Long Caffeine Poems
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The train was my needed escape for a few weeks,
and great excursion to buy some new antiques.
My store was starting to get a little boring and drab,
adding some new items will make it feel fab.
I sat quietly making a list of stores to shop,
and hoped to make all my favorites stops.
Feeling sleepy, it was time for a fresh brewed cup,
hoping the caffeine will help warm and wake me up.
I reached for the pot as someone bumped my arm,
and I spilled hot coffee, burning and causing harm.
I then heard a gentleman behind me apologize,
as I turned, I saw his deep blue mesmerizing eyes.
He said he’s a paramedic and could help me,
and is hired part-time by the train company.
I agreed and followed him to his private cabin.
As he bandaged my arm, he felt bad it happened.
I then looked into his eyes and brushed his lips with mine,
he did not resist my embrace as we kissed a few times.
We then sat at his cabin table laughing, sharing our stories.
It felt like we knew each other forever, both at ease.
The train soon stopped at my first shop destination,
I asked if he would like to join me, with no hesitation.
He smiled and agreed as he was able to spend more time,
our sweet train interlude led to the day he became mine.
I pictured you nefarious, but the montage washed away,
Your thorny bouquets and ivory letters, rotting at the bay.
hurting the devil isnt a sin, so your morality stays sterile
A glimmer of hope you flashed, and I surrendered to beguile.
Your eyes were clouded with stars but still empty alas
Nails you hammer to my chest, crack my ribs made of brass
Like a crown you wore me, then veiled every last visible jewel
You prophesied my doomed fate, but still made me fight the duel
With your coloured blades I slashed my eyes, and seen the mirror hued
Tears turned red filling my cup, with blood my caffeine brewed
You carried me on your back, always kept me afloat
Yet at the end of the war, my lungs so pathetically soaked
From wondering how Im real to making me not to be
kept making me pick my wounds, taking the last chance to flee
One promise after the other, the first still unfinished
Your flawless anatomy, by my hopeless decaying blemished.
Its absurd for me to mourn, Ellipsism feels like a sin
I'll let you go just as I engrave your words, onto my blistered skin
I whelve and bury our sacred alliance but worship the rot that stayed
Fell into a dream never mine, and the price by my youth i paid.
On caffeine nights when I study late
And drink for concentration,
I lie awake with open eyes
Dreaming of peaceful sleep.
It’s quiet here now
Except for the cars in the street
Zooming back and forth;
Lions chasing a pack of gazelles.
When the cars don’t zoom past my window,
And the gazelles are silent,
I hear a different sort of quiet,
And can hear myself think.
I lie awake, and my thoughts turn to you,
Images of running with you in fields of heather
Or wet sand between our toes as the tide rolls over our feet.
I listen for your heart and your breathing.
But you are not here.
I think of lying in bed holding you in my arms
Sharing love to Quincy Jones.
The gazelles return – I lose my focus on you.
Sometimes we cry for sleep
Where we can be alone in our beds
Without companionship we don’t know if we want,
But we know we sometimes need.
Poem originally published in All Your Poems Anthology Magazine Summer 2026, The Writers Publishing Company 2026 all rights reserved, ISSN 2977-3822
Don't ! Ask the sun, where we were
hidden, perhaps, in that caffeine moment.
And, pondering on the empty space !
Don't ever say, the visual became clear
as the silver dropped, to the deep floor
like that broken sun,Yes! There are secrets
Between the doors of safety, where you played
with the past, un-knowingly.
It was on the inside of the outside of everyday,
needing ! And wanting to be balanced in scales, of comfort.
While outside the Frog and the Heron, watched on,
as visitors were composted, In a myriad of cackling voices.
The happy shone, it sprinkled the day!
Left me with joy full in my head and heart,
It was, the time, that time, back tracked
the feeling you get in that Sun of short shadows.
Surrounded ! And everything once was !
And stones warm, purpose built, together, talking, and walking back.
It may have been then In 1967, see what memories,
and thought pools we swim in,
between two distant unreachable shores.
Maybe a sandy future palmed and green,
or the rocky crags of endless chores.
Colours seem thin, its stacked and smoked out doors.
A tarry sun accompanies frost, on blued wet feet, tramping moors;
Whiling away the day, she stares into the fire making deals
with ghosts in the flames, I stare at the empty jars,
I care about the red wine still in the glass, and now
time is as fragile as the comb, dripping like a yellow sun ;
But, i know the wham slap of the morning is due !
Like an unwanted letter, or whisper of bad news.
This moment can be split, and spat against a broken future
I need a compass point to be sure of this journey,
a map of shifting clouds, of muddled ideas to gain
a painless transposition along this ragged edged trail.
Tomorrows, tomorrow are numbered, and in short supply.
So upon this bed of chaste dreams you lie,
within this pure love you die,
from this breath of life you bleed,
yet grow again from another seed.
"Out to Sea"
In the immediate times
we rush to consume it all
before it is all swallowed, and out it all comes salty,
like an Ocean pummelling our crumbling sures
eating away our solidarity
insouciantly the sandy impermanent escarpment caves in
on our gossamer dissolving world
and in the eye of the storm
in the middle of it all
for a small moment all is calm
while the catastrophes move blithely around us,
hitting us brashly like we’ve been hit on a caffeine high
we are simultaneously aware of time standing still and then,
the swift pull of a rug unceremoniously out beneath our feet
some strange gravity slides
towards that ridiculous prophecised inevitability
of kingdoms come and gone
we thought we knew everything
the truth is we were the dumb awake
knowing little of everything
and much of what mattered little
and all as one
we are drowned soundly, gladly,
like into an open-eyed baptismal grave
we are forever and ever
naked as a child
washed clean
out to sea
Candide Diderot. ‘25
Blank stares and wide open spaces
wrinkled lines on work-worn faces
Sleep deprived on overload
wide awake in bed alone.
A thousand miles between us still
The worries and stress are real
The pavement clanks on old, worn tires
burning diesel in the midnight hours.
Months feel like years in a flash,
Home for a few days, that doesn't even last.
The life of a trucker and his wife
It isn't an ordinary kind of life.
Phone calls can often make you smile,
especially when it's been a while.
You often wonder if he's doing okay
That kind of nausea that seems to stay.
He tries to keep your worries few,
But he knows that you are you.
You keep the home the best you can
But you still miss your best friend.
He works harder than most you know
Caffeine and nicotine keep him on the go.
It's not an easy life for love and self,
but it pays the bills, if not much else.
You must have that one kindred soul,
There's nowhere else they would go
A love built on tougher ground
When heartache seems to abound.
All those lonely days and nights,
missed times and little fights
It all ceases to exist
When he holds you close and plants that kiss.
His arms are a familiar space,
How long have you missed his face?
It rushes back in a fluttering breeze,
setting your whole world at ease.
That is when you know it's love,
sent from the one above.
That's how you know it's real,
No bounds of time, his arms can't heal.
Guarana Mo!
Most of the follow
wing (fictitious) quit
tuss cent shill, knit
head, (non adult tryst) pit
tee full (sorry excuse
for originality), rit
dunk yule huss, feebly
abominable attempt at unit
tarry yen rhyme for excellence,
benignly, essentially,
and honestly wit
less, worthless reading mitt
tear real - dashed off
(by this hare reed rabbit),
wall henna burst of
(playful tulles toy) warren peace,
aye practically spit
out (from inxs of carrot juice),
now dost daringly be hove
brave reeder to comprehend
this dime metrical kickstarter fit -
bawling contrived nada very tit
till late ting, nor
not so great English lit,
and moost unlikely tuff hind
posthumous fame,
worm ma obit
chew wary verb boss
lee probably re:nouns,
(this once upon
a time pablum child),
nor e'en garner this hare reed
ole Jack a one hit
wonder poetic laureate,
nonetheless this
(o' whar did me bunny go),
perhaps to Brit
tin endeavoring merely
to join United Kingdom
(and merrily) writ
for the underground
to test skill at
heart felt fabrication like me,
thus exempting bing
considered, judged,
and labeled tubby unfit.
Now let yours truly whoop
focus to address main intent,
(sans for quick
pick me up)
and nary drop of coffee,
nope not even one molecule
to fill thimbleful sized cup
I reach for bottle of Guarana,
(one serving of
coffee per capsule)
fo' this aging pup,
who attests that caffeine
(liquid and/or
encapsulated), the sole vice
(except for barbiturates, cocaine,
"FAKE" opioid, et cetera),
which overdose nearly found me
nearly a grateful dead – thrice
occasions, where
circumstances of Mus
self (Stuart Little reincarnate -
with an insatiable
craving for cheese
laced with Guarana,
Paullinia cupana,
a climbing plant
in the maple family),
which bean sized seeds
affordable at an acceptable price
many times larger
than puffed rice.
All year long it's iced coffee season,
in that hot tub or during a blizzard.
Filled to the brim bare bones bitter,
invigorated I am FINALLY awake.
You don't want to see me without it.
The temperature matches my mood,
hard and cold and utterly relentless.
Caffeine won't ever be the side piece.
Hot air never did too much for me.
I'll let warmth dissipate into action,
snowflakes make a strong brew swirl.
Caught up in the art of the freezing,
during the heat of an atomic summer
that drop dead shiver fires you up.
Twenty below or during a heatwave,
Iced coffee season is all year long.
A funny thing happened on the way to the fitness center
six months after my New Year's resolution to get thinner
It seemed a good idea then to start a program of exercise
Now I'm thinking this is thinking I need to psychoanalyze
The Take-It-Off notice says my time will soon expire
I assume they are aware I don't plan to perspire
Nevertheless I put together my best workout outfit
I'm on my way but I have to say I'm just not feeling it
My, oh my, there's a Starbuck's a few blocks away
A shot of caffeine should help start this exhausting day
I'll just go in... Could that be? Yes, it is! My good friend
I haven't seen her since I don't even remember when
Yes, thank you! I will join you... with a donut and a latte
Oh no, you're not keeping me... I can workout any ol' day
An hour later I'm driving home sipping on an ice mocha
I start thinking that tomorrow I really should try yoga
June 28, 2018
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way Contest by Robert Haigh
Sixth Place
SIPPING COFFEE
There was a time a few decades ago
Well yes, many more than just a few
And post war rationing we still faced
Finding real ground coffee was tough
At least in homes of the common folk
Just early instant stuff that was a joke
But there was the black bottled stuff
An awful gaudy label as well as taste
As I never got to like it, that was true
Hoping real coffee someday I’d know
Then the sixties with those coffee shops
Weak foamy and milky was all the rage
Italian influenced, and many a new name
And now, even baristas can be well-paid
All the flat white and cappuccino versions
And even flavoured syrup immersions
For me, I really like it full weapons grade
But these modern pod things is a shame
Yet not missed by those of a certain age
But hope the caffeine supply never stops