"lunches" poems
Last night I
had a dream that
you died.
Everyone we knew
came, said their I’m-so-sorry’s,
and
left, filtering out the front door
slowly
like sand through a sideways sifter,
leaving behind pieces,
words and memories
and casseroles I
could not taste.
And the whole time
everyone was here,
you were here, too.
I could hear
you, smell
you, feel
you.
I could feel you
surrounding me like the ghost of the baby blanket
I once had and could never leave at home.
I loved you here and here you would stay, with me,
and now you would never leave.
I could keep you.
You were bound to me.
But the ties that bind are tight and you did not like me leaving.
You could not go with me and
you
accidentally
and without words
by holding, enveloping,
suffocating
you told me
that you did not want me to ever leave again.
So I stopped.
I stopped leaving.
And the calls stopped, too.
The invites. The lunches. The impromptu trips to town.
All unnecessary noise.
The people left. And then it was just you and me.
Until one day I saw what you had done.
Tripping
I glanced in the mirror and saw.
You had etched yourself into my face.
Dug with your nails
terrifying ravines
escaping the corners
of my eyes. Pulled down
my mouth and every
shallow natural valley turned to
deep empty bowl, hungry and wanting.
My eyes no longer held light.
I saw this, all evidence against you,
and I still loved you.
You had hurt me in ways you never had
while you were here – here – and I knew.
And I still loved you.
Slinking up the stairs
I called you to me. I felt you surround
faster than before and
closer, tighter, colder.
Suffocating, stifling and
so destructive in how you loved me.
Slowly but faster
I grew to know
I would not become you and
you would not become me.
We were stuck on other sides of the mirror.
I was so angry
at what you had allowed me
made me
begged me to become.
Realizing
I gasped and put
hand to heart
it hurt so.
I stood upright
how long have I been bent
took in one long deep breath of stuffy air
how long since I opened the windows
and called you to me
when have I last heard a voice not my own
called you to listen.
I felt the loss of everything else
friends
family
adventure
excitement.
Nothing was left of that here
and I was so angry
and I am so sorry
and I yelled
I screamed
I roared
why are you still here
why are you making me like you
why did you come here and
hold me
and keep me here with you
I am not the one who is dead
and I said
and I regret
and I am so sorry
I can’t have you here
go away
and
leave me alone
and you did.
You left me
all alone.
Why would you leave me?
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
You've always been in my heart
Where you've stayed since the beginning
You're like a little sister to me
Like the twinkling stars are to the beautiful sky
Like the driftwood is to tiptoe across
Like the romantic couples are to sandy beach strolls
Like the glowing campfires are to cooling nights
Like the soft music is from crashing waves
Like the white seashells are to listening ears
Like the gigantic ships are to the rolling sea
Like the wiggling fish are to the squawking seagulls
Like hungry people are to their picnic lunches
Like the playful families are to the never-ending coast
Like all eyes are to the breath-taking view
Like the smiling faces are to the digital cameras
Like the crying children are to their tearful goodbyes
You're like a little sister to me
We've always been, one way or another, the best of friends,
And we'll forever be, until the end
Copyright 2014; Sabrina Denise Healey,
~Angelmom~
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 7:03 PM UTC
Maybe someday we could have a picnic together.
Sunlight always makes your eyes shimmer like public swimming pools
with a little too much chlorine, and I’d love to see you dance
nervously when you discover a line of ants marching up your leg.
I’d like to kiss you with the taste of potato salad fresh on your lips
with a twist of lukewarm lemonade; you’d probably push me away
self consciously, but the fact of the matter is that your mouth
would excite me even after eating ten pounds of garlic.
The red checkered blanket would bring out the creamy tones
in your skin and I’d soon find myself devouring your beauty rather than
the pre-made peanut butter and jam sandwiches.
Your voice and its stories are sweeter than any strawberries
I’ve ever tasted, anyhow.
I could plan our lunches together for the rest of our lives,
but you’re not the kind of girl to settle down for a lunch
with someone like me, let alone for a lifetime.
So for some inexplicable reason I imagine myself at your door,
wicker basket in hand, with no answer.
As it would seem, picnics aren’t really your scene.
And neither am I.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
March in Minnesota
Still a solid four feet of snow
Two flipping inches of ice
On every flipping road
High school lunches
All the nutrients in the world!
For a six year old maybe
Or a terribly anorexic girl
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 5:27 PM UTC
sail boats
and oceans
and really anything that floats and carries a person
far away
in a big body of water
I don’t think I have to say why
it’s obvious
I’m sure everyone has a thing for sail boats
and oceans
I like busses too
I seem to get really impatient on them, and I like that a lot
because I know I can’t do anything about it
it’s a game of
Will I Go Crazy Or Will I Have A Snooze?
I like being stuck between being stuck and being unstuck
one day I want to sit on a bus for 24 hours and see what happens
(I will be doing a lot of that in the month of October)
I’ll bring books, my iPod and movies to watch on my laptop
but I’ll probably just stare out the window hours on end
tall buildings will turn into blurry trees and blurry trees
will turn into pixilated neon canola crops
and there’ll be cows and ponies and one long road
to Montreal
then Toronto
then who the **** knows where because I am already dreading
going home after the trip
even though I haven’t left for the trip yet
it’s months to come
I have a thing for finding a new home
everywhere I go
but I never find one
I like the process of looking for a really long time
then giving up from discouragement and sad feelings of
abandonment stemmed from my childhood daddy issues
I’m pretty sure everyone has daddy-abandonment issues
I have a thing for assuming every one has the same problems
that I do
but it turns out that there are loads of girls that like to eat
lots
and don’t feel ashamed of the extra scoop of
double fudge ice cream
and there are teenagers that get along with their fathers
and look up to them
they go out for lunches and joke about dates and fix cars
and tell their little girls they’ll always be their little girls
and go on awkward shopping sprees and barbecue
but everyone has a thing for sail boats and water
we all want to escape
our eating disorder and drinking problem
a skinny body or a bulky body
bad grades and perfectionism
the people pleasing pushovers
fathers and mothers and old european traditions
family dinners that go perfectly and are so boring because of it
the fragility of feeling unique
the arrogance of feeling unique
the lack of faith in ourselves
being alone
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
Flowers in spring, me out of bed in the morning, and clean, fresh clothes. The miles in front of a long car drive, and the scenery before the eyes of the passengers. My heart in his hands, or my soul under my mother's gaze. Lawn chairs and lunches on sunny beach days with friends, when water sparkles, the sun embraces, and laughter is prince of the day. Hands held out to help those who have fallen, and vulnerability in the eyes of those accepting the offer. Music from the lips and instruments of men, then from the radio as we dance at 2 AM in the light of the TV. Romance as darkness falls, personal space shrinks, and eyes connect in intimacy. Moonlight as it peeks over a tree-capped mountain, slipping into the bedroom window from between the curtains.
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 2:16 AM UTC
The representative from Ohio
wipes his *** with Jose’s brown
palms after a bout of verbal defecation.
Luckily, Jose’s food truck houses
a small sink in the corner where
he can wash his hands in between
baskets of chorizo prepared
for rich politicians.
Sometimes Jose scrubs so hard dream flakes
rub off of his skin and he throws them
into the wastebasket to be picked
up by the sanitation workers who
eagerly jump like frogs in orange vests
into the waste of Americana. When
the Representative stops by for
a plate of carne asada, Jose’s
dream specks pepper the beef
and his salty sweat flavors
the inside of the burrito. He grills
the onions and green peppers with
a dash of minimum wage and
boils the rice in a mixture of blood
and pieces of his heritage.
He serves the meal in a white Styrofoam
tray and drizzles it with cheese flowing
from an open wound. The receipt is an unpaid
medical bill, the drink an icy reminder
of his future sipped through a straw.
The nightly news tells Jose
the Representative is bedridden
with a stomach infection. He
complains his insides feel like
a million ***** feet kicking the lining,
like unheard mouths with rows of
sharp teeth gnawing at the liver.
Jose to the tv: tonight we’re not starving.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
Bedroom’s painted fisherman’s blue
There’s a cut out of Hayden Panettiere naked in a pink bikini with a hula-hoop on the back of the door
Copies of British Vogue desperately hidden underneath the bed accompanying an empty bottle of Glen’s
Manchester United duvet cover and matching pillows to boot
The bin’s filled with pre-packed home-made lunches from the last six months
Wardrobes a collection of ill fitting blue jeans bought for me by grandmother and football jerseys for teams that I’ve never even heard of, yet let alone see play a single game
Uniform ironed and sitting out ready for school on Monday at 8am sharp
***** clothes cover mostly all the floor smelling of Lynx’s finest even though there’s an empty laundry basket just waiting in the corner to be used
Inside one of the woolen blazer’s (that is way too big for me) pockets a single unopened ****** and an AES 256-bit encrypted USB stick
An old PlayStation 2, with a single controller; games including FIFA years through 2004 to now, Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell, and GTA.
Blood red shoplifted lipstick that’s now melted hidden in the little secret compartment at the back, meant for network expansion.
Artemis Fowl, Alex Rider, and Harry Potter all adorn the bookcase
Physics, Maths, and IT textbooks remain firmly closed on the desk in addition to a smashed phone from me and Daddy’s last “physical altercation”
Lady Gaga’s “I Like it Rough” is playing in the background on repeat…
Aug 23, 2020
Aug 23, 2020 at 2:43 PM UTC
In class the big black and white tick-tock pinched
my mid-morning belly. When everyone else
borrowed numbers, my pencil lead and yellow paint
scratched out hunger. Minutes chugged like school
buses. Even columns of three-numeraled numbers
minused the bottom line, scold of lunch.
A borrowed quarter and dime from the office,
meant a secretary’s red-lipsticked mouth, bent
and accusing. Her coiffed curls shook my dreams.
I would starve before sailing into that office
for my little belly, but forever yearned for the secretary
to pet my hair. Say, “There, there,”like to a character
in a book rosy with girls in gingham dresses.
But, for all those lovely boats of hot lunches: meatloaf
with crusts of catsup like a winter cap, buttered beans,
dinner rolls
and cold-cartoned milk, not watered down--
Missing lunch, I'd hide out in the cold storage
room of sack lunches next to the playground.
While the others ate, I'd escape at the right tick
into the recess of blacktop and tetherball.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC
Waking breath ghostly frozen, clang of pot-belly stove opening, cedar crackles good morning, sap sizzles, pops, melting. Warmth finds children sleeping, humid air, mouth-breathing. Smell of boy sweat and feet, young women ripely sweet.
Cats purring, stirring, padding quiet down stairs, weave meowing through mom's legs. Dented percolator burbles better days, snap of toast burned haze, molten mush bubbles burst, fade. Birds early on the highway Paradise-seeking, time, flash-burned, fleeting. Cobalt jay mockingly complains, chickadee sings his own name, coyote wails, thin and plain.
Children rise, sleep in their eyes, squabble over bathroom prize, eldest wins, click, locks herself in. Hurry, hurry the bus is coming, ancient driver, annoyed and honking. Brown-bag lunches crinkled running, feet slapping, seats squeaking, lungs hot and bursting. Ride the dawn breaking, hearts aching for more than this, rural bliss.
Stop sign flashes caution, young lovers in the back seat, bodies in motion. Stop, start, sway on down the highway. Engine mimics hot blood lust, accelerated diesel rush, nothing can stop us. You grab my knee - young, carefree. Brakes sigh and hiss, sneak one last kiss. You mouth - meet me later, we'll sneak out, rush to a future we haven't got, ready or not.
The old road at dusk, frog song accompanies us, bike wheels on the asphalt hum, forbidden moonlight run. Feel your heartbeat on my spine, frantic drumming matching mine. Horned owl hoots, forlorn and bleak, a premonition we refuse to heed, reckless with need. In the clearing young love begins, forget-me-knots on burning skin.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 9:44 AM UTC
Pinstriped suit
Black briefcase
clink of heels
On marble floors
imposing glass walls
Emails coming in
Emails coming in
Slacks and a tshirt
Powderblue backpack
Red hightops
on gravel
lockers on walls
Students coming in
Students coming in
Oak desk
Open door
Client comes in
Check the emails
"I want a divorce"
turn to the client
turn to the client
Blackboard
Open door
Students stream through
Smile in greeting
"Recess 'aint long enough"
Open up textbooks
Open up textbooks
Client cries
Keep professional poise
nod in understanding
Show no weakness
"He won't sign the papers"
Just nod
Just nod
Students protest
explain over the noise
try to make them love it
show no weakness
"who cares abour 1945?!"
I care
I care
Go home
Collapse onto the
Black leather sofa
in front of
the plasma screen TV
Instant noodles for dinner
Instant noodles for dinner
Go home
Collapse onto the
stained, worn-out fouton
the kids badger
for some television time
Put the roast in the oven
Put the roast in the oven
The neighbors open
their doors
turn to watch yours
remian tight shut
Noone to expect
Noone to come home to
Noone to come home to
The key turns
in the lock
turn to see
him walk in
bag of groceries in hand
Dinner's almost ready
Dinner's almost ready
TV programs over
Noodles devoured
papers signed
emails replied to
slip into bed
In bed alone
In bed alone
Children fed and bathed
television switched off
homework assistance provided
papers graded
husband made love to
Someone to hold on to
Someone to hold on to
Bathtub full of
Cranberry scented foam
Water's cold now
Body's cold now
Cold blade on Cold marble floor
So much blood
So much blood
Alarm goes off
Wake the children
Pack the lunches
Make the breakfast
Read the paper
Such a sad sad suicide
Such a sad sad suicide
Bathtub full of
Cranberry scented foam
Water's cold now
Body's cold now
Cold blade on cold marble floor
So much blood
So much blood
Hold him close
So much warmth
Hold the kids tight
Transfer body heat
Why did she die?
She had it all
She had it all
Nobody to inheret
The condo with a view
The money in the bank
The diamond earrings
the workload
Nobody to miss
Nobody to miss
Hold him close
So much warmth
Hold the kids tight
Tarnsfer body heat
Why did she die?
She had nothing
She had nothing
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 8:40 PM UTC
So many, many moons ago
The gang from St. Brigid's would go
Every single chance we could
Off to local farms to sow spuds.
Each one covered in burning lime
(No health and safety at the time)
Each sown under a foot apart;
If not, you went back to the start.
All for only ten pence a line
(Though 'twas a fortune at the time)
Working mostly long ten hour days;
Kids would not do it nowadays!
Picnic lunches in all weathers,
Sitting in the fields together,
Lemonade bottles for the tea,
Eating with hands filthy *****
It was work that would break your back
But sure we all had mighty craic,
Laughing and joking all day through,
Slagging each other as kids do!
St. Brigid's gang were number one,
Farmers knew the work would be done.
At harvest time back we would drag
To pick spuds for ten pence a bag!
It did none of us any harm
Working such long hours on the farm.
Although the work was onerous
'Twas the making of all of us!
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 4:35 AM UTC
I.
A louse in a house
or a mouse on a blouse.
A bell that goes ****
or a gong that goes ****
A gap on a map
or a cap on your lap.
A drink in the sink
or an ink that stinks.
A spleen on a screen
or a queen who is green.
A bow in the snow
or a crow that glows.
II.
A wash or a whip,
a lip or a lop,
a top or a tip,
a car or afar,
a bar or a war,
a door or a snore,
a bore or a nail,
a flail or a whale,
a run or a bun,
a sun or a moon,
a spoon or a bus,
a fuss or a sigh,
a cry or a cheer,
a fear or a smile,
a while or a pen,
a den or a cat,
a mat or a hat,
a bat or a glass,
a vase or a weight,
a mate or a fork,
a cork or a mop,
a cop or a stop.
III.
Apples and artichokes, ants and antelopes,
bees and beers, books and brains,
cucumbers and chimneys, ***** and coats,
dogs and drains, dots and dominoes,
ears and eejits, elephants and exams,
flies and flutes, files and friends,
grasses and guts, giants and gyms,
horrors and hiccups, horses and hills,
igloos and irons, irises and idiots,
jumpers and jackets, jodhpurs and jellies,
kings and kettles, kites and kittens,
lions and lamps, lemons and lunches,
mums and monsters, mosses and moths,
noses and notes, nightmares and needles,
oblongs and orang-utans, organs and oranges,
paintings and pennies, ponds and pants,
quiches and quizzes, questions and queues,
rainbows and rings, rascals and rabbits,
snakes and sprouts, sweets and salts,
trumpets and trains, tables and toasters,
umpires and ukuleles, umbrellas and uniforms,
violets and vests, violins and vials,
wheels and wings, windows and weeds,
xylems and x-rays, xylophones and xysters,
yachts and yoghurts, yards and yaks,
zigzags and zephyrs, ziggurats and zombies.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
What I should have said
when Mike Whittle died, was
what a mighty man he was,
though small in stature,
yeah, how he set the students’
minds on fire.
Instead I said
he always jabbed himself with insulin
while we were having lunch
and I said that this was a literary tradition
like Polonius being stabbed in the arras
and Mark Antony falling on his sword after Actium
before Octavian could get there ahead of him.
And then I said that Antony's lover Cleopatra died
when she arranged to be bitten on her ***** by an asp.
And I thought I was a smart *** by saying
don’t get confused and think she was bitten on her asp.
Well, Mike and I did laugh about literary allusions,
along with all that insulin and his pancreas,
during all of those immortal lunches.
But what I should have said was that students
worshiped him, and they said that
‘he gave me my love of learning’.
Mike, you mighty little giant.
And how I loved that you could laugh when the admin staff
tried to cut you down because they hate popularity so much.
Those blasts of laughter in your classes
frightened them and they thought you were
an iconoclast. Oh Mike. I love you, just like all your students.
That's what I should have said about
the gifts you gave us all in
Learn, Love and Laughter 101.
This is your immortal epitaph.
Mike T Minehan
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
Were you alive when the
bricks began to crumble
beneath our hand-held, picket line
across the parking lot in front of some
school that no one bothered to name?
Our exhaustion-mumbled whispers
skipping across lips dropping to the street
that tapered ladders on gargantuan gadflies as the summer heat
etched the tear lines into mud tracks against
our ruddied faces.
Cohorts torn into flip stands
layered toward standing political sores --
tell me how to cross my t’s and fill in scantron circles before
the suits step over brown-bag lunches
to stretch the yawning yellow tape over the students’ lockers.
We were strung up the flag pole, almost posted as decapitated heads for the public.
The political analysts call this “The biggest school closing in decades.”
Under teeming hammer-strikes :
glasses shred to paper-splinters
before a young boy’s diploma
crying white chalk bricks
from university’s doors instead on to
prison yard orange jumpsuits.
Can we call this a school improvement project
or can we call this the Same Salem Witch Hunt
As unwashed teachers and students alike deck the sidewalks like
Either Christmas decorations on Michigan Avenue or
Inmates on the gallows platform
I’m completely unable to read the television marquee that told the neighborhood that City Hall was too stuffed with paperwork to defend the mothers and invisible fathers.
I’m completely unable to write out of respect for these children’s already-carved in stone pathway to the gutter, graveyard, and/or prisons.
In the first wink of dawn
We will all scatter
To our respective positions
Carved out in concrete before the
barricades fall
to flood the street.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC
as if pulling (on the tab)
prevents the continued closure
of the lunch box
oxen milling brunch
as it unfolds sinewed pasture
green purloining sunlight
oxen munching salami on Thursday morning
mourning the luncheon of Sunday
black black blackberries lugubrious
lubricate brioche freshness
pile of white pile of brown pile of pylons
pile (on the tab)
shots are on me
shots fired no casualties
oxen bagged lunches aren't as fun as pulling punches
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
High school nightmares
of
being everybody's spit catcher.
A real life
idiot
magnet
that attracts
nothing,
but,
negative
forces.
If you've ever felt like everything good repels away from you
& that you can only attract the bad.
Welcome to The Love Cult.
We are:
The kids that ate
their brown-bag
lunches
in one stall
then
purged
in the next.
Cause we were afraid of being labeled with bad brand names.
If you were the
kid in gym class,
that
no one wanted on
their team.
If you have ever felt
alone,
tortured,
abused
and abandoned.
When the only thing you can
do
to
suppress those suicide dreams
is
to use your body
as a make shift
punching bag.
Just remember,
There is a
big *** & beautiful
cuddle
puddle
that will hug you
& love you.
No matter
what anybody has said
about you.
We know that
you're something special.
I believe you're going to be okay,
someday sooner
than you think.
It's a nice thought you need to
Dig
Dig
Dig it, deep into your brain.
Hello.
I'm Bandit & I'd like to invite you to
my family of passionate & loving friends.
We go by
The
Love
Cult.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 1:49 PM UTC
Alarm ringing
Pitter patter of little feet
Orange juice, aroma of coffee, burnt toast and butter
Pigtails, sundresses, baseball cap and shorts
Children playing, water splashing
Scraped knees and band-aids
Smell of fresh cut grass and lavender
Warm summer breeze
Picnic lunches and napping in hammocks
Mothers calling, children running
Hot dogs and hamburgers
Corn on the cob, watermelon
In and out in a half hour
Tag, kick the can, hide and seek
Fire flies and mason jars
S'mores, camp fires, scary stories
Sunset, red sky at night.
Bubble bath and baby powder
Onesies, quiet time
Bedtime reading and nightly prayers
Warm bed and sweet dreams
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
Blood splatter
Brain matter
Arms crossed
Children lost
You shouldn’t get
To look away
Cold metal slabs
Filled with bad
Rooms brimming
Ready to burst
With the sad
You shouldn’t get
To look away
Bone fragment
Metal shards
Bombed out buildings
Scarred the yard
Flowers crushed
Before their time
You shouldn’t get
To look away
Open wounds
Pacifier soaked in blood
Children in school
With nowhere to run
Can’t hide from
A bomb
Can’t find a tunnel to sanity
While this goes on
You shouldn’t get to look away
Madmen don’t live in asylums
They wear suits and ties
Eat power lunches
While bombs fly
Turn a blind eye
For profit
No matter what it costs
You may try to hide
Let others decide
Who lives and dies
But no one should get to look away
See what’s left
Feel their pain
Give me your reasons
Try to explain
But as long as it happens
Again and again
No one should get to look away
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 3:00 AM UTC
everyone called him Moe, and not just his friends. Moe, he didn't believe in beginnings, but his wife would tell people when it started. it started, she would say, when he stopped eating his lunches. and he guessed that was about right, as right as a wife can be. he'd come home from work with his pail and set it heavy in his wife's right arm as the baby, the youngest, would be in her left. he'd say, no I didn't, maybe tomorrow. then he'd go out to smoke but he wouldn't smoke. he'd leave the cigarettes in their pack and walk out to the yard and think about putting his fat neck in the tire swing. he'd come back to the house and put his fat hands on his daughter's shoulders and say he was home and he would be home tomorrow to eat with her and her brothers. he wouldn't be, though. not right away. on the weekends he'd sit on the step with his oldest son and watch little men die. such a small drop, from that step, not enough to **** a man. his son would just look at him and take the man from Moe's hands and place him on his back again. soon the day came that he left work on his lunch hour. his daughter said thanks and poked his belly. he could hardly move in his pants anymore but he managed to sit down. he asked his wife for the special and pinched her leg. coming right up was a plate of canned ravioli. fuck ravioli he said. but he didn't say it mean. he said it as if he'd just asked for permission to hate ravioli. he said it again. he said a lot of things just then, his mouth full, his wife opening cans in the kitchen. he addressed god directly. after these many years, he addressed god head on. he made for his truck. god, Moses here. it's the ravioli, we have too much.
Jul 27, 2012
Jul 27, 2012 at 12:12 PM UTC
*I fell in love with the mornings
and waking up to breakfasts in bed
drinking coffee only you would know how to make
I fell in love with noon
and the lunches we had together
talking about the latest news over takeout
I fell in love with the afternoons
and the times we spent reading on the couch
eating every word interrupted by coffee stains
I fell in love with the nights
and our stupid little adventures
driving aimlessly and getting lost on the highway
I fell in love with the midnights
and talking to you about anything and everything
watching you stare at my mouth listening to every word
I fell in love with the moments
and everything in between the beginning and the end
wishing I could still spend them with you
I fell in love with the sound of your voice
and the feel of your existence
but I am not in love with you.*
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 9:04 PM UTC
All these vultures hovering around their prey:
Three golden prizes
Who will get there first?
Cue David Attenborough on commentary!
Coupled and single lions
Prowling about
Waiting for the chance of food and drink.
That coffee takes ages.
Coffee?
Yes, for this is my local
And my pack and I
Are thoroughly enjoying our ale
With our lovely lunches
Served to us by beautiful barmaids.
Those golden prizes are the three front tables
From where you can see the golden sand:
On a beach
Dotted with distant tiny people
As some frolic in the estuary waves
On paddle boards,
Basking in the glorious sun.
Time for another pint.
Paul Butters
© PB 2\9\23.
Sep 2, 2023
Sep 2, 2023 at 6:20 AM UTC
Today I write an ode to Joe’s
Procurator, seller, and trader
For my better half it is your coffees
For me, your store entire, for
Your bounty fills my refrigerator
Treasures spicy from India, Japan
Brought to us by your Trader San
From south of the border
Travel goodies galore-a
Compliments of Trader Jose
Then there’s Trader Giotto from Italy
Without a doubt, his yummies call me
There are Jo-Jo’s, curries, oh cho-co-late sweet
And did I mention lotions for feet
There is Pilgrim Joe’s and Trader Ming’s
Who bring to us the finer things
The wines, the drinks, the healthy oils
I dream at night of all your spoils
By way of mention, I cannot forget
Baker Josef who serves to us
Tasty bagels, delicious baguettes
Arabian Joe’s and Joseph Brau
Bring us falafels and rings in our beer
Oh, Trader Johann's and Trader Jacques'
For bodies clean and lips that are fresh
Your Joe's Kids keep mummy's happy
Trader Darwin's help us all stay healthy
Did I, could I, miss anyone?
Don’t want to leave out even one
Your marinated meats, your frozen treats
From Diner Joe’s there are lunches quick
For us working stiffs, his heat-n-eats
Oh, pumpkin scones and cereal O’s
I should not forget your sample bar
Where tastys await to test for my plate
And did I say how amazing you are?
While others sell just fluff and stuff
Of your yummy goodness
I cannot get enough
So if one day soon the Joe’s disappear
I’ll not fret, no i’ll not fear
On me for sure you can count the cause
Right down to your last breadcrumb
For shelves will be bursting in my garage
Where I'll be holding them all, without ransom
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC
I belong surrounded by tall trees
And babbling brooks
With green grass
And picnic lunches.
I belong in dusty bookshelves
And worn out couches
Patterned rugs
And book marks
I belong in warm living rooms
With the fireplace going
Hot chocolate in hand
And family movies.
I belong in smiling faces
And drawn out hugs.
I belong folded between
The cracks in fingers and toes
Wedged inside bright eyes
And eyelashes.
I belong in all of these places
But
Above all
I belong with you.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC