"serviette" poems
Replaying a riff four times perfectly
One missed fret and the entire day ends disastrously
Replaying moments of kindness and warmth
To overcome the feverish idea that I hold no heart
Every fourth step, threes end in ******
Maimed images constantly creep
This subconscious ludovico technique
These thoughts come and go in no particular order
A seat at the table and a serviette on my lap
What if I leapt out my chair and suddenly attacked?
What if I aimed the knife towards my hand?
I constantly question if that’s who I am
I will have a picnic with her today, all joy and cheer
When these intrusive thoughts will inexplicably get near
And terrorize my attitude as well as my image
Disassociating with a perplexed and horrified visage
I’m so incredibly tired of existing
A cruel and ironic fate
I’ve missed out on so many opportunities
All because of this miserable headspace
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 1:05 PM UTC
She was a dancer,
caught off beat
by a neat little stranger lurking
in the body of the womb,
where once she strayed from danger,
within a motherly costume.
After show drinks, stage
& waits in the green room,
were pipe dreams for this
Mum without a groom.
Yet still, and continuing so,
she provides for two girls,
her blonde Monroe's; be that lifts
to school or another
big shop so the nonstop
keeps from turning blue.
But how up North can you keep from the cold,
when constant frost creates the vignette
to the serviette snow out there?
Cheap beans and even cheaper bread
won't make that meal you read and said to be good,
any better than it is.
But a text, fax, pigeon post fast, to your Mum back home
wipes clean these thoughts of being alone
and underfed,
and instead; restores your faith in everything
and anything you may do in the future,
and what you said-
to me once on that walk;
will stick with me until we next talk
or, maybe quite possibly, drink
until glasses are empty and
the wine bottles clink.
for the Carters
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 9:12 AM UTC
He used to hide things for me
In the microwave
Or under a pile of serviette
In a metal room
Where I hid to eat
I ran away from all the heat
To talk about familiarities
He used to give things to me
On long working days
Chocolate ice cream,
Mixed with kindness
Served with dreams
Talks past midnights
Evening shifts
And when you were gone
My Mom told me,
That some things fade
And life moves on
Feelings shift
New plans will form
And loosing someone will keep you silent
But the things you gave me will always be kept.
~G
Sep 3, 2023
Sep 3, 2023 at 2:58 AM UTC
Slim- Where is my T-shirt May?
May- I pegged it on the clothesline yesterday...
Slim- No wonder I couldn't find it!
May- After you'd spilled tomato sauce on it, I thought I'd wash it.
Slim- The next time, I have sauce on a pie, I'll have to be careful not to get it on my shirt...
May- You may need a serviette around your neck....to ameliorate stains on your shirt.
Slim- Have we any serviettes in the cupboard May?
May- Yes! I bought some at the supermarket earlier on to-day....
Slim- No doubt, I'd be lost without you May!
May- When you married me, it was most certainly your lucky day...
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 6:13 AM UTC
"I'll leave you all the weapons for that",
Pat smiled and perched the two too-tall cinnamon buns
down beside me on the windowsill,
as promised fully armed with knife, fork and serviette
I entered the fray and caught the eye of the postman
as he fought with his cart along the too narrow,
not-quite-cobbled path, slick with rain,
and then he nodded and gave way
to the guy in the slow sports wheelchair
while the young mum on low reserves
wrestled with her twin girls
up past the town hall and gallery,
perhaps with the promise of grandma's cookies
- all this while Jill's coffee brewed patiently alongside the buns
as she and Deb re-ran long laughter of past adventures
and plotted paths to future endevours.
Welcome to the pharmacy, for poetry.
Jun 18, 2022
Jun 18, 2022 at 1:51 PM UTC
She wrote of powers.
Of love and flowers.
Of magic treats.
And kisses sweet.
All upon a napkin.
Sat in a fast food joint.
Penned a menu for love extreme.
That tissue he took away.
A memoir of that splendid summer day.
Okay so it was winter.
He left it upon his bedroom table.
She left notes of love around.
He found them stashed around his place.
After she had run back to ground.
The *****
Maybe just his ***** minx.
Left him trinkets in words.
Pricking his insistence that may she does matter.
After all.
Pride of man 'o'war.
Won't permit a fall!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 8:36 AM UTC
I saw this young lady
She stepped into Starbucks
Holding a thick novel by Murakami
And a wrapped sandwich from Subway
In front of the counter
She smiled to the Barista
Ordered her coffee
Grande hot caramel latte, i guess
She chose to seat at the corner
Tasted her coffee using the stirrer
Unwrapped her sandwish, began to eat
I kept my eyes on this young lady
While she was eating, she was scrolling
Wasnt sure what was she looking at
But I saw she smiled, and giggled to herself
She was all alone
Accompanied by her handbag, handphone, coffee, and subway
But her face didn't show that she was lonely
She ate halfway, i knew she enjoyed her sandwich a little while ago,
She seemed to made a phone call out
Her pleasant face changed expression
While she was talking on the phone
She took the Starbucks serviette
Started tearing, began to cry
What a long conversation she had.
I watched her for a moment
What made this young lady cried?
I wonder.
She didn't finish her sandwich,
I wasnt sure bout her coffee, but she threw it away as she stepped out from Starbucks.
I whispered to my self,
"What drama I just watched?"
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
La serviette est une servante,
Le savon est un serviteur,
Et l'éponge est une savante ;
Mais le peigne est un grand seigneur.
Oui, c'est un grand seigneur, Madame,
Des plus nobles par la hauteur
Et par la propreté de l'âme.
Oui, le peigne est un grand seigneur !
Quoi ? l'on ose dire à voix haute
Sale comme un... Du fond du cœur
Que l'on réponde ! À qui la faute ?
Mais le peigne est un grand seigneur !
Oui, s'il n'est pas propre, le peigne,
À qui la faute ? À son auteur ?
N'est-ce pas plutôt à la teigne !
Car... le peigne est un grand seigneur.
La faute, elle est à qui le laisse
S'épanouir dans sa hideur.
C'est la faute... à notre paresse.
Lui, le peigne est un grand seigneur.
Oui, notre main est sa vassale,
Et s'il est sale, par malheur,
Il se f...iche un peu d'être sale,
Car le peigne est un grand seigneur.
Il ne veut nettoyer la tête,
Que si la main de son brosseur
Lui fait les dents ; je le répète,
Oui, le peigne est un grand seigneur.
Oui, c'est un grand seigneur, le peigne ;
Sans être rogue ou persifleur,
Sa devise serait : « Ne daigne. »
Car le peigne est un grand seigneur.
Grand seigneur, son dédain nous cingle,
Porteur d'épée, il est railleur,
Or, cette épée est une épingle,
Si le peigne est un grand seigneur.
Cette épingle, adroite et gentille,
Le rend propre comme une fleur,
Aux doigts de la petite fille
Dont le peigne est un grand seigneur.
Donc que je dise ou que tu dises
Qu'il est sale, mon beau parleur,
Il laisse tomber les bêtises,
Car le peigne est un grand seigneur.
Pour moi, je ne veux pas le dire :
Cela manquerait... de saveur,
Et puis cela ferait sourire ;
Non..., le peigne est un grand seigneur.
Sur vos dents fines et sans crasse,
Chaque matin j'ai cet honneur,
Mon beau peigne, je vous embrasse,
Et je suis votre serviteur.
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