"bistros" poems
Moments like these racing through me:
Looking out the bus window,
stacks of lights
in square, blinded blocks of cement.
Golden trees
turning brown and barren.
But moments like these,
I'm miles away, I'm someplace else.
Moments like these passing me by:
As I wonder through streets,
alleyways wafting in dark sewerage;
Seafood bistros glaring at me.
My hips sway, my feet sink
into exotic sand, sunshine warm.
Floating effortlessly along the dead concrete,
opening my tiny door; this nutshell abode.
And I can’t breathe here
without moments like these.
They are the broken pieces
of my longing heart.
Slowly keeping me together
in these moments’ reality.
Moments like these, slipping, speeding away:
Like endless traffic in angry madness,
in cities that awaken in darkening hours.
The tranquil silence in my heart
guides me to your faces.
One by one I dream for each;
For all the things we want, the good things we need;
For happiness, love, success.
Each thought embedded, embroidered
into moments like these:
Sitting on a bed, millions of miles away,
a cold, rainy day –
A heart beating for moments not these.
(c) Mel D. Ltd. 2010
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 9:46 PM UTC
We eat in the restaurants
Eat in the bars
By the bistros
Against the street or on the ground
It does not matter where we are found
As we eat like we are dancing
With no one around
Who could possibly be watching?
Inside your own home
A house of a lone star
Impossibly pondering
How the pauper used wood
And turned it into cooking.
Food can be shared for
A life once cared for
Kept to yourself
Perhaps you beg not to share it
An octagon plate and octagon jades
Caramel vinegar rain
Tossing and turning with lightning veins.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 10:54 PM UTC
Let me tell you what I want….
I want to read Somerset Maugham and Aldous Huxley and Leonard Cohen and Mary Oliver
I want to hike bits of the Appalachian Trail and take long walks in the hills around Snowdonia
I want to ride about in the DC Metro and the London Underground
I want to explore small towns and big cities
I want to eat lunch in quaint little bistros and have dinner at the table in my yard
I want to browse through antique stores and fancy boutiques
I want to play with dogs and rub their bellies
I want to take long drives without a destination in mind
I want to waste an entire Sunday at home talking about everything and doing nothing
I want to build a fire and watch a movie
I want to sit on the couch and sip tea
Most of all, I want to do these things with you
Don't let your addiction take this away
With all the bits of my heart….
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
Separating my fingers
From the days manageable load
Of monotonous
Pull and push and push and pull
The heart
Surprisingly
Still beats with a vigor that is unmatched
In the head
If I only I could take more time
To give a ****
If only the clocks would slow
As I go and go
If is a word that dreamer's use to separate their fingers
Like the dough men of Paris bistros
Or boxers cracking their knuckles
Or master story tellers leaning back to let the sun hit them
In the perfect place to feel their pace
The word if is the burst of confetti
At the start of a party, a wedding, an unusual funeral
And reality
Reality is the strewn wreckage of multi-colored
Mix and matched
Chaotic and beautiful squares crying
Like a plastic explosive made of diamonds unimagined
We all want to live in the confetti world
We all want to live in the if
We all want to want the dream to become true
And the funny thing is
When it happens
Not I
Not a one of us
Would know entirely
What
To do
Aug 20, 2011
Aug 20, 2011 at 7:40 PM UTC
A Spring Evening in Paris with the Thieves of Love
They found each other in the good samaritan way you would try.
If you are not alluring, if you can’t get a reverie, there are other ways.
Ellen was drunk and left alone near St.Severin off the Rue de la Harpe
Where you can smell butter and garlic and mussels and iodine
From bistros open to the street. Anthony loved it that you could see that
Those bistros were happy and good. He wanted to be in one with a girl.
Ellen in mottled lamplight on the churchyard cobbles:
Freckled, brown eyed, strong in clean denim overalls and white T-shirt.
She knelt there sick and knelt also inside Anthony, in a lyric:
Not many chances like this in life. He nursed her
To her place in Billancourt. She was afraid on the Metro.
A drunken kiss of thanks at her door tastes of sickness and anise.
Of course he came back. A real man would come back for more thanks.
If it was his first chance in months.
She was brave, dramatically friendly, often in
The light that passes for candles on stage.
She had the fierce compassion that terrifies.
He had been disqualified from girls by anxiety.
They bought food, flowers and wine in the market
And walked and bought books from bouquinistes
And cooked in her room. He wrote at her table.
The white iron bed by the sunny window...
Who was this girl no older than Anthony,
Showing him friendship, making him grateful,
Showing him love,
" I like to do this,
Find one that I love, make something perfect."
Sneaky good love of stealth and cunning...
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
www.paulanthonyhutchinson.com
copyright Paul Anthony Hutchinson
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 11:37 PM UTC
Have you found a rhyming Genius,
is there nothing he can't do?
Like in his library penning poems
a plenty - maybe a tome or two.
Have you found a rhyming Genius
a man of truly high esteem,
whose wealth of writing styles
ensures a daily cash-flow stream?
Yes: you found yourself a Genius:
now in a penthouse we both abide,
sunning on a bloom-filled balcony,
here pouting pigeons perch and glide.
Indeed, you found yourself a Genius
endowed with a mind so fine:
an escort to boutiques and bistros
ordering up for you the finest wine.
Yes: You found yourself a Genius
owning poetry mines - all off-shore:
who even flies by private plane
to quarry, assay, versify their ore.
Yes: you found yourself a Genius
there is nothing he can't do,
when it comes to make you happy
it’s all in rhymes and more for you.
TOBIAS
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 6:37 AM UTC
The word escapes me
Hidden in the death and Carnage
Je veux pleuer pour Paris, Je suis Enraged
Shot Like Cattle at Slaughter, in a
Strange Night in Paris amid the Bistros
Voulez-vous etre mon amies Parisians
In the Night a Rose Cries Tears of Petals
Its Scent mingled with the smell of Gun Shells
And after all the feelings...the word escapes me
All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
On islands of the tropics sweetly sets
over poignant scented bistros and tide
on a rich apricot, painted canvas
a gentle warmth for winter's hostile chide
As bare footed limps deep into the sand
To chirps, to giggles; crashing surf so glad
Briskly washing away all memory
of the wintered homage of Avon's bard
A pale mat lays hush, as red kites ascend
to prey in vast fields of his frigid shire
From a window's sill, his eyes thus pretend
A sonnet on the seaside's to retire
Seldom he escapes winter's icy grip
Shakespeare seaside sonnet: a mental trip
Nov 12, 2019
Nov 12, 2019 at 3:32 PM UTC
Several days ago,
I wandered through the ashy town-
Which once grew with wild flames
Before the eternal Frown.
The bistros and stores blacked-out
Signs hanging, muddy paths
Doors locked and smashed windows
No signs of life, haunting wraths.
The smell of burnt leather
And bones rattling against the wind.
Broken signposts leading nowhere
And corpses of animals, skinned.
What savagery and fright hit this old place?
As I look to a hole in the ground-
Rats and rotting bodies
and bullet shells all around.
Perhaps these lands will never be free of outlaws
Who **** in cold blood.
Then let them drown in their crimes
Amid the Great Flood.
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 2:56 PM UTC
P
/ O \
E
/ T \
/ \
|||~~|||
& out from the stick figure POETS
LEW emerges !!
••
real words !
Finding their own OY VEH
thru the bistros and cafés
Out thru the neoned madness
To the peopled dream
••
Beyond the jaundiced eye
Beyond the narcissism
Of the broken mirror
•
Can you see who MUST be here ?
••
Blazing Light
Brazen with pure poetic fervor
Human beings need to know eachother
LOVE AND HATE
••
If you'd be
Of true poetic sensibility
Follow ! -- you may
Act courageously
Anytime you dare face
The world and it's hostility
To the love that still is here
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC
Even
God forsakes this dismal place
preferring instead to show his face in the bistros, at the music halls or the cinema shows,
they have a name for it,
Candy floss coating on ********
I mean,
I'd have figured it out long ago that his plan was to blow us away,
on these battlefields no angel shields us from starvation and death, but I was slow, saving my breath, wearing my heart on my sleeve.
I believe the experiment was doomed from the start,
give man a heart and the ******** will break it.
the bankers will take it,
collaterall,
offset against the main bet which is a debt for us all.
Stood against the pock marked wall, the rifles at attention,
good God look at them all, but of course he's at the cirque de soleil drinking champagne and how does he feel?
Fuckin' fabulous.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 9:24 AM UTC