"carafes" poems
A horrific thunderbolt
hit me right at my chest.
Oh! what an assault.
A hundred carafes of poison
or
the thousand rounds of bullets
would have hurt less
than the pain it caused
when
you abandoned me.
But,
I tried to deal with it.
‘Move on’,
I urged my inner me.
‘I am not a loser.
Quitting is never an option’,
I tried to pacify the anguish.
It did not aid.
The palpable twinge
troubled more;
aww! my delicate heart.
To sweep away the woe,
I pact with the *****
Alas!
Every sip of the nasty tipple
ousted heavy flood
from my shuddering eyes.
I could tell you , love,
that was quite a sight.
Still the heart pounding,
the excruciating truth,
still unsolved.
I banged my liquor’s glass
in sheer dismay.
Sane enough to halt
the bleeding from the wound,
I searched the bandage.
Sadly, the wound was in heart.
- Bhaskar Dhakal
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 6:37 AM UTC
I am here today, but i may not be tomorrow - a hitchhiker i picked up somewhere between Bennington and Marlboro Vermont
The library at Packer's Corners had
the smell of damp and old
as a lush august climbed the faded
wide wooden planks outside
and we schemed our
nightly dinner theatre performances.
The gang congregated disorderly
across the rocky garden before the (stage) barn,
plates and carafes of wine, rapt in the play.
Marti, a painter with knobby hands, salt and pepper hair,
the face of a sage and a speech impediment;
Veranda must have been a muse with her sharp
bohemian features and sleek black bob,
smelling of rosemary and musky Parisian perfume;
Oona, so young and stormy crashed about
those mountains in moods as protean
as Vermont weather and jeans
that were more holes than fabric;
Cootie, in his black goatee and the scent of
cooking oils under his mottled and freckled skin
would squint through the bugs and heat wave haze
to Marco on the pitcher's mound
scuffing his mortorcycle boots into the
sandy tan soil riddled with stones and
laughing with the reckless abandon that
waters the eyes with antifreeze for the soul
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC
men's feet striking
pavement in unison
understated night
sweeps stars
and city haze
across their eyes
breast pockets
carry scars of wounds past
they do not reach for them
their hands
delicate carafes
pour
into each other's
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 5:45 PM UTC
Daffodils kissed by raindrops ,and he's watching girls in crop tops, again.
They're younger than her, jealous be she at his sad fixations.
She doth concur that jealousy, be an involuntary sensation.
Could be repaired, if he showed her he cared.
He knows not how.
He cannot read her feelings like a book.
A tiny bit too young.
She is so precious, precocious at times.
You give her chocolates and she'll surely whine.
Rose red and white in carafes'.
Chasing tall women as leggy giraffes.
She's captured by the tiger's eye.
Waiting by the garden gate.
How much more must she wait,
For him to ascertain her pain.
Internal mental anguish, ripping apart.
The older gorgeous woman,whose young man stole her heart.
(c) LIVVI
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
It's a sound
It's black as the woods
It's unknown and
it burns my tongue.
I measure time
in concertos
&
carafes of coffee
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 8:14 AM UTC
Carafes of blood red wine decorate the table
The crowed softly mingle
Candle light delicately flickers
As you pass, you brush your hand along my thigh to lower back
A brief moment of eye contact
A mischievous smile
A bottom lip bite
Excitement extrudes
I’ve lost track of the people talking at me
I make my excuses
I follow
Into a dimly lit room
The heavy door shuts
Just us
A place where fireworks fly
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 4:41 PM UTC
warm
mediterranean
slapping seas
crash up against the asphalt wall
whipping red wine soaked
table cloths
tamed by wobbly carafes
spilling over the
winding bolognese stained cobblestone
Marvel at the windmills
beneath an animated sky
Time ceased to exist
as the two, were absorbed into
the surreal romance of their
first kiss...
Jan 1, 2021
Jan 1, 2021 at 2:56 AM UTC
*Food lacking taste ,
bland piles of paste
Steaming mounds of dead -
animals and plants served -
on a porcelain platter
Painstakingly hand stitched serviettes , glowing candelabras and chandeliers
A fork for this , a spoon for that
Silver ladles and oak tables
Sharp knives , brass covers ,
spatulas and carafes
A prayer before the vanquished are -
consumed followed by the highly
choreographed dance of the plates
The dinner ballet begins
Utensils clinging , bowls clanging -
Ice cubes striking glass
The music of the feast , the consumption
of the beast
Blood collecting in the corners of -
the mouth
King Protein controls the conflagration -
of gluttony like the conductor leads -
his orchestra
Voracious ramblings
Pining for more and more* ....
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 2:03 PM UTC
This coffee shop
serves its tea
in small lightbulb
shaped carafes
and I appreciate that
because
all the best ideas
have been had
over a cup of tea
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 10:48 AM UTC