Poetry competition CLOSED 11th January 2021 5:56pm
WINNER
Honoria
Honoria
RUNNERS-UP:
Ahavati
and slipalong
Dive Diners
Poetry Contest Description
What is your favorite, most frequented Dive Diner
Write a fun poem about your favorite dive diner. Add a photo for bonus points!
1. One entry per dinner guest
2. New poems only
3. No rules on style or length
4. Three weeks
5. HAVE FUN!
Related submission no longer exists.
Ahavati said:o O! Yaaaaas! This peaks my creativity! <3
Lol I'm glad to hear. I love a good dive diner. I don't go to bars anymore, but I have never been one to turn my nose up at a semi-seedy dive restaurant, bar or otherwise. I've stood at the perimeter of such places and watched some pretty ridiculous (and entertaining) things go down.
Lol I'm glad to hear. I love a good dive diner. I don't go to bars anymore, but I have never been one to turn my nose up at a semi-seedy dive restaurant, bar or otherwise. I've stood at the perimeter of such places and watched some pretty ridiculous (and entertaining) things go down.
one duel straw'd strawberry milkshake and other tales...
Daddy would do his favorited
down pat impressive
swivel hip'd N' sing of
"Love me Tender"
or "Teddy Bear "
From as far back
as my little devoted mind
can unfurl and find
Cherished so,
and proudly in tempo;
those sing-a-longs with him
and The King—were everything
An Elvis's swagger,
never appeared any better—
Oh how those repeated flashbacks prevail,
to leave such indelible,
influential marks;
He'd constant remind
of just how slick and cool
those 50's styled diners supplied
jukeboxes pon tableside,
tunes you select (B12) for a baddest boy croon
or to savour one duel straw'd
milkshake for two
~strawberry, of course~
To meet as a high school group
or bring a date to snuggle deep
in a couples only 'makeout' booth;
Burgers were so gooey cheesy,
fries were salted in no cares aplenty
and the innocence of Elvis's "Teddy Bear
STILL it clings so very viscerally,
throughout all the ambiance'd
grease scented air
"Order Up!"
... will alway remind,
Oh those memories, vivid and clear...
Written by Bluevelvete
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The Ecstasy of Gold II
Arrival from Heathrow Airport, England
—Atlantic City International Airport,
New Jersey, 1974, 03:00 Hours
The brown station wagon
bulleted southward
becoming a très grande vitesse
through sleeping suberbs and cities
Comets of street-lights
illuminated dirty windows
where I pretended to sleep
cradled in an incubator of glass—
a rusted, oil-leaking nest
There's no lullaby
like rubbered-asphalt
between dark routes
of small, uknown towns
cigarettes glowing
between parental talons
Dictators, kidnappers of youth
from motherland and friends
The rustle of refreshment bags. . .
pepsi and egg-salad sandwiches
curled from their front seat
Somewhere in the concrete tundra
of this god forsaken land
thrust upon me like a beehive
hairdo for school photographs
was something resembling a past
Hours later, another day
broke the horizon of monotony;
the bullet slowed, turned
into a parking lot of familiarity—
S T U C K Y S
King George, Virgina, 07:00 hours
where did I know this from. . .
Its aisles were bright and welcoming
from a post-adolescence crisis. . .
souveniers, somewhat seedy bathrooms
typical diner food: pancakes, eggs, orange juice
Getting back into the car, my father winked
handed me a pecan nut log with creamed nougat!
Now that I remembered. . .
it was the first time I'd smiled
in weeks of boxes and goodbyes
Listen...I heard this once
and it's as close as it gets
to the truth:
When feeling lost
and unable to belong;
when too young to run
or nowhere to go. . .
certain places and food
will always bring you home
~
—Atlantic City International Airport,
New Jersey, 1974, 03:00 Hours
The brown station wagon
bulleted southward
becoming a très grande vitesse
through sleeping suberbs and cities
Comets of street-lights
illuminated dirty windows
where I pretended to sleep
cradled in an incubator of glass—
a rusted, oil-leaking nest
There's no lullaby
like rubbered-asphalt
between dark routes
of small, uknown towns
cigarettes glowing
between parental talons
Dictators, kidnappers of youth
from motherland and friends
The rustle of refreshment bags. . .
pepsi and egg-salad sandwiches
curled from their front seat
Somewhere in the concrete tundra
of this god forsaken land
thrust upon me like a beehive
hairdo for school photographs
was something resembling a past
Hours later, another day
broke the horizon of monotony;
the bullet slowed, turned
into a parking lot of familiarity—
S T U C K Y S
King George, Virgina, 07:00 hours
where did I know this from. . .
Its aisles were bright and welcoming
from a post-adolescence crisis. . .
souveniers, somewhat seedy bathrooms
typical diner food: pancakes, eggs, orange juice
Getting back into the car, my father winked
handed me a pecan nut log with creamed nougat!
Now that I remembered. . .
it was the first time I'd smiled
in weeks of boxes and goodbyes
Listen...I heard this once
and it's as close as it gets
to the truth:
When feeling lost
and unable to belong;
when too young to run
or nowhere to go. . .
certain places and food
will always bring you home
~
Written by Ahavati
(Tams)
Go To Page
Bitten
Too young to question, my society
as we heard the bombers drone
huddled cold and cramped, listened for the distant thud
hot ash melting holes, in the soft white snow
as brave, as brave could be, sitting on my mothers knee
And I still feel the pangs of hunger
like a gulls harsh call
its urgency, for that alarm cannot be stalled
borne the cross that gnaws, and dreamed
of the Golden Arches
The potholed road in Sarajevo's hell
at the end of snipers alley
I dreamed. as dusty masonry fell
the dream of manna in a bun
and the life before atrocities begun
as we heard the bombers drone
huddled cold and cramped, listened for the distant thud
hot ash melting holes, in the soft white snow
as brave, as brave could be, sitting on my mothers knee
And I still feel the pangs of hunger
like a gulls harsh call
its urgency, for that alarm cannot be stalled
borne the cross that gnaws, and dreamed
of the Golden Arches
The potholed road in Sarajevo's hell
at the end of snipers alley
I dreamed. as dusty masonry fell
the dream of manna in a bun
and the life before atrocities begun
Written by slipalong
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