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"kellner" poems
Sitting alone, but in the company of culture Smiling. The throbbing crowds The chatter and clatter of cutlery. Here amongst his own kind Eager tourists. Content in their unspoken bond. But once in a while, A couple leans over, American. They break the vow of blissful silence. Navigating the tricky meander of Polite but broken conversation. They share stories of sites, Experiences, Imparting knowledge and tips. The Kellner comes with his meal. He whips out his tourist guide, ‘Is that beef?’ The Kellner trembles as he struggles For the word and He quickly tugs the arm of another For an explanation. The tourist points to his book ‘Is it that?’ The Kellner agrees. This compromise satisfies all We all continue on our merry way. The Tourist with his meal and book The clatter and chatter continue.
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Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 12:26 PM UTC
stephen-edward-carragher
The Tourist
Sitting alone, but in the company of culture Smiling. The throbbing crowds The chatter and clatter of cutlery. Here amongst his own kind Eager tourists. Content in their unspoken bond. But once in a while, A couple leans over, American. They break the vow of blissful silence. Navigating the tricky meander of Polite but broken conversation. They share stories of sites, Experiences, Imparting knowledge and tips. The Kellner comes with his meal. He whips out his tourist guide, ‘Is that beef?’ The Kellner trembles as he struggles For the word and He quickly tugs the arm of another For an explanation. The tourist points to his book ‘Is it that?’ The Kellner agrees. This compromise satisfies all We all continue on our merry way. The Tourist with his meal and book The clatter and chatter continue.
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It feels just like yesterday, whispers a croaking voice inside, so familiar, but ownerless, like that same white van passed on every morning’s commute, a canvas where somebody beautiful took the time to spraypaint in pukegreen bubbleletters “WELCOME TO HELL”, to urban sprawl, or capitalism, or something? Something, slinking like a roach through rotting throngs of desperation marching blind through subwaycar shackles, carrying away the hopes of tomorrow on yesterday’s dollar, building justifications for plunder out of cold metal and glass… eyes open. I open the morning door, pierced by a crow’s shadow at oppressive dawn. Bleary, half-formed, each step out of the homeshell and down the street feeling slowed down, like the air has hardened into a sea of fudge, saccharine bliss of ***** birds resembling the endless sobs of the guilty, keeping them down, today, locked up inside— I have wasted years apologizing for not being enough to replace this futility— I have no butterfly net big enough to seize the day. On the far side of an idyllic fence a groundhog darts out from a hedgerow, barreling awkwardly, shamelessly, away from the familiar cover of the underbrush— Sparkling, from this distance, playfully glazed with new sun this shuffling ball of fur hurtles through the empty field… Why can’t I? Stepping up and into public transport, metallic husk, the question remains, lingering far after the sounds fade out. --Graham Kellner
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Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 7:18 PM UTC
uGraham737
Today (Again)
It feels just like yesterday, whispers a croaking voice inside, so familiar, but ownerless, like that same white van passed on every morning’s commute, a canvas where somebody beautiful took the time to spraypaint in pukegreen bubbleletters “WELCOME TO HELL”, to urban sprawl, or capitalism, or something? Something, slinking like a roach through rotting throngs of desperation marching blind through subwaycar shackles, carrying away the hopes of tomorrow on yesterday’s dollar, building justifications for plunder out of cold metal and glass… eyes open. I open the morning door, pierced by a crow’s shadow at oppressive dawn. Bleary, half-formed, each step out of the homeshell and down the street feeling slowed down, like the air has hardened into a sea of fudge, saccharine bliss of ***** birds resembling the endless sobs of the guilty, keeping them down, today, locked up inside— I have wasted years apologizing for not being enough to replace this futility— I have no butterfly net big enough to seize the day. On the far side of an idyllic fence a groundhog darts out from a hedgerow, barreling awkwardly, shamelessly, away from the familiar cover of the underbrush— Sparkling, from this distance, playfully glazed with new sun this shuffling ball of fur hurtles through the empty field… Why can’t I? Stepping up and into public transport, metallic husk, the question remains, lingering far after the sounds fade out. --Graham Kellner
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