"biscotti" poems
Quaint
pink curtains and tablecloths.
White walls.
The sugary smell of almonds, pistachio
and butterscotch skip around the room,
playing hopscotch and Mary Mack.
The display is impressive,
I can smell each grain of sugar
in these petit cupcakes and dollops of icing.
And then a little girl wails!
Mommy won't buy
her anymore
sweet treats.
Bawling--
the girl does an angry-stomp-dance-
and then a woman, livid--
storms up to the counter.
I said half dozen almond biscotti.
I can't take these to my book club.
Isn't anyone here competent?
Her booming voice has no effect
on the lone,
tired African-American woman behind the counter.
She seems disassociated from the present chaos.
The dark circles under her eyes
and the surrounding pursed lip wrinkles say everything.
Excuse me, but I've been waiting
on a refill of the complimentary coffee
for over ten minutes now
an uptight gent in a business suit complains.
When the woman behind the counter
pulls out out a shotgun--
there is silence.
This ain't what I wanted
she whimpers just before
the weapon gracefully slides
under her chin--
--!BAM!--
As I walk out the door,
I wonder how long it will
take for someone to realize
that's not red icing or sprinkles
on the cupcakes.
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 10:32 AM UTC
This is one of those serious poems
And yet it has nothing new to say
But the poet needs to keep himself busy
And writing seems to be the easiest way
The poet rises up on his soapbox
Because he works better from an elevated height
He screams about organized religion, politics
And stripping away of our basic human rights
Like a magician with a classic misdirection
The poet wraps his moralizing in purple prose
He hits you over the head with one simple point
That he’s forgotten more than you’ll ever know
Around the time of the nineteenth obscure reference
The reader is in awe of his far-reaching knowledge
Then the poet overuses polysyllabic words
Just to prove he went to a good college
And the poet keeps filling up the notebooks
Even though he should have stopped long ago
But the publisher agreed to pay by the word
So unfortunately, there’s four more stanzas to go
Quickly, the release date approaches
There’s one printing, then two, then three
And the poem becomes a hit in coffee shops
Recited by grad students in between bites of biscotti
His face now graces the cover of every magazine
In an explosion of exuberant media admiration
Dozens of talk show appearances are scheduled
For the newly crowned “voice of our generation”
The publisher decorates the dust jacket with blurbs
Complimenting the book’s “dangerously original rhymes”
But it’s nothing more than passing hyperbole
Gathered from a glowing review in The New York Times
Now thousands grasp the paperback edition
And eagerly await the feature film adaptation
Meanwhile, the poet hunches over his typewriter
And commits more sententious literary ************
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 3:18 PM UTC
Sipping espresso, double affogato of course, topped with cream and
Chatting with Miles, I saw Calliope sauntered in from the rain.
Her dark mascara limped away from her crystal blue eyes
As she waited for the barrister to turn his head.
And when taking her cup,
Somewhere between Bird’s schizophrenic riffs
And Blakey's syncopation.
I fell in love
As I watched her lips purse and
Blow casually at the lid, cooling the
Fiery liquids inside but igniting mine.
I decided to ask what brought her in from the
Rain.
My words queued in my throat as I stood
To speak.
My knees cracked, testifying to the years I stood on them.
My heart tapped out a cadence as I strode
Over to her table.
I could smell spice and ginger of a perfume I knew so well.
Her chestnut hair fell in damp tendrils across her forehead.
Extending my hand with a napkin on the end I said, “ I would love if you joined
Me for a biscotti.”
With a sparkle in her eye her painted lips slid across her teeth,
“I am waiting for a friend.”
Walking away I sat dejected but not rejected because as she
Conversed with him she peeked at me
My Calliope
And all was well.
~AD~
Apr 2, 2010
Apr 2, 2010 at 2:48 PM UTC
In a small bistro, on Bleeker Street.
They serve you a proper cup of cappuccino.
Made from an espresso maker
brought over from Milan in 1929,
and served in an ivory colored china cup.
In the foam on top is the signature swirl of the Barista.
There is a handsome young waiter,
with a serving towel hung over his left arm,
and a crumber, in his back pocket.
He leans over, scrapes the remnants
of the previous customer's biscotti into his hand,
and says to you in a thick, dark curly haired,
Italian accent, sounding like a young
Giancarlo Giannini,
And what will you be having today Signorina?
You think to yourself,
I have worked all day at my mundane job
and here is a man who truly loves what he does for a living.
He most likely was born into a family of waiters,
and he loves serving me.
I would like a cappuccino please.
As he walks away, you take out your pen and paper
and begin your daily addiction of writing poetry.
He notices you, noticing him.
You can almost read his mind as he watches you write.
He watches your pen and paper and wonders....
Is this mysterious poetess
who has been sitting in the corner
writing about me?.
Waiting for the proper time to interrupt your fervent writing,
he brings your order and you take it to your lips.
He watches from a distance,
anxiously awaiting the look on your face.
You have never had anything so wonderful.
The coffee flavor bursts on your tongue
and you are born again.
The gentle foam with its signature swirl is now on your upper lip,
and you give the young waiter a satisfied smile.
He rushes to your table
and takes the serving towel from his arm
to gently pat the foam from your lips.
You look into his dark eyes and see the new you,
the you who will no longer order just a cup of coffee.
The you who will seek out the signature foams of life,
and wear them on your lips forever more.
The handsome waiter smiles a smile of contentment,
his hard work has pleased you.
He brings you a fresh slice of torte Caprese and says,
Try this Signorina, it is my favorite.
You are now in heaven.
All of life dissolves in one single bite.
*Scusa Signorina,
but I could not help noticing how beautiful you are and that you are writing a poem,
may I ask what it is about?*
He looks deep into your impossibly blue eyes,
and you say to him.
You!
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC
First impression, first date.
You come late, a major sin in your own lexicon,
tango dancing redesigns your hair to curls atwitter,
despite remedial ministrations in taxi,
you text apologies profuse en route,
but you have been outed, and
I am charmingly amused
A warm December eve,
a local Italian eatery,
table by the window,
red wine floes melt your defenses,
allowances made, you're intrigued,
enjoying our dinner of
charming amusements
But really you like my understated swagger.
I like that you like my understated swagger.
Walk home armed, arm in arm,
your paintings I must come see,
Immediately (!),
You offered this as desert, instead of biscotti,
a tour of your new apartment, sleek/simple,
messaging that this is me,
if you ever want to be invited to stay
Inspection over, my smile is a knowing
that this first foray deserves a concessionary accolade,
So in a mode so gallant at the front door,
Adieu you are bid, and devilishly clever,
I merely shake you hand,
leaving you delighted by this gallant, modern,
charming amusement
Looking at my watch, three and half hours
have passed.
Maintaing that in your ways set,
Early on, I challenge your rigidity,
Turning your hair from curly,
Into spun straight Rapunzel gold liquidity,
By asking politely, humbly, on bended knee,
You give in happily,
Charmed, amused at my ferocious insistence
Looking at my watch,
I too, am delighted, charmed, amused, to discover,
It seems my watch is running slow,
For it is now three and a half years later
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
i want to wake up to the sound of an accordion playing on the quiet cobblestone streets and have the heat of the Mediterranean sun kiss my skin as i walk into a local coffee shop and order a chocolate biscotti i want to walk the cobblestone streets of Venice and visit little bakeries and as the night falls i want to sit under an olive tree outside under the moonlight and drink dry red wine with the love of my life
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 9:19 PM UTC
Traditions and tastes
Culture and Color
Art and culinary delights
From Rome to Cinque Terre
It has never left me
Somehow she reminds to live
is to take a bite out if life
Enjoy as often as you can
Every moment no matter what
Un millione grazie Italia.
Bella
Domani will come
So much more than Biscotti and Gelato
c@rainbowchaser2021
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 5:04 PM UTC
Slumped on an old pink couch, television
test pattern flickering off their biscotti
painted walls, Pall Mall smoldering
on the rug beneath Jack’s fingers,
Lorene mostly dead, Jack might
as well be; early a.m., dark.
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 8:06 AM UTC
The kettle sings
she dances towards me
she pours mine
and then her own
honey drips,
chamomile
with hints of mint
spoons clank
I stir too fast
she breaks her biscotti
and gives me half
We cheers porcelin rims
she smiles at me
our day begins
Jun 12, 2018
Jun 12, 2018 at 1:36 AM UTC
Remnants of Helene are in the Northeast with gray skies and rain
September is saying farewell
Poet’s walk must continue
Until she came upon an imperfectly placed artwork by her feet
Mother Nature’s wonder
Amber
Canary
Honey
Sunshine
Biscotti
Sepia
Fawn
Ruby
Burgundy
Cherry
Currant
Rose
Mixed in with good measure
Splendidly arranged in Mother Nature’s Mosaic
Sep 28, 2024
Sep 28, 2024 at 10:18 AM UTC
"Oh!, was one of those amazing Friday afternoons
When I was enjoying a steaming cup of coffee
Along with a biscotti and imagining a perfect world
You know one of those perfect worlds
that exists in other suburbs, and other zipcodes
So I turned to poetry my favorite past time
and hoped to find meaning there
And you know what they say, whoever they are
They all say this, everyone of them,
so I imagine there must be some truth to their words
, "Fate is in charge of our destinies"
So I read your words flying through the matrix
Each rhythmic line, each word, each syllable
And I thought, "Hey this poet is onto something"
As those poetic words stopped me in my tracks
and held me starstruck and spellbound
Stunned, Yes poet I was more than stunned
Kind of like when I rode across the southern sky
In a gold chariot pulled along by Sirius
Though now as I finish my coffee and biscotti
I can only imagine and wonder
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 2:02 PM UTC
The waiter places the coffee on the table
somehow expressing just how beneath him
the entire exercise has proven
Accomplishing this with just the position of his
body and his lack of a greeting
I am impressed
I add cream and stir
I pick up the cup and peer inside
a swirl within another like a night
filled with stars
Placed above a town with a church steeple
as if to mix the sky
The cup itself now a palate
I could use it, perhaps with a biscotti
to paint my own darkness
I look around and perceive the table and the cafe
in a new way
Gaze too closely and it begins to break apart
There is nothing between the tiny dots
except....
we assume
the ones that look alike, go together
we make the patterns,
the connections don't really exist
The waiter now, despite being made up of a cloud
of independant notes,
still manages somehow
to project ennui and disdain
I continue to be impressed
Paying my bill using notes with shifting faces
I walk down a street created with the brush in my hand
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
Signor Bialetti Brews the Coffee now
Grazie, grazie, Signor Bialetti
Natty with your moustache and pork-pie hat
Charming man, your aluminum design
And Italian elegance grace my stove
If Don Camillo were to visit now
And bring along his ****** pal Peppone
They would still argue faith and politics
Just as they do in Emelia-Romagna
But here, over biscotti and expresso -
Grazie, grazie, Signor Bialetti!
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 8:31 AM UTC
A beloved nugget of stripes
In patterns of mishap and balderdash
Feigned frameworks and gaudy hips & knees
Overpowered sugar pops, winsome hard cash
They're blondes and fairly vivid, too
Daffodils, Butterscotch, Tuscan sun, and Flaxen yellow
No blackheart is pale nor blue
Just a poor Biscotti hue
Nobody's bonafide, they're just showing off the mellow
Their words are such sharp needles
It burns, it stings, it maims, and it breaks
Narrowed venoms kindled
Maneuver you in a splendor Kaleidoscope effects
I shrieked, "save the bees!",
For they are in a fathomless pit of catastrophe
Flutter thy pellucid wings over the sly seas
Flummoxed between the avocation and the trickery
I aimed, they dodged
Straightforward to the flames and a scant of birch trees
Overdosed in farcical prescriptions,
Engulfed with many bad decisions,
They hushed me down but in my mind, I would still be yelling,
"Save the bees! Save the bees!"
Women are indeed virtuous
Yet, how come some of them became Bumblebees?
Floret power, sweet & sour
An infrequent version of wannabes
No matter how I try and aid,
It would be cheap and phooey
Only savvy kinsfolk will exploit or capitalize
These honey-bees will still strive for the polished trophies
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 6:45 AM UTC
Dove dark chocolate
Black coffee with almond biscotti
Raspberries and Engstrom almond toffee
Oma I miss you
I’ll see you in 80 years, or so
Have a cup of mint tea for me
Rosemary and Malbec
Ginger snaps and lavender
Grandma why does my dorm room
Smell like old memories of you
I think I left my sunglasses on the dining room table
The last place I saw you
Dyed blond hair, gold necklace, and your sweet soft smile
You gave me your blue jacket
Perriwinkle blue raincoat
Oma it’s raining
I’m making you tea
Dove, deliver it safely to the clouds above me
Jan 20, 2021
Jan 20, 2021 at 11:49 PM UTC