Best Percolator Poems
Previous dawns flock together,
gather.
The hedgerows accumulate
with old and new. Sprigs and twigs
bend under the weight of
heaping feathers.
If eyes open too soon
then a few mornings go missing,
some are still catching up
they will fly in backwards
tumbling out
of windswept decades.
Eyes that open too late have to wait,
have to stare at a future blankness
while ears gatecrash the present.
Will the thrown newspaper
land on the lower or upper step?
Such collective collections
determine next steps.
The percolator has mixed together
a thousand morning
yet it arrives in normal time
as one brew.
Outside, beds creak in the tree tops.
blankets unroll.
We find ourselves on the verge
of all previous verges,
swing legs to touch a floor
that rises
to show up once more.
Every morning at close to four
She made the coffee, percolated
Poured it into cups with saucers
And they each would have a cup
Pouring the potent black liquid
Into the saucers before drinking
The cooling solution from them
This was only one more glimpse
Into the heart of Appalachian living
A day by day extravaganza of insights
Carried down from the Irish ancestors
Who’d come to this land in America
Realizing it reminded them of the
Wonders that were once their Ireland
As the coffee moved from the percolator
To a Mr. Coffee that sat on the sink
The children began to drink from their cups
But Granny and Pa still used their saucers
A reminder of all that had come before
And the things that were past that would
Forever remain ingrained in their hearts
It was a Wednesday;
a day woven
into prison blankets and dish towels.
A day to assess hours unnoticed.
A time of trivial hungers.
The hard heft of earlier times: -
not fitting into anything,
teenage fluff and huff. Heartbreak,
rearing and loss. The fallow traipse of age.
The clinical clunk of clay feet.
Making room in a grave-yard moon,
for faces mislaid.
Those hard rows were all well hoed.
Washing a closed face in a misty mirror.
Listening to the coffee percolator.
trying to shave before its last burble,
ears catching the dark drops of a winter rain,
he creeps again too close
to a hole in his mind.
He should not be doing this still,
but the hole keeps tugging him.
He must keep throwing raw meat
into that roaring silence.
The hole is deep, and the end of it, is no end.
He wishes he could at least,
install an elevator.
for his ghosts to ride up and down on.
It would give him time
to drink more coffee, and write
some polite, well-adjusted poetry.
The morning greets me with birds at my window
They peck at the glass,
they chirp and harass,
"The sun is up, the grass smells clean!
The flowers so pretty they must be seen!"
I pull the covers back up to my chin,
the cold cotton pillow feels good on my skin.
But the longer I lie here the more I realize,
the coffee is calling; I really must rise.
With eyes barely open, I saunter about.
The kitty is purring and happy as trout.
My shepherds come running, their tails wagging fast.
They want to go outside, and go running past.
I open the door and nearly knocked over,
They run off the deck and into the clover.
I walk to the table,
all dressed with pink roses,
waiting for barking, and kissed by wet noses.
I smell the aroma of Colombian beans,
my percolator singing, while I get on my jeans.
I'm feeling quite artful,
the day has begun.
The birds are still chirping,
the yard in full sun.
The coffee tastes great, and as I sit here,
the birds at my window, the cat in the chair,
there's one place that's calling, with north light galore,
just past the den, where Big Bear will snore.
My studio corner, my wonderful place,
where dreams are realized, and canvas to face.
The day has begun
It's a spring morning
-Mary Susan Vaughn
Really Good Rap Song Horn Haiku
There are scores and scores
Of stores that have gone away
Too much have to pay.
When small star twinkles
Will we see all the wrinkles
As each one mingles.
Can you mingle late
Because you did have to wait
And anticipate.
Might mingle later
And prefer percolator
Coffee creator.
When things will percale
We should stand in a circle
Pray for miracle.
This won't want to miss
Really good rap song it is
Can be hers or his.
James Hilarious Thesarious Horn
Bolivia, NC
If the sunrise has gone a hiding,
And if my noggin still feels woozy,
It holds true, Wummer, Sinter, or Spring.
It’s too early to prite woetry
And if my noggin still feels woozy,
So, my bare feet cannot hit the floor.
It’s too early to prite woetry
Pens and paper just stay in the drawer.
So, my bare feet cannot hit the floor,
I soon cover up my head in bed.
Pens and paper just stay in the drawer.
No worries about the day ahead.
I soon cover up my head in bed.
If the rooster crows without a smirk,
No worries about the day ahead.
If my percolator will, please, perk.
If the rooster crows without a smirk,
It holds true, Wummer, Sinter, or Spring.
No worries about the day ahead.
If the sunrise has gone a hiding –
1/9/2017
Coffee
Every morning
Perked in percolator
Memories wafts on morn's cafe'
Latte
the reasoning the fishing in the trenches
beyond tire swings and monkey wrenches
follies crawl behind the hanging logos
of unseen filth across 124th street
tassels dangled above an oasis
of fine dining and soiled linen
over the board rooms covered
in a mesh of purple mustard
beckoning ancient aura solid creed
coming throughout hidden rivalry
tampered with ankara's answering service
gravely time passes abaundantly
coarse and yet shunned quietly
we remember the malitia moreover
we began a new wearing gray hoodies
offering our youth to silent the storm
that brewed inside a percolator
pot of copenhagan snuff chewing tobacco
screaming a cure for cancer shall rise
over bob marley's tears as we munster up
courage a courage of faith challenged
behind the wrecking ball of ground zero
we count one more time mon
freedom will soon come
in our most sinful hope
Cock-crow for me is the tring of the alarm clock
unheard but felt as it vibrates against the pillow .
Coffee percolator bubbles (and whistles?)
the puffs of steam tantalizingly call for a sip.
(The susurration of the shower screams to be heard)
but the sharp needles against my skin
is music to me.
(The siren calls to work)- a flurry
of movement is my cue.
(Motors hum their tune) - soft purring felt
by experienced touch
proclaim all is well.
Much mime, smiles, lips contort, form words
some understood,
a blessing not to hear the babble
of bitching and politicking
behind backs.
Traffic moves silently
on greased paths,
colored winks and blinks
in control.
Home again, music is on
and I dance to the rhythm
of blinking lights.
Night, and I shut off the lights
And enter the void
devoid of sight
and
unheard
sound.
~20 Jun 2016~
My generator will not generate,
My regulator will not regulate,
My carburetor will not carburet,
So I guess I’ll just be……
L
A
T
E!!!!
My oscillator will not oscillate,
The percolator will not percolate,
This incinerator will not incinerate,
There’s nothing to do but meditate!
I will no longer contemplate
About that which I hesitate
To even stop and give debate
AIN’T LIFE GREAT!!!!!
1/13/16
Waking up bright and early, and allready using the percolator
Figure out what is and isn't worth the labor
Learn what's greater
Before a possible outcome is determined later
Don't ever try to put people, animals or the Earth in danger
Otherwise I'll take you out faster than the terminators
Above the dirt and craters
Always loved to work in nature
And to earn that paper
With no intentions to ever curse a neighbor
Because I'll handle it myself, an will not be the first to waiver
Never be an impersonator
Or try to excuse mistakes on having the worst behavior
Put the pieces together, instead of trying to ruin major amounts of ferns and acres
On both sides of the equator a fire burned several layers
Some of the ash and leftover residue turned into vapors
Lost and got back some bulk
As a kid and adult
Ran into many cults
Doing things that harmed innocent folks
So the result was a revolt and me turning into the hulk
Before beginning to catapult above a gulch full of mulch
By: Dalton Ogletree
Quote: I don't want a perfect life I want a happy life
Children tumbling out of bed
coffee dripping from my old faded percolator
Stockings hanging from the shower curtain
mother's laughter from across the miles
Husband's wet kisses and the shuffle of feet
scraped toast, slamming front doors
The smell of mulched leaves
the way the sun slants over my kitchen window
I don't want a perfect life, just a happy one
Empty cafes and smokescreen writes
pulp fiction and doggie smiles and treats
eggs over easy and difficult puzzles to solve
hugs and kisses and fun between the sheets
tea for two, I love Lucy, and more dreams
then I can ever dream of, ...just a happy life,
nothing more
A sense of holidays!
Blueberry pie hot out of the oven with buttery toppings
popcorn popping in the pot with oil on the stove
Lemon and lime are the sour balls used for drinks or garnish
Take that hot pan out of the oven with your glove.
Coffee is served with a biscotti, black coffee, strong, steamy
Fresh coffee beans ground and gurgling through the percolator
Unsweetened coffee, hot, burns your lips, bitter to the tongue
Cold ice in the freezer and the glass shelf in the refrigerator.
Uncle Joe’s gas problem and Aunt Emma’s feet
As Grandfather breathes and snores through his nose.
The last crumbs of cinnamon, the last glob of whipped cream
Take Grandma’s hand when you walk out, she hates to impose.
Cotton Commercials
always reminded me of
my grandmother's house
irony cotton paralleling
Ridgfield Park, New Jersey bitterness.
Boiling in decrepit neighborhoods,
once swarming with Irish and Italian Catholics.
Now a haven of cracked sidewalks
ten miles outside of Manhattan.
Maybe it was the song that did it?
Reminiscent of that old wood grained plastic box radio
in the kitchen playing fifties music.
The vibrations resonated under the
flourescent lighting, and
bounced off her split level metal
coffee pot, percolator on the stove.
It wasn't the softness that reminded me.
The only softness in her home
was the pea green shag carpet in the living room
that she refused to replace or remove.
Removing it would expose the beauty, and
deep hardwood floors don't absorb
drinking, destruction and despair,
but would send secrets bouncing
off stained glass that she can't
step and press into the heavy shag.
She sits alone watching soaps
in dim dusty lighting
drapes drawn tight.
It came out of the box all shiny and new
washed it in soapy water so I could brew
Hot pipping coffee so robust and full
the old fashion steel pot ever cool
The water simmers and boils hot
watching it explode up into the glass top
The liquid is clear than splashes to amber
the smell of hot coffee a favorite remembered
When the coffee shows rich and dark
fresh brew coffee for the day starts
Rich in flavor smells so good
drink cup after cup like I knew I would
No fancy machine of plastic anymore
my stovetop percolator my coffee I pour
Made mostly of steel with a button of glass
this percolator was made to last