"croissants" poems
I’m sick of hearing my life’s a haiku.
I’m into magic, love, and other sorts of things that are typically voodoo.
I’m half ***** from a half assed absent African baby boomer brat.
I’m half white trash.
Here’s a well formed of dried tears turned into something to sooth my canine teeth.
It tastes like Moonshine.
I can’t swim anymore, so I’m here drowning in a concrete pool.
Always, I look for the hell in you.
I sharpen my boot knife for ****** assault protection.
The first swipes for the plus 200,000 in counting.
The seconds for the 66 percent underreported.
The lasts for me,
the 29 percent victims aged 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, and 12.
We have a higher rate of risking everything.
For depression x3.
For committing suicide x4.
For post traumatic stress disorder x6.
For alcohol abuse x13.
For drug abuse x26.
You all think I’m crazy,
I’m not.
I sometimes get called
stupid, ugly, ***** and thot.
I’m in pain, in sorrow.
I can’t help it.
He did it.
No one can undo it.
What do we do about it?
I wont scream, I won't cry.
I’ll ask how he’s doing with glitter and tears in the corner of my eye.
And after he's done molesting me,
"Want to go grab some coffee or tea?"
Personally, I like the cafe down the street.
They sell good brunch with amazing croissants.
And after this is over,
I’d ask him how it was while he turned me over.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
# *Twin glasses of orange juice, froth quietly fizzling out
A plate of turkey bacon piled overzealously high*
I would cook you French toast every day, if you'd let me.
*Fresh croissants from a bakery down the street
Halved strawberries drizzled with honey*
I'll sprinkle cinnamon in our coffee, just like my grandmother used to.
I don't know much of love, but I know this:
When the sun breaks through my kitchen window,
I hope you'll be sitting at the table. #
Nov 17, 2022
Nov 17, 2022 at 4:14 PM UTC
wind is coming in
sun is just showing
horses are watered
fire is glowing
movement is starting
the camp is awake
cookie is working
there's breakfast to make
no fancy croissants
or drinks laced with toffee
this is good solid food
and strong cowboy coffee
it gets it's job done
it ain't always so nice
later on in the day
it gets served by the slice
mud, java, joe
it's got lots of names
and at each cowboy camp
it still tastes the same
grounds at the bottom
thick as coal tar
without cowboy coffee
you will not go far
eggs, beans and bacon
and bread texas thick
to wipe up what's left
and get every lick
here out on the trail
you won't find any toffee
we eat solid grub
and we drink cowboy coffee
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 6:08 AM UTC
Jane the economy toaster
Was cheap as appliances go
Her unpolished sides were all greasy
And as grey as suburbanite snow
The edge of her slot was all melted
And her tray was encrusted with crumbs
Her lever was missing a handle
And would nibble at fingers and thumbs
She lived at the back of a cupboard
With some rusty old pans and a spider
In the gloom she would dream that somebody
Would hammer a muffin inside her
That some special son-of-a-baker
Would fill up her dusty old holes
With croissants and baguettes and bagels
With waffles and tea cakes and rolls
But alas with her family broken
The whisk and second-rate kettle
Her owners replaced the whole set
With something more classy in metal
And so in her murky wee crevice
She wept and she twiddled her ****
She twitched her lever with envy
Of the toaster that lives by the hob
Jane faded away and she vanished
But in silicone heaven she boasts
That she's Jane the economy toaster
The maker of muffins for ghosts
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Like drinking water out of mason jars
Like reading through fake plastic glass
Like dressing in your grandparents bolts of fabric
Like holding an unfiltered cigarette
Or even better a wooden pipe…
Smoke swelling in closed mouths
And nostrils blowing in sailboat clouds
Down to the next not- Starbucks
To sit on a velvet couch with
Coral painted nails and a chai in hand...
You all can be like this.
With no workout clothes and
With at least two piercings in your nose
You all are like this soon enough.
Who gave you the idea to pick up the
Ukulele anyway?
Who gave you the idea to shave one quarter
Of your head?
We all did. We all are a
Fleet of individual sameness,
A want to stand out from the
Cookie- cutter looks,
But now we’re all cupcakes
With the same story but with
Different hooks
For hands, snagging the rest
Of us along.
With your identical twin lipstick
And Birkenstock feet.
The lack of shock we absorb
Gets lonely and depressing.
So lets all move to Montreal
And French kiss and knit
And maybe real soon the
Croissants will go stale
And it’ll be cool to live
In Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
Every Tuesday night
From January to April
The highlight of my night
Was a chocolate croissant.
I would sit and listen
To theories and methods,
Literature and research,
And on break I would have one.
I would order it each night
With salivating anticipation.
As I handed over my money
They put it in the oven.
And each night
They would call out
"Chocolate croissant?"
And I would grab the bag.
I would devour that morsel
With joy and elation,
And as I felt it go down
My chest would warm -
Not only from
The warm croissant,
But also from the joy
Warming my heart.
It was the best part
Of those horrible evenings
Of literature and research
Theory and methods.
Sometimes,
If I was feeling spicy,
I would get two -
One on each break...
And sometimes
On Thursdays
I would get two more
For History and PR.
Yes,
Those chocolate croissants
Got me through
My last semester of college.
When I was feeling stressed,
Or feeling down
From the subject matter,
I would eat one,
And I would feel better.
And I bet
As you are reading this
You want one.
Do yourself a favor,
Go buy yourself
A chocolate croissant -
And enjoy it.
Let it help you escape
From your worries
And your cares
For about 90 seconds
As you devour that
Delicious pastry.
And let it warm your chest
With chocolate and joy.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 12:56 AM UTC
While the world is asleep
I lie awake in a dream that feels real
because I am with you.
They'll lie still and we won't disturb
them.
It's you that I only get this feeling
around.
I accept that I am awake because you
are here
There is no other fact.
While the world is asleep
I want to explore everything that I can.
Without interruption.
Without the triple bypass of work.
More than enjoying your company for
what it is.
Like croissants in Paris
After climbing the Eiffel tower with you
on my back.
Or counting how long it'll take to bend
the curvature of the tower into the
shape of your heart.
While the world is asleep
They'll lie still and we won't disturb
them.
& When they awake,
They'll think it was all a dream
By the time we finish explaining what
took us so long to get back
Dec 31, 2021
Dec 31, 2021 at 4:43 AM UTC
Eyes that flash the soul of civilization
And warm the heart in observation.
Love that whispers with a gentle touch
And surrounds with hugs that seem so much.
Cry Beloved!
Water that caresses with a thousand tongues
Sunshine that coos all the birds’ songs
Teachers and vets, pronouns and clowns
Croissants, marmalade, coffee and new lawns.
Cry Beloved!
Breezes and sneezes, walks by the shore
Seashells that capture all the sea’s roar
Powdery sand and laconic lagoons
Daydreams and naps in the afternoons
Cry Beloved!
Smiles, museums, carriages in the park
Salads with friends and chocolates too dark
Rowing among lily pads and turtles and frogs
Hiking and crossing the streams on new logs.
Cry Beloved!
Flowers and bees buzzing in the sun
Hummingbirds hovering, dogs on the run
Children running, giggles and wiggles
Caring, learning, reading and snuggles
Cry Beloved!
Snowy mountains, valleys green
Faith proclaimed, faith unseen
Wonder and ponder, awe and reverence
Invitations from God to join in the dance
Cry beloved!
Hands held together in prayer and in love
Eyes raised to heaven on the wings of a dove
Caring so deep, affection so real
Feel the love and start to heal
Cry My Beloved!
Sep 6, 2010
Sep 6, 2010 at 8:40 PM UTC
do you remember
those nights in my room
eating croissants at 2am
you smelling my perfume
i go back to that moment often
and the way you said my name
you trip over your words
setting my face to flame
i still owe you
one mac and cheese dinner
under your ceiling's string lights
you made me a sinner
Aug 31, 2022
Aug 31, 2022 at 9:33 AM UTC
I'm making croissants and
I'll save you one
we could really help
each other
out
this year
we need each
other
so come for your croissant
come for me here now
wait
My roommate ate it
I'm sorry
****
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 6:18 PM UTC
At the Waters Edge
As the tide laps onto the shore
So shall it flow.
Eternally.
Wanting you more.
We stand on the beach watching gulls swoop.
Sadly,only images in our minds.
Scraps of the past,
captured by gulls.
Tossed on white horses,
They go with the flow.
As do you and I.
Bouncing on currents of warm salty air.
Smell the seashore.
Taste it.
Taste it ,
as we taste love.
Feel it, as we hold each other close in mind.
We could be oar less rowing boats.
Drifting aimlessly on rushing ripples.
Like the weather, they change course.
Lifted and falling ever of course.
Vanilla ice cream.
Strawberry syrup.
Dripping from cornets.
To learn of your likes.
You may not like ice cream.
Nor strawberry sauce.
As we grow together for sure.
We'll discover more.
I yearn to hold you.
To survey the stars in the sky,
two of us as one.
Want no more,
To stroll alone on the shore.
I have a hand that needs holding.
Held empty too long.
Paddle in beach shoes.
To feel the swell water.
Warmed by the sun.
It's waiting for you.
Time nor tide will stop and wait
But always I shall wait,
always for you.
To watch sunsets and rises.
Morning surprises.
Coffee and croissants.
Straw hats and boaters.
I'd climb to the cliff tops to hold you again.
You my darling.
I know you feel the same.
You feel the same.
I know that you do.
Distance before us.
If only you knew.
Drifting out to sea.
Then home again.
Safe in my arms.
One day my darling.
You and I will be us.
(c)Livvi MMCV
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
you were my Snow White baby
locked, pressed into sleep
with apple slices stuck in your throat
i prayed at the altar of your nightstand, an offering every morning:
pictures chocolate small dolls i sewed from scraps
in the middle of the night, sitting by your bed when i couldn't sleep
i read to you, just in case
you could hear. once
i held a mirror above your mouth, because
you were so still your skin was molten, crackling with heat,
a jumble of just-hardened lava bones
bright cherry mouth, cheeks blooming but so pale.
my Snow White baby, i didn't know if a prince would save you
but i wanted to be your knight in armor. i wanted to armor you--
but you can't protect against attacks from the inside
i remembered months before, lying in the grass with you
sunlight reading books in trees
muddy, you fed me croissants mashed in your fingers
and oranges that fell from the branches. how precious i held you,
your tiny body braved against mine, the smallness of you in my arms
we were children then.
that Christmas you woke up for just long enough
to crawl from your quilt-nest
and sleep instead under the christmas tree
your fever-sweat and the coloured lights
made your skin into rainbows
i remember thinking how magical you were, how
much i'd miss you
if you never woke up.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 6:32 PM UTC
The morning light wanes
out on open plains
my belly debates
croissants have to wait
All the nylon fliers
like crayons palettes
festival of spectacles
So many favorites
Up Up and Away
a hundred balloons
above lagoons and chimneys
below valleys and alleys
In one strong forehand
a spectacular descent
it looks unplanned
a landing on the grandstand!
There was no flaw
only the applause
at dawn, champagnes flow
I stand in awe
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 12:09 AM UTC
this is the color of sunshine and innocence,
of freckle-faced children running through the dry grass
as butterflies flit and grasshoppers bound.
it is the shade of the center of the daisies
their older sister plucks from the earth.
a reserved smile tugs on her lips as
one by one the petals fall to the whispered words,
"he loves me,
he loves me not."
it is the color of lemonade and buttered croissants,
and the dance the mother makes across the kitchen,
floral skirt swaying as she sashays to and fro.
a grin flashes across her face
as she remembers the color of the dreams she chased in her youth;
the color of her name up in lights
the color of camera bulbs and the afterimages
that creep across her vision
when the paparazzi descends.
this color makes it way down the hall and into the study,
where the father sits at his desk pouring
over numbers and figures while furiously
punching them into a calculator.
it is the color of post-it notes scribbled over with important dates,
of the faded coffee stain on the front of the man's shirt,
of the potted flowers doing their absolute best
to brighten up the austere space.
when the day reaches its end
this color seems to disappear...
but it persists
in the most subtle
of places.
it wraps around the tiny nightlight in the youngest son's room,
providing a barrier between him
and whatever goes bump in the night.
it chimes in the nervous giggles that attempt to dispel
the fear that comes with a late-night scary story.
it emanates from the glow-in-the-dark stars and planets
stuck to the older sister's ceiling--
there they remain
despite her insistence that she it too old for them.
this color is most certainly not the color of darkness,
but,
rather--
the moments that break its emptiness.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 8:19 PM UTC
◇
I chose Apple scented soap
for my trip to France
I was 12 ..
Even today
that beautiful aroma
takes me back there
and the room that I shared with friends
The breakfast room
with the huge windows,
bread and jam,
croissants
and trying to convince myself
that the tea wasn't that bad
I recall the boy that I had a crush on
from my class..
he was quiet, sweet
and very kind
Apple scented soap
reminds me of all of these things ..
and the 12 year old me.
◇
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC
She speaks five languages
& works her *** off
in an eatery
buttering croissants.
A single mom of three,
she still has the spirit to
smile like a summer sun.
What a pretty sight,
there's no wallowing in
the mire for this waitress,
she's still got fire
& no time for ********
'cause she's making it happen
on her own terms.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 6:41 AM UTC
The Beatnik Café’
Cigarettes, coffee, a ****** beret
Blue smoke and Blue Mountain, blue verse, blue rhyme --
O Come to the side-street beatnik café;
Here present-tense yourself; caffeine the time
Here order your Bacon very well Donne
And jam your java with croissants and Keats
Orate from Spenser; groove with Tennyson
Tap out a line of Seafarer-four beats
Tap out a manifesto; everyone does
Pulp-print Red rags yelp “Revolution Now!”
The typewriter is holy, and Up the Fuzz!
Bongo that Kerouac, and Howl, but how?
Bongo that beat, oh, yeah, it’s crazzzzy, man
Sheaffer that rhythm, cat; Parker that line
Ferlinghetti your truth to a yellow pad
Sharpen your verbs to a rebel design
Sharpen your verbs from a bottle of ink
Light up a Camel; blow intellectual smoke
Teach the ****** bourgeois how they should think
Grey-suited capitalists – what a joke!
L’Envoi – Time Slouches On
Tee-shirted capitalists joke in Mandarin
The latest chained coffee’s inside the mall
English and Apples are original sin
On glowing screens where the pale pixels crawl
And no one crawls through rhythm, rhyme, or verse,
Or bongos out an existential cry
For poetry is dead; the twitters terse
Reduce the ancient loves to I, me, my.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
Completed Jimmy Dean Breakfast
Sang to the tune of Micheal Jackson's original song Billy Jean-1983
Verse 1
With the milk poured-bowl of cereal, hash-browns and melted cheese
I said, "got coffee grinds, sugar and cream and a cinnamon bun-
a fried egg-on your toast golden brown.
Yea a cinnamon bun-with
a fried egg-on your toast golden brown."
Said "I just added sour cream, to the bagels with Philly cheese,
These pancakes almost burned, flip em' now-with a cinnamon bun,
a fried egg-on your toast golden brown."
Pre-chorus
Someone once told me, "be careful what you do,
Syrup goes terrible with salt... (Hee-hee)
And melted butter drippin' "be it food that's on the grill
And just add chives to as well, cold pizza's
Good breakfast to!"
Chorus
Jimmy Dean, Breakfast Frill's on,
Bacon and Chorizo-just put the Griddles on,
Ya' know-the Waffles are almost done...
I just put the Griddles on,
Ya' know-the Waffles are almost done...
Verse 2
For forty danishes and for forty pies, granola on the side
Choice of sausage or oatmeal with jam? Pineapple and ham
And a fried egg-on your toast golden brown.
So next some cream of rice
Some croissants should do just fine
(Yea, real nice) Do just fine! (A-hoo!)
I asked could we have blueberry muffins (please?) lemon cakes with whipped cream
Maybe even Frittata's and strawberry's on the side, they should do just fine (Oh, oh)
With a fried egg-on your toast golden brown.
Pre-chorus
Someone once told me, "be careful what you do,
Syrup goes terrible with salt... (Hee-hee)
Whatever kind of pasta you eat
Huevos Rancheros with chili's
Beef hash and sauteed mushrooms
Even got egg omelette's too
Chorus
Jimmy Dean, Breakfast Frill's on,
Bacon and Chorizo-just put the Griddles on,
Ya' know-the Waffles are almost done...
No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no
Jimmy Dean, Breakfast Frill's on,
Bacon and Chorizo-just put the Griddles on,
Ya' know-the Waffles are almost done...
Just put the Griddles on,
Ya' know-the Waffles are almost done...
(Break)
Woo! Woo!
Chorus
Just put the griddles on, uh
Ya' know the waffles are almost done
Jimmy Dean, Breakfast Frill's on,
Bacon and chorizo-just put the Griddles on,
Ya' know the waffles are almost done
No-no-no, no-no-no-no
Just put the griddles on,
Ya' know the waffles are almost done
(Outro)
Just put the griddles on
Waffles will soon be done
Put the griddles on
Yeah, yeah, Jimmy Dean, Breakfast Frill's on,
yeah, Jimmy Dean, Breakfast Frill's on, uh
yeah, Jimmy Dean, Breakfast Frill's on, uh
yeah, Jimmy Dean, Breakfast Frill's on, uh
Jimmy Dean, Breakfast Frill's on, uh
Jimmy Dean, Breakfast
Jul 17, 2024
Jul 17, 2024 at 8:50 AM UTC
I’d like a man who appreciates me.
Say “Hi beautiful!” every morning,
And bring me coffee and croissants,
As we watch the new day dawning.
I’d like a man who has a high powered job.
His office window an amazing view,
His grandparents own a seaside chalet
He says he’ll take me to.
I’d like a man with an amazing body,
But he would not know that.
He’d garden with his shirt off – hanging up -
While wearing a cowboy hat.
I’d like a man who liked my friends,
And charmed them all with smiles.
And tell them how, with his arm round mine,
We dance on kitchen tiles.
I’d like a man who understood,
One does not rev his car.
He’ll take me sailing in the summer ,
No bounds to say how far.
He’s go to be able to fly as well.
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 7:37 AM UTC
I have been drinking green tea by the evening light,
I have been wearing all my travelled hats again.
I have been striving for something beyond my reach,
in the hope that by stretching, I'll end up taller.
I have been eating croissants and drinking coffee,
exchanging currency and staring out windows.
I have been comforted by the sound of the rain,
as it taps on the drain by my bedroom curtains.
I have grown easy in this dormitory life,
sleeping through the day and then working through the night.
I have grown lazy, laid out in the olive grove,
in the eternal garden of the writer's mind.
I have grown weary through my scowling at the moon,
no more a wolf than a painter's aesthetic muse.
I have grown ugly through vague vanity's mirror,
I have grown privileged through my vacant stupor.
I'm still waiting for the love that has now perished,
a love that's now forgotten, that once was cherished.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
What great pleasure it is
to not have to figure out
if the tuna sandwich is a boy or girl
before it becomes a part of me.
I don't have to wonder
if the tasty adjectives I'm going to use
to glorify it will need to multiply
or even worse, change sexuality,
if I decide to have more than one
This afternoon, I'm trying to find
the appropriate tense to describe
how the wind whistled
over the empty plastic cup last night,
startling the old dog
and setting the cat's ears twitching
But then I remember, I don't even know
the word for "whistle" in French
But I wish someone were here
to bring good tidings to my appetite
and perhaps bid my footsteps well
when I get up to take the 10 minute walk
back to the house
where the smell of freshly baked croissants
have soaked into the walls
At least I know they're filled with yellow cheese
and this time I remember
one of the first words I learned
in this intricate language I'm wrestling
is fromage.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 12:57 AM UTC
His guts swirl to the beat
of the marching band.
His hands are nothing
but earthquake rumbles
that he tries to control
and his veins turn into fault lines
pouring sea water onto his palms.
His name hangs on
the screen like a ticking
time bomb ready to explode
into bits—into tiny grains to spread
around the world.
Every step to the stage
is one minute closer to
another day coming to a close—
like an old book that needed
to be returned to the shelf.
Pearl crusted croissants moons
greet him for a consolation—
a congressional medal of honor
he’ll be proud of to hang on his body.
Sugar filled tears fall
like river—one tear at a time.
And finally…
he can smile with ease…
There was no them and there was no stage;
it’s just the broken
air-conditioners’ noisy hums
that need to be fixed;
it’s just the annoying squeaking
chair that has been too old to be sat at.
It’s just an empty paper
whispering that
he will die today…
His dreams still
hang on,
*but today…
he is just another
selfish prayer
that God forgot
to hear…*
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 10:51 AM UTC
The beauty that people travel far to see
Unbelieving on how massive it could be
Wrought iron lattice visible from miles away
Bringing smiles to faces that are sure to stay
Some plan to have a kiss under its bright lights
They’ll mimic the native’s ways to cause a sight
Sending postcards home with the beauty displayed
Or even pictures of them at parties, maybe the masquerade
Packing up macarons, baguettes, and croissants
for friends and family knowing they will want
Reminiscing of the trip on the way home at 600 miles per hour
Holding the memories and pictures of the trip to the Eiffel Tower
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 11:59 PM UTC