Best Arabica Poems
When the Goddess of aroma
graces my caffeinated soul,
her milky quartz crown
shines in shades
of ineffable pleasures.
Invigorating arabica stars within
my senses to rise
like steamy silhouettes~
laced in seraphic
aura of lotus chastity….
If coffee personifies
the electrifying taste
of my longing soul,
will fruity scents stir,
to evoke hidden
metaphors within this
mocha heart?
I’ll sketch
decaffeinated skies
with roasted beans
of brunette bliss.
Let colors of the
golden sun splatter
harmonious hues
of cosmic sanctity.
I’ll embrace the
aromatic elixir of life,
brewed with
floral hints of faith~
allowing unfiltered
essence of
meaningless mornings,
to reawaken an undying
thirst to illuminate
fading stardust.
Quenching serenity
from granulated values,
that depict
karmic kismet
across divine rivers
flowing with
spiritual awakening.
Perhaps, with every
sip of espresso,
we indulge a scoop of
cocoa gratitude,
expressing the
inner purity,
while happiness pours
into a crystal clear cup
of constant clarity.
There the light
of cinnamon
oozes amidst the
cleansed canvas of life,
to rescript an
ethereal ingredient
that guides us back to
a realm of rosier runes,
where ego has no palette
to rest upon,
for within us dwells
an immortal barista,
concocting healing drips
from caramelized visions.
I’ll hold on to these
unexplored cravings,
while the liberty of
conscience remains~
the first ray of
warmth I inhale.
When daylight befalls like
tints of tuscan tiramisu,
let me find the strength
to lure pale pigments
of weeping wind~
I’ll be the thread
that untangles unsettling
webs wrapped in
bitter breezes,
for the king of solace
and I, will become one;
celestially intertwined,
infused in bronze ink,
as one in a million flavors.
though you may not be a trucker
never have driven a semi with your CDL
never
ever
even thought of coasting up above the open road
putting thousands of miles beneath your cap
to the tune of
“east bound and down”---
you may have, in your short time on this planet,
walked into a diner &
ordered yourself up a deep cup of
trucker’s coffee.
strong & without ulterior motive,
the trucker’s coffee will stare you right in the eye
and tell you
“look man, you can either add milk & sugar to me,
or you can take me straight, but either way---
we gonna be waking your ass up!”
trucker’s coffee is not made by truckers,
its not brewed only in trucks,
and it certainly doesn’t come from some island that
only truckers can get to---
but it is an honest
drink---
you know it when you see it &
you see it when you smell it.
it doesn’t offer up the slightly bitter mystique of your
french roasted arabica or the pleasant aromas of
any of those classic
coffeehouse
concoctions,
it doesn’t even qualify as quality colombian,
but it may very well kick you like
kona.
mind you,
this coffee is not for the weak stomached---
it is not the light brown water that you get offered politely by your
neighbor,
when you come over to discuss the fact that their kids are
too damn loud
when they are playing in their backyard at the crack of dawn on
any given
work day.
it is brewed with the crappy water that only
diners can muster,
where no matter what tap it is poured from,
it still tastes thicker & harder than any water you
have ever sipped from another---
there may or may not be grounds still floating in it,
and it’s overall warmth may range anywhere from
scalding hot to luke warm,
but the fact remains,
at one, seldom changing price,
regularly falling below $2.00 &
free refills,
you can’t go wrong &
you will be awake
very soon.
It's not the cup but the coffee within.
Arabica beans, fair trade
organic and shade grown
often from a woman's cooperative in Peru
then roasted in small batches
by a local roaster.
I like mine dark
but my wife likes medium
so we alternate
or sometime mix the two.
The beans ground
medium-course
with a burr grinder
are placed in our
pre-warmed press pot
just before we brew,
and covered with
our non-chlorinated well water
which has been brought
just to the boil
then left for 45 seconds.
A pause, three minutes is best
but sometimes we can't wait,
before the plunger is pressed
and our morning elixir poured
into our waiting cups.
And by the way,
mine was thrown
by a local potter
many years ago.
Sometimes we worry
that climate change
may ruin the source
of our morning addiction,
but we do our best
to tread lightly.
Inspired by Anne Lise's ode "Without Worries"
Our screen door creaks noisily
And is for us the sound of solace.
Pale green walls and wood floor polish
Absorb every footfall with relish.
Cold tiles demand their sneezes
As I reach for towels and slippers.
A sleepless night has deserted with my best
And helpless yawning betrays
Those stolen morning hours.
Today’s a quiet cocktail,
Soothing breeze and hazy sunlight.
No music from our stereo.
Only a whistling kettle,
As you lay bed-warm and gentle
Sheets thrown haphazard,
Dreaming privately,
I observe with tender jealousy.
A coffee mug to warm hands.
I will await Arabica breath
Before I break this peacefulness.
And lost in thoughts
I’ve missed your waking.
Now only hands, lips, moving hips.
Easily persuasive, no chores,
No sign-in-attendance list,
Just rest and love and bliss.
A pleasant afternoon we recall;
A stroll on a rainy day.
Circling arms, protective, greedy
And a broken umbrella, shared
Hush-hush talking
In sweetly mingling misty breath.
Warm dry towels and home awaiting.
Dark roast aroma cuts through chill drafts,
Shivering into each other.
Silence and closeness
And smells of damp you and me.
Injera of Africa
Fermented flatbread
Of grain, not arabica
Glory in a bread
Crepe, but not the least
Serve and feast
Teff
A clatter of human hooves
drums on through an after- dawn marketplace…
the wide tunnel of mouths
reel from the splintered chorus
of jangled tunes bargaining and rattling
papaya, arabica and sushi roll orders: a fiesta
of succulent aroma whisks mid-air,
talkative faces sampling potent crops
on weaved baskets , hanging neatly
before slurpy hands condemn
them to boiling pots: the errant
noise loose like gander and hogs.
How much is this and that?
The slithering, crumpled bills drop
their tongues on purses scraped from
one week’s abominable toil.. oh, darting
fishes jerk their bellies while the array
of chicken hunks glaze under lights, frozen
and lumped from farmers’ harvest
rites... morning so luscious with grapes
colored velvet skin, lettuce tips
pulped by shiny green: and the procession
of lapping mouths reach head tone pitch,
dishes, dishes for salivating tongues,
taste buds for citrusy fruits, on one delirious
mecca to a market, market day!
......................
A Poem You Enjoyed Contest of Lewis Raynes
Entered 9/13/2016 (Old Poem)
From the tomb of life my poor heart does bleed
The depth of my grave is so deep I see
I struggle to breathe rich fresh air I need
To climb those deep grave walls to be free
It called from continents afar unknown
A light so bright yet such a long time hidden
To lift my soul from the weight of the stone
The breath of life you gave me unbidden
Oh without you our sweet arabica
When you cast your hot aromatic spell
Unlike Antony and Cleopatra
Our hearts are tied, together they will dwell
To crawl into the light you sent to me
Never leave my life now that is my plea.
© GG 31/7/2013
Down in the puddle of a Pig pen hole,
Caught me a Fish with a garden Mole.
The Fish got battered by a chip shop man,
Ate it for supper watching Jackie Chan.
Chan was fighting in a Kung Fu style,
Stylish and lean with broad beam smile.
Smiler is a cool Cat from Paris, France,
Frenchie plays piano at the ladies’ dance.
Tango with a Widow lady cheek to cheek,
Gracious man of 85 could dance all week.
Gracie is a Gibbon from Chester Zoo,
Serving up Bananas like young Apes do.
Bananas fall from trees in Costa Rica,
Costa has a Coffee house, selling Arabica.
Lawrence from Arabia has a dairy farm,
Keeps his Friesian herd in the cattle barn.
Shutters on the barn kept the cows awake,
Daisy Cow’s escape was a big mistake.
Mistaken for a Rat, kicked a garden Mole,
Down in the puddle of a Pig pen hole.
Raft branch buoyed in canopy crossroad
Ocelot pillow paws rail rainforest rotunda
Yataghan claws trail trunk, track cathode
Assailant arouse pounces, stiff tail rudder
Lithe, while night looms, lightspeed silent
Ogling exotic shores - she yanks anchor
Centipede nimble Queen needs her tiara
Evermore adorned, baubles bean arabica
Lustrous pearl dozes on dark décolletage
Opulent moon mother of tides, sly tyrant
Tortures subordinates to claim her island
Iridescent iris treasure hunt sailor ocelot
Spotted sea captain keeps snake for halo
Lapis lazuli exclusively steers royal yacht
Asphyxiating prey, Casper crouch lay low
Navigating her way to throne, puss pirate
Drapes cashmere ears in conquest crown
Nautical Nineteenth November
I
order
some coffee –
Americano –
wait with anticipation.
Superheated steam scalds the essence from the beans,
then rising from the cup, that rich fresh-brewed aroma.
I
savour
the vapours –
pure Arabica -
then notice in the saucer
something which I did not order : a biscuit,
yes, cellophane-wrapped an unsolicited biscuit,
the ubiquitous and unsolicited caramelised biscuit !
I
wonder
what’s it worth,
my unsolicited biscuit ?
I’ll send it back and get a refund !
Bob, the cat, lives in the room number 13 of the sixth avenue.
He likes fish, rollercoaster, ice cream cones and Sunday papers.
He's an artist. He's a painter. When people ask him about his latest work, he answers:
"I'm painting the meaning of life. I'm coloring it black, but my inner self keeps telling me it's green."
He has gothic way of seeing materials and articles.
He wishes everyone to speak in fragments of literary lyrics, and then he would spend all his days tangling these fragments making an abstract form out of a puzzle.
He goes for a walk before breakfast; walking on two legs, wearing a leather jacket, and whistling after big ass women are his forte.
He passes Mr. Pumpkin floral shop, turns into the eighth avenue, and enters his favorite café called "Your Favorite Café".
He sits on the second chair at the second table, and orders a coffee:
"Black, dark and bitter like a cat's soul", he says to the waiter.
He sits there all morning, sipping his black coffee, dreaming about how it would be if his past, present and future selves exist together, thinking in sync, and communicating through a common medium of artistic sense, saying words in the silence notes of Van Gogh.
He dances all the way home. If anyone cares to ask, he says:
"I'm drunk in Coffea Arabica, a perfect weed to make you tantalize with Arabian dreams and gives your nerves a breakdown."
Dancing along the pavements, he counts the roses in beats.
One, two, three, four… two, two, three, four… three, two, three, four, and so on.
The number of roses is directly proportional to the number of steps he's gonna salsa in the bathroom.
He sits on the toilet bowl, and deciphers the problems with human rights.
He stands on one leg on the bathroom floor, with arms spread like hugging the air, mouth wide opens.
He squeaks like a mouse and tries to hop like a rabbit.
He falls hard, crashing the cold bathroom tiles.
He bleeds red like the color red.
He says "Perfect".
He runs into the bedroom. There stands his actual latest work, the heart of a vampire, portraying himself with a deadly cat fangs and a wicked mustache.
He splashes his blood all over the painting, and shouts "eureka".
He starts to hum Yankee Doodle through his nose.
He falls asleep, and dreams about dinner.
"Scramble eggs with tomatoes".
Coffee.
I may be Arabica ,
I may be robusta
Take me when you want
I give you satisfaction
Plant me,change your life
Rich you will become,
Yes rich ,I tell you.
Come come plant me, plant me
Whispers at eve marry wisps of steam over red eye
And beneath the table my feet finds yours for a footsie
Where we hope God's seven eyes will not see,
No wide-eyed moon, nor the barista to pry.
The moonbeam smears you silvery whipped cream
To be licked off greedily by my tongue grown too frozen for poetry
Caffeinated by your darkly roasted coffee -
skin I will on a grand piano serenade you on a whim.
Are there words you secretly crave I should know
Such as the zephyr tells the shrubs of coffee arabica that they dance gaily in the skies?
Would they be served well-expressed in my eyes
After the sixth emptied demitasse of expresso?
The Only Star For Me
It’s my corner coffee shop, Starbucks
The cheer starts here with hot coffee
I’ll get yours, it’s nothing, awe shucks
A home away from home, my family
A blended Frappuccino, at lunch to boast
Make it a Sumatra Arabica venti
Fresh whole coffee beans dark roast
Patrons on Laptops, their cup’s never empty
Macha Latte hot tea, sweet and uplifting
Named after Starbuck, the first mate in Moby Dick
Originally intended on naming the coffeehouse Pequod
after Ahab’s whaleship, the name would not stick
At the brand’s core is the Starbucks siren, odd
The bare-breasted, two-tailed mermaid but
was intended to be as seductive as their coffees
Based on an old sixteenth-century Norse woodcut
The Seattle’s Pike Place logo evolved in the seventies
They unveiled a cleaner image of the mermaid
She was updated, cropped, and repositioned,
so that only above the navel is displayed
The care of a wine seller,
We kiss in sibilant hiss,
Old Jamaica on her lips,
I can feel a touch of gin
A fleeting jinni,
Playing roulette in my breath,
I hear notes; semiquavers,
When our head turns, tongues churn,
In opposite vector.
I’ll take you to the festival
Of spoken word,
Present you as my piece.
My thin fingers,
Strike the red ochre,
The red on your lips,
Is it Arabica,
Roasted berries on your lips?
Am possessed, God!
Am blessed!
There’s palm wine,
In her breath,
And those round earrings,
Dancing like herring.
As murmurs lilt, heads tilt,
And ways of that ilk,
Confessions in the back,
Streams meet in us,
Currents, up and down.
Bluish wisps of dawn,
Rivulet down your face,
Ah! This is grace.