop d'ermite Qui egrenait en moi Ses grains de chapelet Et j'explorais tes saveurs Et je te dégustais en confiture Car tu es digestive En tisane Car tu es antihémorragique En eau de vie Car tu es astringente En vin Car tu es antiseptique En liqueur Car tu es antiputride En beignets, en clafoutis, en muffin Car tu es diurétique Je me faufilais entre ton sacré et ton profane Tandis que tu t'insinuais dans ma chair Et que ta sauce philosophale Parfumait délicatement le gibier poétique Qui te poursuivait Dans l'arrière-train Qui te menait vers notre nuit bengali.

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