"kiosk" poems
*She is on the street in her little kiosk ,
at the break of the dawn ,
When many are still on a lucid dream.
Selling the most delicious of grapes
Sourced straight from the vineyards
Assembling the previous day's discards all in a tray
Discards For humans it maybe ,
But
for her birds its a treat to relish .
Swooping
down for it ,day after day..
Mostly bought by the morning walkers ,
Many in numbers are they
old patrons , as they say.
Every day she sells her wares
Holding the loveliest of smile
That I have seen in years,
All Knowing , the pain that she hides behind .
Never misses a day nor business,
And back home she is before sundown.
Only to return the following day,
With a new stock ,at the break of the dawn.*
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 1:45 AM UTC
I fell in love at a McDonald’s. I expected it to happen in an overpriced cafe or a fancy Italian restaurant, but it happened at a McDonald’s and it was love all the same.
We were on our way back from the beach. We went whale watching but the ocean could have been empty for all the fish we saw. We paid good money for a caricature of the two of us. The graphite image of a happy couple with our faces sat in the back seat of your car. It would be framed and put up. We went into the sea as deeply as we dared and laughed and screamed as the waves came and came and came.
We were driving home with bits of mountains and boulders stuck between our sandaled toes and that’s when you pulled into a McDonald’s.
You ordered a sandwich, 100% real beef, never frozen, and asked me what I wanted. I said I would have the same. 100% real beef. Never frozen. I hate spending time and money on that which can only be consumed. We sat down with our food underneath the fluorescent lights next to a Happy Meal kiosk and I decided that I was in love with you and it was love all the same.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
A bridge is a curious thing to cover.
mile after mile of naked road -
then a wooden box over stream or ravine.
Why not cover the road instead
leaving the bridge unclothed?
But where's the charm in that, you say?
So perhaps it was fashioned for Currier and Ives
or to embellish the music
of iron shod hooves on oaken planks.
Or maybe was built as a kiosk
for fading feed and carnival posters
and jackknife glyphs of amorous initials.
No, all our covered bridges, imagined or real,
guide our passage over deadly waters -
holding us fast on the road
and safe from drowning.
March, 2007
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 4:17 AM UTC
Your shy smile, in the buds
blooming late by mellow winds;
distant in the leaves turned golden
your fiery hair;
the city below, still asleep,
stuttering in the lanes, your voice,
in the coffee morning shop.
my heart, all the butterflies.
Your dreamy smile, in
the toast maker lady at the kiosk.
You said I should go to Primrose Hill
So I went to Primrose Hill.
and I found you everywhere.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 5:55 PM UTC
Delay, well, travellers must expect
Delay. For how long? No one seems to know.
With all the luggage weighed, the tickets checked,
It can't be long… We amble too and fro,
Sit in steel chairs, buy cigarettes and sweets
And tea, unfold the papers. Ought we to smile,
Perhaps make friends? No: in the race for seats
You're best alone. Friendship is not worth while.
Six hours pass: if I'd gone by boat last night
I'd be there now. Well, it's too late for that.
The kiosk girl is yawning. I fell stale,
Stupified, by inaction - and, as light
Begins to ebb outside, by fear, I set
So much on this Assumption. Now it's failed
2.5k
This winter air is keen and cold,
And keen and cold this winter sun,
But round my chair the children run
Like little things of dancing gold.
Sometimes about the painted kiosk
The mimic soldiers strut and stride,
Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide
In the bleak tangles of the bosk.
And sometimes, while the old nurse cons
Her book, they steal across the square,
And launch their paper navies where
Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze.
And now in mimic flight they flee,
And now they rush, a boisterous band—
And, tiny hand on tiny hand,
Climb up the black and leafless tree.
Ah! cruel tree! if I were you,
And children climbed me, for their sake
Though it be winter I would break
Into spring blossoms white and blue!
2.5k
We were misplaced and confused,
So, I bought a coffee, sat with a magazine,
But felt so antsy, I went to the Kiosk,
Inquiring about your flight,
Then went looking in the other places.
So many people started looking like you:
Their hair, shape and walk.
So many doppelgangers.
It was getting way too late, hours, in fact.
Now concern settles in,
But seconds make the difference,
Not some butterfly in China.
If I'd lingered, sipping,
I wouldn't have walked right into your tears
Around the corner.
I happened to have a tissue in my pocket
To dry your found eyes;
Now let's get the **** outa here!
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 11:33 AM UTC
You made your way down
to the gas station
for your third day of work
in the heaviest fall of snow
since the year you were born
15 years before
and Mr. Fredericks was there
limping about the forecourt
around the pumps
with a big broom
brushing away snow
hey
he said
right you can try sweep
off the snow about the pumps
make it easy
for the customers
to get in and out
their cars and trucks
and handed you the broom
I’ll be upstairs
if you need me
just press the bell
under the desk
in the kiosk
at the front
and off he went
limping inside
snow still fell
there was a cold chill
about your limbs
your fingers ached
you pushed broom
shoved snow off
about the pumps
until all
were temporarily clear
then went inside
just as Miss Billings
rode along side
of the gas station
on her motorbike
then walked up
to the kiosk
where you’d taken refuge
you the new kid?
she asked
you nodded
I’m Miss Billings
she said
I work here too
in the back office
doing accounts
help out in the forecourt
if needed or the shop
in back if you’re overrun
she stood there
in her glasses
blonde hair covered
by a scarf
a black leather jacket
zipped to the neck
and helmet in one hand
white overalls coming down
to her knees
followed down
to her ankles
were red wool stockings
and white boots
on her feet
she stared at you
her eyes scrutinizing
the customer
is always right
did Mr Fredericks
tell you that?
yes
you said
well he’s right
so don’t matter
if the customer’s thick as ****
or **** stupid
they’re always right ok
so be tight Kid
tight as *****
in the *******
in a freezing shower
get it right
you nodded
and she walked in
and disappeared
into the back office
with a slow sway
of her of hips
her words
like chisel blows
to your ears
she about 21
to your 15
innocent
boyish years
she seeping
into your imagination
not knowing then
that her beauty
was probably
some marine’s image
for secret ************
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 2:17 AM UTC
she lent over the bed rail,
wooden and put together by her husband.
without the book she recited the tale,
word perfect and rehearsed and she quickened
with the story, picking up the pace
to the bit where she placed her engagement ring upon my face,
the nose to be precise, and it smelt
of every perfume kiosk in every shopping hall and mall.
the ***** cat said to the owl, in the sequel to the story-
and for another bedtime completely-
'you're the cherry on the tree, un-pick-able
by hand or bird, stay with me please,
I heard marriage doesn't last forever'
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 11:49 AM UTC
The truth is
spring broke open,
I wish it were winter again.
Bodies about, walking
arm in arm and
no matter how much
I practice pacing my steps,
dodging the torn-cornered
slabs of concrete
to avoid breaking my stride,
my confidence, my ankle,
I always seem to stumble
with a hand interwoven in mine.
Dexterity seeps out
through my heels,
but lets be honest,
boots aren't the best attire for
sturdy, balanced walking.
This weight
(I'd guess)
presses down on my shoulder
where the collarbone meets
whatever the other bone is called,
and the person is on a stepstool
(yes, there's a person),
floating next to me as I move
and the his heel of his palm,
the meaty part,
presses where the bones meet
(could be, I'd guess, a very masculine She)
and leaning forward, tiptoed
on the top step and
the weight is coming down hard.
How anyone could walk like that!
Me, the town *******
the drunk staggering about
trying to keep footing.
Even thinking it, projecting it,
makes it true,
especially when arguing,
no, just receiving a nice, hearty
reprimanding from babushkas
(a group of them)
with their knit hats abloom,
selling cabbage and honey
outside the Belarusian kiosk.
Now, I know what you're thinking,
and yes, the honey is delicious;
but just because they're together
doesn't mean they need to be.
Boiled cabbage and honey
for colds.
And honestly, it's not the weather
to be stopping on the sidewalk
in jeans-shoes-tee-shirt
only to hear curses
(no, not swears — lit. curses)
spat out crooked mouths,
clinging to you
all the season through.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 8:43 PM UTC
if a goddess from above and lucifer had a kid, it would be you.
every weekend with you was new, but always started with you giving me a face full of make-up & one of your raggy shirts that i so desperately loved but you just picked up from your closet floor, not even thinking twice if it smelled or not. i didn't really care though, because even if it was ***** & smelled like your usual pack of malboros that i hated, i would try to find the slight smell of your lavender perfume that your ex-boyfriend got you from a cheap kiosk in the ****** mall we refuse to enter.
every time i come over i have to wake you up because you always oversleep whenever you take a nap before we go out, leaving a half-eaten bowl of soggy cereal in your lap & i always wonder how the hell it doesn't fall on you but then i remember that whenever you sleep by yourself you never move because when you were eight you were scared of monsters sensing you in the dark & you didn't want them taking you so you never moved from your spot in your little twin sized bed.
you made sure to always take your moms car quietly whenever she fell asleep which was usually around ten at night & i always listened to your instructions on how to follow you because i didn’t want you to be angry with me because you were known to have anger problems & that was one of the reasons you were sent to utah for a year.
you gave cats & sinners feet the path to run into mischief. you gave them wrath & you gave them love leading both to leave you & me wondering where you are now as i sit here writing this. hopefully thinking you’ll be in that little twin sized bed with your cereal & ***** shirts the same way i left you.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 5:51 AM UTC
Consult kiosk, medium or sayer of sooth
For answers to riddles seek out earthly sleuth
They lie, can't you tell?
The wise know the quelle
the Word, the bearer of truth
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 5:45 PM UTC
It is not always easy to express one's self
When his artistic creations are never placed in galleries
They are often forgotten of
Sitting there gathering dust on a storage shelf.
It seems as if ten more people are at the same task
As which you create with
Comparing their outcomes to your own
Your light of hope fails to light
Due to many missing you that must express
such visions
A dog starved to the bone.
Eyes meet the other exhibits
As your kiosk is primarily never sought for business
The confidence of challenge is there, however, it soon melts away
When all of the hard work which you have placed
in expressions for the world to see
Fade to darkness like the "dark side of the moon"
As night simply ends the days.
Questions remain about what you are truly "gifted"
at or "ahead" of other game pieces on the board game of life.
When so many are inventive such as you
One too many is a crowd.
You pull down a fake smile. A fake shrowd.
Now the net is neutral
Damaging my once vibrant flow
As my hands are now tied to how I can grow
The rules of the game are now many and harder to get around
Like a roadblock in your sight of your future
The air begins to become too thin and your mind weighs heavy
As the cut in your creative inventiveness
Bleeds too heavy and needs a "miraculous" suture.
Needing others on my team
Every time I seek out such
I'm the "driver x" at the "speed races"
and the "forced gun" to bear uninspiring
and lonely expressive paces.
Is their justice to the laws limiting one's freedom of expression
just to protect those in the "top few?"
When the own half of the platform on which you try and "compete"
However, you are too small to be seen as "you."
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 4:12 AM UTC
In the beginning we prayed the sun would shine
And that we would have butter for tomorrow's bread
And that kings would call us on our phones
And then we prayed for our families and for our friends
And for the meeting with the boss
At 10am tomorrow.
Later we walked through the back gate
Of the petrol station that led us to the market
This time we prayed for enough money to buy stock fish
and the new maggi flavor they talked about on TV
But despite the fumes from the noisy generator outside,
8.30pm's dinner we would enjoy
Wasn't it the other day we prayed for lamb
and more soup when the bike hit you
and we could barely afford a cab to take us back home?
Quickly buying balm from the kiosk beside George's,
Asking God why again, we prayed for a car.
Taxis don't enter after 10pm.
So from that day, we dreaded the gates
between the station and ojodu market
We looked beyond the skies when it rained
Soaking our sunday best. She hissed
And I made excuses, "Maybe God wants to tell us
That this time tomorrow, we will tell a story"
10pm tomorrow?
Heaven 's giant gates opened
Yes, slowly. Those everlasting gates did open
They did open to our hearts
But ours were shut.
Who knew when?
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
1720, work’s all done.
Listen boss, I got to dash.
Stopped at florist.
Bought red roses for his lover.
Ran down the street clutching his bunch.
Glanced at his watch.
Sees that he’s late.
To meet the wife.
Anniversary date.
Puts his hand in jacket pocket.
Aims to find his mobile.
Silly sod forgot it.
Got to the phone box on the corner of the street.
Waited a minute or two.
Until in desperation, to give apologetic explanation.
Tap, tap tap, he rapped.
Bashes on the phone box door.
A silly old dear with hair rinsed in blue.
Spins round with venomous tongue.
Shouts out loud.
“Be patient son”.
“Can’t you see I’m having a chat!”
Chatter chatter.
Natter natter.
On and on she went.
Dude outside was going mental.
Mrs Ancient left the cubicle.
Throwing ***** looks around.
Huffing a puffing, like the dragon she is.
The flower man flies in the box.
Receiver picked up.
Dials lady lover’s number.
Typically the number’s engaged.
So, spitting fire the fella’s enraged.
Tired of trying to explain.
Knowing his next train is due in a while.
Runs from the kiosk not wearing a smile.
In his ire he chucked the roses.
Landed in the ******* bin.
At the terminus of train at last.
The flower seller grinned at him.
She could see his stress shine through.
Sold him a bunch of lilies of peace.
Before on to the train he swept.
Key in the front door.
Inside he ventured.
Smelling cremated dinner burn.
“Oops darling I’m so sorry.
You’d never believe the day I had.
See darling.
I didn’t forget our anniversary!”
(C) Livvi 2014
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 6:09 AM UTC
I never wanted it to go this way,
though it was my actions
that catalyzed the death and
the following internment of our love.
I never meant for it to be like this.
We have our prides and our
angers and our unbearable
emotions.
My finger still won’t bend from
that parking kiosk. I was so mad.
I don’t know if I would’ve jumped but
******* it was a toss up.
I am sorry you saw that side of me.
The demons that normally vent out
through the line breaks of the poems
as they line the walls of my computer
numbering the thousands.
You should read them
all some day. Perhaps gain
a little perspective into
how I am who I am.
I never meant for it to be like this.
This broken record of arguments
and excuses and tears that never
seem to fully stop.
You’ve put your guard up.
Distance is a distinct enemy
of love, so is pride/anger/regret.
—Insert the adjective you wish—
I hate myself for you.
Most likely more than you do,
though you would tell me that
it isn’t possible.
Your anger is beautiful
to me, even though it
is the loaded gun barrel
lodged between my teeth.
Your passion for us was
something I have grown to
envy, even seek to emulate,
now that I understand it.
I never showed you how
I felt, never let myself believe it.
Now I am begging for a
second/third/fourth, chance.
Perhaps the boy has cried
wolf one too many times,
and now must face the inevitable
jaws of a love now lost.
I never meant for it to be like this.
Stuck in this terrible place,
this awkward stalemate
between loving and letting go.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
I was skating backwards at the speed of light
My life at that point was not a pretty sight
I was wandering aimlessly on the highway of life
My heart felt like it had been sewn together with a knife
Having nothing but the best of intentions
I stopped at the kiosk to ask for directions
She told me she had the remedy to cure my infection
At that point she definitely had my attention
Just as I was staring down the abyss of nothingness
There she was this angel in white clothed in all her holiness
Somehow she has managed to penetrate my psyche
Or Perhaps I'm just a victim of her overwhelming beauty
She shelters me in the fullness of her open wings
How could I not become a prisoner of such blessings?
She captured my heart and now I am a hostage
I feel like I've been given a fatal dosage.
Could it be I've fallen, I've only met her once
I'll just shine it on, I need to keep my distance
Even so I feel a spiritual connection
Or am I just a sad victim of inferior perception.
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 6:45 PM UTC
**This tabloid I hold impulsively bought
from the newspaper kiosk so as not to get bored
through tedium or languor... to ponder or browse
and while away time, shunning the world
as I stand in the queue, clutching my fare
and wait by the stop... in the rain.
I accept a brief grunt and nod of the head
[ begrudgingly sought ] from the stranger I see
five days of the week and clench my teeth
as he stands by my side, peering over my shoulder
and consumes the newspaper though it were his own,
in my mind I imagine him thumbing the pages.
Then looking up I impatiently mutter
and glance at the time with utter frustration,
I close the newspaper [ with smug satisfaction ]
and fold in my pocket, all dog-eared and damp
[ much like myself ] as I stand at the stop
and wait for the bus... to go home.**
... ... ...
Apr 11, 2011
Apr 11, 2011 at 10:31 PM UTC
I joust myself into jovial life
Jocose tatterdemalion and stygian salaciousness
Umbrage abrogating merit like swamping locusts
The mammoth chip on shouldered kids starving for life
I'm waiting on purgatory, and I'll wait for you with knives out
Cemetry of the artist stubbed beards and pubescence in the Phoenician Lands
He said she should have left the house
Tomahawks can still cut the vineyard, make my loquacity into beer-tap poetry
Flowery, murmur, kumbaya, kalimba de la soul and all thoughts aside
You're hoping music brings the song to my speechless heart
Your dance sounds light the motionless night, only the tapping of starry footsteps
Hob-nobs, more and more, knobs of heaven's doors open to every hippie with angel hair
Crossing the wires of substrates
Sonatas and partitas can be lugubrious, yet, elegantly examined
Nocturnes, from the centuries
Of ten old centurions
Came down to the Colosseum
Gladiator enthralled the chariots of fire
I was with ten ants, burning under the microscope
Tenants of this Roman Empire
Fighting for your rights
Fighting for the people who cannot fight
For the weak, requires peace and understanding
Shiny, homeless people lost the soul to the drugs and marijuana smoke under streetlamps stretching to infinity
This earth is an orchard of flowers
Slightly plump in the middle, it's mother nature
Not zaftig, it has latitudes and longitudes
Lavish life, garish fiefdom, stretches across the bent imagination of perverse minds
Looking for a kiosk in the peak of red skies that do not know blood and aggravation
New Year's Day, the cyka cry Mother Russia and SOS
Shooting flares into the sky
To reach so low, and to reach so high
Shouting slogans, written by the poets
Passion, prejudice, sensibility, comradery these are metiers of poets
Secrets strewed across the bloodless sky
Wishful thinking tantamount to head in the clouds
The clouds have different shapes and size, the fire of the greater existence lends us words in thoughts
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 1:01 PM UTC
I got drunk with a kiosk, we made beautiful music. With styrofoam cups & plastic utensils.
We became one, over salt & sugar packs.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
An afternoon warm and dull and bland
Not so special for a nobody's girl in town
Hitting the roads on summer days
Hoping for a little fuss in her insipid space.
Looking for refreshments as the sun goes high
The girl decides to visit a kiosk nearby
Asking for a tumbler of cold cafe latte shake
Handing over some bucks to a lady so irate.
From afar, there goes a fine young man
Oh what a lovely bonus in sight!
Stopping by a lengthy row of costly cars
Not one from them seems to match his aplomb.
The day's warmth, no remedy, to his cool strides
Getting near, she looks away to dodge his hazel eyes
As he walks by, she looks up only to find him there
Gazing at her, but looks away when she pays a stare.
He heads off the streets, with no certain limit
To where his shoes might lead him to
While on a cafe nearby, the girl takes a mango pie
Just to get by the summer's funny tricks.
He enters the zone where the girl takes a sip
Of her heavenly cafe latte shake
Just a round table away, he takes a glance again
And the girl wonders just why he's there.
She checks her phone, holds her glass
Not even thinking 'bout the seconds that pass
Taking a sip, she tries to steal a glance
But in a jiffy, he's nowhere to be found.
Feeling disappointed, she rises from her seat
Leaving a tip on the beige table mats
But before she goes on, she notices a small note
On that young man's cluttered table top.
She reads a line from a song and it turns her on
But taking in the message doesn't feel right
It reads: *"Oh it's sad to belong to someone else,
When the right one comes along..."*
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
theres an unabridged sorrow to her voice
an open and silent feeling behind the
winter feilds of her eyes
their tilled rich soils
plowed under to a uniform dark dead brown
as her hand rushes through her wheat hair
like a skyth
she sends you to her fathers farm
on the north road on the grand island
her picture on the shelf in her
childhood room
smiles with a green toad
another picture of her lesbian lover
one of me
juxtapose the tread of the man
come to wrench the breath from
the bird at nightfall
his ***** hands are silent
and his thick red jacket a muffed rustling
as the gasping goes on and on
the terrible need for ceasing the desire to flee
his hands slowly stop their motion
and he steps away
you are left in the room
with this now silent dead creature
this signifigant kiosk in the chapter of your travel
this strange night
he brings you his wife
and the two of you drive back to town
i will never forget that
small creature in that room
its silent death a reproach
to us all
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
It was late
one Sunday afternoon
when you must have been
about 11 or 12
just before tea
and Sunday bath
and your old man said
dress up in your best
long trousers and blazer
and shirt and tie
I’m taking you
to the cinema
to see an X film
an X film?
you said
yes Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde
he said
but you have to be 16
to get into see that
you said
I know but if we get you
all smartened up you may pass
he said
and so you put on
your best blazer
and long trousers
and white shirt
and your old man
did up your tie
in the Windsor Knot
he was good at
and off you went
to the cinema
on the New Kent Road
and he went to the kiosk
and bought two tickets
and the old dame
behind the glass panel
looked at you
but said nothing
and gave him
the two tickets
and you followed him
to the twin doors
that led into the cinema
and the usherette
looked at you
and said to your old man
follow me
and you followed her
as she showed the way
to your seats
with her torch shining
and you went down the aisle
and along the row of seat
to where her torch settled
and pulled down the seats
and sat down
there was a cartoon on
loud and colourful
and people around you
were laughing
and you looked up
at the screen
then at your old man
and he was gazing
at the screen
like some worshipper
taking in the colour
and noise
and you settled back
in your seat trying to look
taller and adult
and laughed
when the others laughed
and then came
the intermission
before the big feature film
and he said
do you want an ice cream?
yes please
you said and off he went
to the ice cream girl at the front
with her tray of ice-cream
and sweets etc
and you looked about you
sitting up straight
to make yourself look older
and gazed at your old man
at the front
then at your shoes
then at the people
in front of you
then he came back
and gave you
the ice cream tub
and wooden spoon
then he sat down with his
then the lights
went out again
and the film began
Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde
and you sat there
thinking of what O’Brien
would say at school next day
when you told him
you’d got into see an X film
o yeah he’d say
I bet you did
pull then other leg
it’s got bells on
but it didn’t matter
what O’Brien thought
or said
you were there
in the dark
watching the X film
at 12 years old
o what a laugh
you were there
watching it
not at home
getting ready for bed
after the Sunday bath.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 3:43 AM UTC
The tattooist’s lines
Soften
Turn to blue
Faiths have
An anchor
And forget me knot
Marks time
Within a beachfront kiosk
Mattress in rear
Note on shutters
Saying
Back in 15 minutes
Older than her waist size
Younger than the priced
Sunday Sport tabloid
Talking of big ****
And WW2 bomber on the moon
That she’d folded
As though sleeves rolled up
Her name imprinted
Each stick of rock
On the seafront
When anyone talked of Faith
Pink words
Always turned blue
Apr 23, 2025
Apr 23, 2025 at 9:53 AM UTC