Best Thermos Poems
An unhurried sun slides across the horizon
Preparing for slumber behind distant waves
And daylight’s last seagull rides thermals in search
Of a late night fish supper - the herring he craves
A paint shop explosion enlivens the skies
As the sun doffs its cap to the tail end of day
That silhouette seagull, against crimson, flys
Before finally veering and heading away
As one with the beach and the shoreline beyond
I watch vibrant heavens succumb
To a darkness profound although I stick around
And I wait for tomorrow to come
The night has its chills but no hectic-life ills
As I feed my small campfire with sticks
One deck chair, one fire is all I desire…
And a thermos for my caffeine fix
There’s no moon, no stars and there’s no beachfront bars
The surf is my soundtrack tonight
I’ve seen moons and stars work with Venus and Mars
To set all above me alight
But tonight is unpainted and I get acquainted
With shadows that flicker and prance
As I recline there, amused, I’m aware
That the fire makes my own shadow dance
I don’t truly doze and a distant bell knows
That I count off its chimes in the night
And as the world sleeps, somewhere near, a bird cheeps
And I know that it soon will be light
I’ll witness the day and then scurry away
Through the hustle and bustle, to bed
Inspired, I’m rewired, and yet, rather tired
With my first chapter clear in my head
My thermos delivers one last warming cup
As a new dawn blue-rinses the grey
A seagull, perhaps who went last night unfed
Circles early for breakfast today
This very morning when I awoke, I thought someone had played a joke. I checked the pot, it was bone dry. I checked the pantry and started to cry - no coffee!
So, I got dressed for work...real slow. I had no drive, no pep, no go. I drove to work, barely awake - I wanted to stop but I was already late - no coffee!
I parked the car and walked inside, but when I heard the news I almost died. The vendor took the machine away, and it damned sure won't be back today - no coffee!
The boss said that we should not worry, he'd send for caffeine in a hurry. But when it arrived, in thermos bright, it seemed to lack the usual bite of coffee.
No Columbian or Kona blend, nor even French roast dwelt within. It was a mix, exotic flavors, that only yuppie scum could savor - not coffee!
A mocha-chino-berry stink that no one in that crowd would drink. That morning dragged incessantly, and no one acted pleasantly - no coffee!
When lunch time came we fled the scene of the luke-warm, slurpy, berry thing. We marched down to the restaurant and told the waitress, "All we want is coffee"!
By end of day no one was tired. The caffeine high had everyone wired. I've learned my lesson, oh so well, that without coffee life is hell. And I'm an addict, monster, fiend, and slave unto the coffee bean - yeah, coffee.
Take it Black
The warm welcome smell of coffee.
It talks to me. Tells me things I need to know,
like what time it is, and “Good morning.”
It is in fact very cheerful.
Whole beans or ground dust,
every lovely flavor, I trust.
Some put cream into the cup.
There they swirl it around.
Bright white,
warm brown,
a lovely shade of perfect.
Some make funny faces,
with the froth, the fluffy white milk.
It is delicious,
to the eyes and the tongue.
Cold or hot, it hits the spot.
If you love it, you do, if you don’t,
there… is nothing to say.
You have tasted heaven in a cup?
had bad moments in the brew,
great moments in the stew…
(the kind of coffee they make when you camp).
All worth a warm up,
if the kind lady comes back by.
Let us speak of sugar.
Yes, so sweet, so loving to the hot steam.
Melt, become one with the drink.
White, brown, flavored or pink?
Yum.
Served in houses, served at home.
Served among friends,
served to bring peace among “unrest”.
Wake up a trucker.
Fill a thermos with fuel.
Thank you Lord, for coffee.
Amen.
He came each day, when the sun showed noon,
Two heels in a plastic bag-
Thermos of hot tea
To have lunch and
Read passages to the yellow birds-
Usually an hour, til they took flight.
But today the bench is unoccupied-
Empty, except for a plate of hardened ice,
Stuck smooth and tight on the iron,
and frozen sheets on the lath.
Yesterday his footprints showed-
They were longer than most,
From shuffling feet and a small round circle
At the side, from the walking stick...
But now they are gone-
Covered by snow on the path.
The ducks look, and for awhile they wait,
Funny squawks and squeaks in their throats,
Heads bobbing with each step of feet,
Perhaps the only ones to notice the empty bench.
Strange, they have not flown south yet,
As their pond is nothing but a white icedrome.
Perhaps they were waiting for their
Friend to go first, and now that
he has gone, they will soon take flight.
He walks spry in a gentler land,
Beard no longer gray,
Sitting warm- no aches or pains,
Face with no creased lines...
Feeding the yellow birds
on a silver pond each day at noon.
SILENT ROOSTERS SLEEP
Dads don’t sleep. They drive over-packed cars, and sip coffee from a thermos cup. Kids in backseat mull over grandma’s home ~ roosters never move, cuckoo clock never quits, and grandma’s always at the door, waiting. Front passenger divvies out cheerios and chips. The turnpike yawns with well-worn pitstops. All seats salivate for grandma’s homemade coffee cake. “Are we there yet?” echoes, bounces, plays with the driver’s nerves. Dads get revenge, transforming the auto into a tour bus. Pointer finger flashes toward a birthplace, a high school, and a park, and finally a hearth in the suburbs of Depew.
silent roosters sleep
moonlight auto unpacks dawn
crowing door exhales
7/14/2017
Haibun Form
For my sins and everything I ever did or sought to be,
Contempt and dying to be clever in unfathomed pools of sadness,
I plumbed each depth and splashed the ether, oscillated shakily,
Strapped to dark beliefs and definitions, all I gleaned of me was badness.
In my heart I hoarded secrets, guarded, gloated jealously,
Something touched quiescent feelings, split the stone upon the grave;
Resurrected dead ambitions with a Lazarus decree
And in doing so, in side-effect, unearthed a soul to save.
You did nothing of importance, so you reckoned pensively,
But if not for you, at close of play, I would have stayed the same;
Doing penance, going nowhere, shooting blanks haphazardly
In a thermos of reflection with nowhere to lay the blame.
In the dusky tones of evensong a plaintive melody
Croons through mazes in my image and exalts together days;
So perhaps, by your sweet process, you brought out the best in me,
And therein must lie the truth, that what we had has worked both ways.
The tide shifted
The sun blazed into the cuddy hatch
Moments later the anchor re caught
To tip the empty glass to the deck
The eyes opened then squeezed tightly
Shut to the sudden glare
Awareness filled the suddenly small space
Tide turn two o’clock sun
Line to tend
Wind picking up
Perfect timing
Lets hope the fish run as well as the nap did
Now we’ll see if those hours of baiting
Where worth the effort
Two long pulls on the icy thermos
Then out into afternoon sun
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The old man sits on the rugged bench
running his fingers along the contours.
Dawn stains the lake pink, like spilled wine.
He watches a heron stand knee-deep
in liquid stillness—
one-legged sentinel
patient as stone.
His coffee thermos exhales steam
into the chill.
Memory drifts like dawn’s fine mist:
sixty summers of casting lines here,
teaching grandchildren how to thread worms,
their laughter skipping like rocks across the waves.
Now silence holds him gently.
iridescent dragonflies dance across the lake.
He shuts his eyes,
letting the water’s quiet heartbeat
thrum against his ribs.
Winter is gone. Warm weather is here, and what better way to enjoy it than with a
picnic?
Shade
Ants
Watermelon
Potato Salad
Checkered Cloth
Lemonade
Wicker Basket
Fried Chicken
Meadow
Wildflowers
Snooze
Al Fresco
Iced Tea
Paper Plates
Cutlery
Kite
Salt and Pepper
Cups
Cheese
Chips
Thermos
Crackers
Frisbee
Napkins
Cookies
Bonus activity: Have children draw a picnic scene, incorporating at least 10 of these
words into the scene.
I never quite knew
what it meant.
And, if explained,
I never understood.
Shoot! I've never even LIKED the game!
And, I never thought that I would.
But,
The fear... The pride...
The gleam, in my eye...
The joy in my heart...
could only mean one thing.
I'm a football mom...?
YEAH!, A FOOTBALL MOM!
I love you, sweetie.
Now honey, you get out there,
AND, HIT SOMEBODY!!
OH! Did I just say that?
Where did that BASS come from?
Now, you be careful,
when you HIT SOMEBODYYYY!!!
OH MY! Well, anywho...
I've got my blanket, rain gear,
and my thermos (minus the toddy),
so, I'll still be nice and toasty,
when you HIT SOMEBODYYY!!!
I may not care for the game,
but I love the kid, who plays it.
Proud football mom, am I,
and my heart is just ablaze with it.
This feeling right here, is the BOMB!
So, whether home or away,
I'm in that thang!
Hecks YEAH!!!!
I'm a football mom!
My Grandpa
There are not many people in this world
That could say they have a Grandpa like mine
For as long as I remember he was always there
And when I went to school he’d call to see if I was fine
He taught me how to ride the bicycle
And brought me home a new fishing pole
Together we’d pack a lunch and a thermos
And head for our favorite fishing hole
He taught me how to clean the fish we caught
And how to bait the hook just right
He showed me how to bring in the fish
Especially the ones that put up such a fight
I remember hot summer days
And we would pack up and go swim
And camp for weekend of fun
Those memories for me will never dim
He is gone now these many years
But I will never forget the many times
He filled that empty feeling I have now
He was my anchor and tie that binds
No I shall never forget the times
He would tease me into a smile
Telling me how much he loved me
Making my summers all worthwhile.
He left behind so many things
When he left this world for another
But time marches on and the day will come
When once again we’ll be together
Connie Moore
Forever Swansea...
Bright blue skies in the summer sun,
The birds among the trees.
The golden sands of Swansea Bay,
The calmness of the seas.
As I walk along these golden sands,
I watch each breaking wave.
The inshore lifeboat comes along,
But there's no-one here to save.
Hundreds of bathers on the beach,
In the water having fun.
Surfers, men with fishing rods,
All basking in the sun.
Barbecues and fizzy drinks,
Thermos flasks with tea.
Families sat eating lunch,
Just lazing by the sea.
The sounds of laughter fill the air,
Seeing lovers hand in hand.
Walking down to Swansea Docks,
Leaving footprints in the sand.
My memories of years gone by,
Of my walks along the shore.
Such times I hold within my heart,
And I will for ever-more........
There was something spectacular
about a winter, long and hard,
on the Miles River.
Some days will never be the same.
Greying skies, heavy hung
with crystal burdens
of the wind, and air. Twenty above,
after sunset, zero.
And the snow was the problem
of every man of driving age
with responsibility. His children
were busy getting ready.
And getting ready! The flurry
of wool, and the long john-ed cotton.
A long and hearty walk ahead, river bound,
passing ponds along the way...
A pair of skates, tied together,
a knitted cap and a smile
crossed the frosted fields, the puddled
slush and slurry, hurried
to gather like the feathered geese
who gathered
on the ice inside a frozen cove,
a forgotten day one January.
And the town of Saint Michaels:
a sidewalk of salt and shovels
digging out the shops...
the smell of warmth, of oak,
drifting thick from brick and mortar,
soups and running noses tucked away
inside the bars and churches,
snowfall on stones in cemeteries
of the Methodist, St. Luke's,
and of the Catholic.
There's birds at the feeder
of a residential tucked nearby.
A sigh, a whisper of air
between the shops
from the docks, chilly regards
from river and bay.
And a waterman, on his way
to the mouth: leather skin, covered
and coated in khaki and denim,
with permanent painted on flannel.
The oysters busheled up are icing over
in a harbor of seafood trucks
and white liars, old men who carry business
no longer, young boys with no blood to offer.
Forsaken a tradition, over a dollar.
And so the middle aged...age. With bad knees,
busted knuckles, and a thermos of lukewarm
coffee, black and heavy.
Cigarette smoke and rubber boots,
bibs and denim jeans drying inside
beside a stove of wood, the cord
stacked long outside.
And babies buried deep in coats
and blankets, mothers careful
in the parking lots of
Grauls and Acme.
Stews for dinner, Oyster based
and beef, warm tomato
with Saltines for crumbling
and butter for spreading.
Just the way of things.
On Spencer Creek, someone took down
a Christmas tree: a tomato cage
on a dock. Distant echoes of a motor
lapped the shoreline.
Some men dreamed of spring time,
when the cold would stop biting
and the creeks would clear
away the winter with the rain.
Some days will never be the same.
From start to finish
today my sister and I walked the woods.
We mimicked the wildlife and crossed the creek.
We told stories in the sunlight and shade
and peeped at the birds.
Thirty years ago
these same birds' ancestors ate from our hands.
Today we scattered seeds on the bare ground
and watched the bickering birds convening
with one track minds.
We walked back in time
and shared giggles at things we'd fought over -
like the biggest piece of pie and who sat
next to dad in the car, important things
like George Waldencott.
Tears flowed from our eyes
recalling a chipped tooth and broken arm,
burns from cigarettes we'd hid in these woods -
a few of the scars from fights for the rights,
rights of the other.
Our lunches eaten,
our lemonade thermos emptied too fast,
still hungry for mem'ries of days long past.
She sneaked a cookie from its hiding place
in her shirt pocket.
She took off running,
holding it high in the air, looking back
and yelling her dare, "Nana, nana, na - na!"
Racing t'wards home we climbed the garden wall
and split the cookie.
And at last she spoke
words I had ached to hear since their wedding -
"Thank you, Cissy, for letting me have George."
She went home with hubby and three children.
I went home, just me.
6/10/13
I think it's time to meet
People from outside my bubble
The loneliness is building inside
My mind is drowning in trouble
Sit in a cozy quiet corner
Fancy it need not be
A cuppa coffee and conversation
Would be enough for me
Pour some in a thermos
We'll take a walk
Stop and picnic somewhere
Just sit and talk
I don't like drama
I'm as peaceful as can be
Would you please have a
Cuppa coffee with me?