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ˏˋDalPalˊˎ Feb 2016
Passing through those glorious doors together

We find home at Bombay Bakers

Your hand in mine

The sugary air hitting us harder than a brick wall

We both feel the grace of familiarity

Our chemistry hotter than the rolls in the oven

The smell of freshly baked croissants gives me the same warm feeling as your smile

Passing Agora we look at each other with the same bright eyes

It'll just be a quick stop but such a savory one as we sit and share a large caramel coffee

I hate the aftertaste but anything with you is such a candied tang in the end

Your cinnamon dusted lips so close to mine

Your taste so sweet couldn't even be compared

Licking each finger after your touch, trying to save each bit of you

It doesn't matter which side of the world we are on or where we end up in the end

As long as there's that corner bakers shop nearby

It'll be home with you
I'm comparing love to food <3

Short little poem today. not too happy with it but I don't know how to go on with this.

also another note: I love the word tang but I wish it wasn't so ****** :(
Steve Page Nov 2018
I love the warm smell more than baked bread.
I love the old stories flooding back through my head.
I love the middle-age chatter, with child like mutters,
finding old favorites in old familiar covers.

I love the personalised fountain-penned message,
carefully scribed and meticulously dated.
I don't care about the number of dog eared pages,
or the tell-tale signs of well worn aging.

Tea stains and small tears - they don't bother me,
each tell a new tale beyond what I can see.
I love the weight of the years sitting in my hand,
I love the tether to past lives multi-second-hand.

With memories of libraries with warm worn carpets,
wall to wall adventures and sun faded artists,
battered yellow seats, shooshed conversations,
quietly spoken protests at the books being rationed.

I stayed past closing, riding trains of free thought
with Tin Tin, Asterix and old Mrs Pepperpot.
I'm still drawn to the pages and the feeling inside
second-hand stories where memories reside.
My dad taught me to love reading. My kids learnt it for me.
Becca Lansman Sep 2018
You walked into the butcher shop
eyes of blue determination
asked me to hand you the cow heart.
Still beating, i let it slip into you hot palm
letting the blood trickle down our arms as our fingers featherd each others wrists.
You took the corpse and slipped it deep into your jean pocket like a secret love affair.


You asked me if i wanted to go swimming sometime. It was not a question.
I cordially accept your wet invitation.

We splashed in the melted blue like children yet unbroken by the cruelties of living.

We ate each other.
Starving
you told me i was the first meal you had in months
and i, so innocently believed you.

The next day you invited me over for dinner. It was not a question.
Full on lust i accepted

Hot
you opened the kitchen door quickly and whispered down my spine,
my body like lava erupting before we made it to the first course.

On the dinner table lay the butchered
heart.
Still beating you asked me to take the first bite,
and i, brimming with your desire- did

I swallowed it like a rock.
pulsating through my core, shaking my small frame.

You kissed my stomach.

The next day i awoke in cold sweats.
Feverish
Vomiting up my stomach lining chunky and undigested.

I left you three messages.

Sick. White. Quaking.
I waited.

Disintegrating into myself. The flesh melting off my body like a landslide.
A hurricane in slow motion.

I waited.

you skinned me like a thanksgiving turkey
left me on your kitchen table to be picked at by the angry flies.
A slow meticulous death.

You said “look into my eyes.”
And i was so lost in the blue i allowed you to take the knife right to the place where the world begins.

I was so in love with an idea.

I ate your heart without question not understanding that you cannot consume someone into loving you.

What goes in must come out.

Now, what is left of our lust lines the bathroom sink.

A bath of blood and bile
I obsessively pick though trying to discern where I went wrong.
Sally A Bayan Oct 2017
Past midnight...
apart from a nocturne playing
i hear a symphony of peaceful breathing
and snoring...rhythmical, this quiet evening,
it sends me soaring up my own universe,
with eyes closed, it grows more immense
creates some kind of a calm, in the silence
surrounding me, and my muse's presence.
stardust and moon provide me a crown
while i float...and probe around,
seeking something i don't know about,

in this journey,
i feel the absence of souls, slumbering deeply,
dreaming their simple, or strange fairy tales.
the firmament, wears a navy blue veil
stars are dots, they glow and scintillate,
like a warmth in the cold....emancipates
my invisible wings flap and fold,
a door ****...my hands take hold,
my destination...bright, resplendent,
"Cosmic Coffee Shop," a place, transcendent,
brewing a blend
-the dark, the positive
-the sweet, and the negative
a sign says, "write....there's pen and paper
in every corner..."
an invite, for people to create prose and poetry
where coffee is free, smells...tastes heavenly
a place to share...with brethren, in poetry.
::::::::
(an old poem)
1:01 AM


☕️ Sally ☕️



Copyright November 21, 2016
rrab
on a sleepless night,
  ...a plane roars
     ...breaks the silence-
Elliott Mar 2018
The coffee shop
In the middle of town
What wonders it brings
And you became one of them
I remember it being a busy day
Not enough seats to go around
But I was able to grab two for one
And you didn't miss out on
The opportunity just to sit down
Out of all the extremely loud sounds
A faint "hello" was able to grab my
Attention
And there you were
A presence that took my breath away
But yet so timid
It felt like eternity
Us staring at each other
Truly stuck in a daze
Until I finally blinked and
Went into motion, quickly kicking
The chair out from underneath the table
For I didn't want anyone else
To take away this moment
You sat down brushing your hair
Behind your ear
Your smile is one I'll never forget
The steam rising from your cup
Is a reflection of how I felt within
The beauty felt unreal
It had so much power
Your voice had warmth to it
As if you and the sun were one
I never imagined my life would change
In this coffee shop in the middle of town
For it brings so many wonders
But only one would count
Monisha Jul 25
I seek coffee shops,
Quiet, hidden,
Tucked away,
Dark wood, mugs with fat lips,
Unobtrusive, corner seat,
Nothing forbidden.

Ah! The smell of the brew,
Nose tingles, Eyes closed,
Sublime fascination,
Moments to settle in and roots I grew.

A book opens or my laptop does,
Ambient sound soothes as a caressing touch.
My coffee arrives in its carriage comfortably so,
I reach out and pick it up,
All mine, nowhere to go.

Look around my wandering gaze,
Lost souls, finding their way,
With their thoughts through the haze.
What do I do,
I watch them wafting and waning with their thoughts,
Some with others yet alone,
Some alone, yet not lone.

Coffee companion, friend,love,
Subliminal cold or hot,
And without a word exchanged,
A clan, a tribe,
Community found.

What’s your brew,
Dark and strong
Or golden hued
Or perhaps pure white,
A dash of brown to bring to light,
Night or day,
Coffee in the shop,
Is my magic hop.
Virtuous May 28
Stopped by my local coffee shop today
Brought a book like I tend to do
Took a seat and settled in
And that’s when I noticed these two
A couple in front of me whispering in each others ear
Saying things only for the other to hear
The smiles on their faces
So genuine and bright
“Aw the honeymoon phase” I thought
Gosh that seems nice

And then I thought about you
Even though we never went out
That’s my fault I guess
You were very persuasive no doubt
But the truth is I wasn’t ready
And your offer I had to refuse
Trust me... I didn’t want to
But my heart had some healing to do

You have probably moved on by now
It’s been a little over a year
I don’t know why I still think of you
Maybe it’s wonder... maybe it’s fear

I wish I could thank you
I wish I could explain
I wish I could see you again
But too much time has passed I’m afraid
Hadiy Syakir Mar 2018
I want to open a business
but I will never trade
every words of sanctity
for it.

Teach me,
on how to open a shop
without a table
without a sign
without a premise
is it all done just
to break the promise?

I want to be like them
but I can't sell my words
on a tee, on a tele
becoming part of
the rotten machinery
is a sign of chaos
and profligacy.

even if I have to wait
at the end of the line
, I will do that.
Before her the open laptop stares
At settled coffee shop young lady
smart appearance nice hair.
Phone close, to hand for just maybe.
nowhere in particular she looks here and there,
as she shares short glances between
coffee shop phone and screen,
An image created of controlled serenity,
around her the tidal increase of customers ebb and flow.
Laptop screen, a document shines out, I'm here.
Momentarily her phone blinks me too
then returns to outward inactivity.
An embryo smile flickers, perhaps a thought
of the fleeting communication, perhaps not,
voices sway back and forth then, spike of a laugh
quickly swallowed by the ambience to give way
to hisses, gurgles of music coffee machines  play.
Young men perch and slouch in fervent conversation
They leave, talking, passing Dad with daughters so pleased
when discovering window side seats, wait in anticipation,
where delivers Dad , then into newspaper immerses.
Girls silently survey the scene, hot chocolate cupped
shortly paper closes, a look, chocolate speedily drunk
to join dads exit swift, wordless and abrupt  
past headphoned staff in crockery recovery.
Incessantly tables change coffee treats enjoyed again,  
The coffee shop laptop lady alone but not lonely
chooses to be, just maybe, happy in her own skin.

scorsby

MICHAEL C CROWDER         1st January 2019
Visit to a coffee shop in Ipswich UK new years day.
Pagan Paul May 2017
I slip the straps and release the clasp
of your over-the-shoulder boulder holder.
Gravity asserts itself, and you sigh as
I wonder if I should get even bolder

because

The jaws of love masquerade
as petals of a flower

so

Just say if you want me to stop.
We are, after all, in the middle of a shop.
I was attracted when I saw you smile.
As we passed in the frozen food aisle.
Now people are staring though the window.
Shocked at my nonchalant innuendo.
And if your purse metaphor extends to this.
We can go to the Bank for a little kiss

though

I may not be able to afford
nine feather mattresses and a golden pea.
But if you could make do
with a lilo and a marble
then …
You've pulled Princess.

© Pagan Paul (30/05/17)
.
Prequel to Even Poets ***** Up A Date (Mar 31)
The 3rd, Even Poets ***** Up A Night Of ***, to be published at some point.
.
renée Jun 25
put your eyes on them
skin and whiteness
and sheen
lovely hair, they
don’t see the lack-
luster life we fear
gucci on sight
yachts, mazdas
shots at midnight
hyatt in the plaza
to dream on roofs
but we sleep blanketed
they speed, shoes thrown way out—
at least our thrills are felt—
not ersatz,
not lost and dreamt
or counterfeit.
Lynda Ross Oct 2018
"Rough", a polite way of expressing my apprehension from the start, couldn't have known I was shaking for all the wrong (Reasons) that you left are in surplus this season; flipping vowels upside down along with my smile, and faded hues stand out the most now;  this pale blue follows me but that seems so irrelevant most days. Years pass and as my eyes grow feeble, I see more, more, more, and you are the greatest beauty I have ever seen, your fragile chest and broken bones more than memories for me to launder between the parts of my brain that still give a ****. I replaced the decay of my spirit with rotted lungs, with magick however alleged, ritual a key, components fine like the filigree that lined my illusions, dramatic tone and teeth marks make me quiver, alchemical bonds between the ground and I, afire is the sky and my insides turn bone white and glowing under your moon.
Stop spinning ...
The feeling of overflowing consumes me, and abundance isn't always preferred, to tell you the truth I kind of miss all of my innards being contained within me. But each day I feel a little less invisible and it gets that much easier to deal with this (hole) thing, forget the flashing moments of misery  in which I could suffocate myself because it's hard to complain, I must admit I've created every crevice and ****** crack that you see on my body with my own devices, like trying to mold clay with scissorhands; This expulsion may be near unpalatable but it seems to me the only thing that helps me forget, truth is I don't know why I haven't yet; just chaotic noise like the raps that flowed from the lips of the artist that I wasn't paying any attention to at all that night at that coffee shop.
Tallulah Jun 11
We tread the dark golf course together,
Searching for trees to suit our needs.
Me, still in my school skirt.
You, in your puffy tartan coat.
You climb the criss-cross branches,
as I stand and watch.
We're still like this,
but this mess of branches have become whatever life has thrown at you and all I can do
is watch.
LeoGreene Jul 2018
Never what you were,
my retina dulled your rays.
Optics adrift in poetry, prose,
charity shop sweaters.

I spoke of dreamed ambition.
You nodded, morose.
Eyes chasing space.
Never what you were.

Bookshelves, potted plants, a bicycle bell ringing.
Coffee steam clawing New Zealand winds.
This and more flickered in our hazed tethering,
only snuffed when the tap of illusion ran cold.
Satvik gupta Jul 14
When i was young,
Had funny days.
Bunking the classes,
Each and every day.

Our school started off with the holy prayer,
Division, subtraction everywhere.
Next came,  the shakespeare,
Learning literature was a nightmare.

We were just dozing off.

Yay!!
The recess time,
Doin' nasty things
Creepy crimes.

Sweet couples enjoying their day,
We singles
Always prayed,

Last thing i remember
Was the fight between us
Smoking hard
Inside the bus.

I hope u will remember those days,
Let's meet on someday.
Do ya remember those days ,
Had funny names,
And creepy plays
Anya Sep 2018
Come one, come all!
And welcome
To the shield shop!

Here, we supply anything
And everything
You need
For a custom made
Shield

Now, this isn’t your typical
Iron or bronze,
No,
the shields here are much
Sturdier
And not for physical
Affronts

We could provide you
A block of wood
For dense ness
Thoroughly not
Understanding
Social cues
Good,
For keeping away
Verbal bullies
Or,
Romantic attention

A shard of ice for coolness
Unaffected
Untouched
Abve the crowd
Keeping your cool to the point
That no one approaches you
No one reads you
Makes you seem impenetrable

A flame for blazing confidence
Attracts people
But also scares them away
So they,
Maintain a distance
From your
Vulnerabilities
Whose existence
They may not be aware of

A kitten for innocence
Either,
Giving others the desire
To protect you
Or they just pass you by

We have all these
And so much more!
So why don’t you come and
See
Which one works for
You!
This is an idea I’m playing with, I’m not completely sure if it’s true. Feel free to comment or message if you have an opinion.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2013
Why Men Cry in the Bathroom

For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.

Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.

We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.

Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.

Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.

But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,

The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath


Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.

Why just men?

I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.


Jan 6, 2013
your effusive and lengthy comments are each a poem in their own right.  

Tinkered with June 22, 2013
With a push from Bala,
A serial peeper, thank God!
Faisal Nov 2014
I'll never forget  
That cozy coffee shop
Where u & I had first met....

I remember I had run
Behind ur car
Under that beautiful sun....

Heart was overjoyed
U had lowered the window glass
I saw ur lips smiled...

I had gotten late
Ran to reach the cafe
Meeting u was our fate...

When i saw ur face
I was taken aback
Time had stopped,
U had dazzled in black...

Those eyelashes killed
Once u looked at me 
The place, warmth with filled

I remember v had coffee ordered 
For a long time none of us talked
As none of us had even bothered ...

The silence turned musical
When u had asked, 
"How are u Faisal???"

I remember i had laughed so much
Listening to ur small jokes
"That faujis do such & such...."

It seemed time moved slow
While we talked  & talked
Amidst slowly falling snow.....

I had seen u off & cast a final gaze
Ur car had moved 
Cant forget ur beautiful face....

Wish life was a smooth ride
Wish v had never parted
& u were by my side.....
Zeeb Jul 2018
The Lake Pontchartrain Causeway… man that’s one long bridge
I drive it every day for my pay - here’s what I see along the way

Here comes:
Corvette Kary, setting pace, he thinks he’s in a race
When Kary’s not waxing his ride, for your safety you'd best pull aside

Petrified Patty, she’s over water and has never learned how to swim
She’s driving a white Lexus, so scared she has no reflexus

Miata Mike, chasing Kary's Vette, not gonna get too far
Trying to convince himself, he didn’t buy a girly car

Watch out for:

Makeup Mary, on cruise-control, wow she’s one of the worst
She loves her new Camry, but her next car might just be a hearse

Yes, that Causeway, can be a long and boring ride
And if you get a flat… there’s no place to pull aside
Oh but that Causeway has its points, take time to see
24 miles of entertainment, and the Northbound way is free

Here comes:

Road Rage Randy, always ****** and he doesn't know why
Today he’s running late, but finds time to escalate

Doughnut Danny, rolling breakfast with tea
Such mechanized efficiency, has a newspaper on his knee

Wackin Wayne, you're kidding me, you thought I couldn't see?  Vibrating Virginia close behind, now we have equality

We've got:

Maypop Marty, thinks tires last forever
Does he even check the air?.... never

Mark The Spark needs a muffler shop, something heavy about to drop.  Comes Innocent Mike on his motorbike too bad he just couldn't stop.

Headphone Harry and his Pandora, he's hear but also... he's not.  He likes his music best, you see, after a few long tokes of his ***.

Fugitive Fred, on the go, at 65 point ooo.  Not a mile to fast or to slow, got to blend in on this bridge you know.

Yes that old Causeway, can be a long and boring ride
And if you get a flat… there’s no place to pull aside
Oh but that Causeway, has its points, take time to see
The mechanized circus on parade, our hilarious humanity

Don’t forget:

Frozen Frita, every rainstorm stops her dead in her track
Then here comes Ramin’ Ron, goin 60, aint too good for her back

No Tie-down Tim, **** flyin’ out of his truck
For everyone behind him, Tim doesn’t give a ****

NPR Nancy, she must be in a “Driveway Moment”
Only problem is, she’s on a god-**** bridge

Texting Theresa, I’ve saved the best for last
The last thing in life she did see, was an idiotic emoji

Lookin’ Lee, that’s me, pretty sad that I’m just as bad
Come join us nuts on the Causeway, might be the most fun you ever had
Lawrence Hall Jul 2018
For Connie, a Friend Indeed

There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs!
The health certificates make for dull reading
And last month’s issue of Texas Monthly
Has not the old cache’ of Field and Stream

There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs!
Among the snaps of Baby’s First Haircut
Children and grandchildren in cute little frames
And lovely young girls all styled for the prom

There are flowers and scents and catalogues

But –

There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs!

                                                          ­ Woof!
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
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