Long Coffee Poems
Long Coffee Poems. Below are the most popular long Coffee by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Coffee poems by poem length and keyword.
On my deck I sit everyday in the same chair
Enjoying a cup of coffee, reading newspaper
Watching the same lone golfer playing solo,
Passing time alone with my changing shadow.
Song I hear each morning soon leaves me
As sky once grey, turns deep-blue slowly
And winds blow softly, changing frequently
Drifting rainy past, smelling misty warmth.
My day seems to get longer by the hour
Long enough for a blooming flower to curl
As rays of gold weaken and disappear
Gifting landscapes of twilight on my sphere.
I don't ask why horizon looks aloof today
Weary of greeting sky on this lonely day,
For I've been hosting moods quite similar,
Of leaving my chair to be anywhere but here.
When I reflect on the day's long tenure
I admire a bird flapping wings of freedom.
Rejecting boredom, I roam with butterflies,
No fun being who you are, all the time.
February 26, 2018
In my reveries, I am a monk in the temple of love from the books written with shadows,
Sailing through the endless pages, I let myself be carried by the breath of destiny of fragile heroes.
They who heal their loves with a divine piety,
Like the keepers of mysteries - isn't it the right of every being?
They raise them in a fan of breeze, consume them in dances on dew's tips,
They spin under drops of sky, with the echo of symphony on the canvas of scattered clouds.
A scene detached from romances, where petals compose a celestial carpet,
And nostalgic, slender murmurs intertwine with the veil of evening in chords of vastness.
Fingers intertwined, carving astral paths, white morning words carried by the dawn's breeze,
Embraces of daylight and the coffee that bursts aromas beside morning prayers of rounded dreams.
But when the story ends and reality reclaims its throne,
I look behind me and see nothing but ruins of glass and scaffolds of dreams.
The blood of bloomed failures on the floor of my soul like a field abandoned after battle,
Grows in shades of changing despair, a morbid carnival with lights that do not falter.
For love now seems to me a desert of words without shadows,
A weave that tickles my senses in a bitter, deaf sarabande.
A feeling unprecedented, among foreign hues,
A sweetness overturned across the threshold of a heart that cannot defend itself.
Echoes of despair reflect off the eternal walls,
An ode of pain where the past seeks a forgotten chalice to rewrite its destiny.
This is not just a sanctuary, but a labyrinth of solitude,
A habitat not to find, but to wander lost among the echoes that leave no trace.
And as the hours pour before the curtain of darkness,
I remain a mystic lost in romances, when the world sleeps and I watch over the ruins of hope.
What is Red and what is Black ?
and where is the Pink ?
Kettle clicks towards vacant
coffee jar, social laddering
futile ~ Red revelling in
Illusion he cannot comprehend
It shall be tea…
then pineal opens for
Sananda’s whispers
He died because of mobbing
they followed Crows of first degrees ...Love
uncharted
He visited Guatama in his golden
grove, bodhi trees beckoning ...Love missioned
Cold fog clearing with Avalon images
spine asks to curl once more
knitting collagen cables with
spirit frequencies : Black Silence
solitude transmutes into white clot
damp kitchen slip-slops anticipate
so Red climbs a social ladder
revels in mimetic behaviours ... Love kindergarten
I sit Black towards Pink
Father prays then rosary memorises
Mother hibernates into King Tut’s tomb
will pumpkin seeds shoot dreaming
her dreams, copying ever copying
neighbour opens sighing, desiring
corduroy curtains watchful, copying
Should she collect her
state pension today ?
Poverty remains in the Unconscious
mimicking patterns
dissolve the matrixed mind !
Slowly Love rises (...)
Mahasatipatthana sutta filters into
claustrum cells ~ Pink growing
middle ground flowing —
I ask about winter flipping to spring
in a yin-yang swing to remove
Black garb so hard
to bleak peak an infant bud ...Love rises
Voracious winter’s cacophony
cape starlings, turtle doves, pigeons
conductor Black Crow, on wet corrugated
stage, beak battling for bun crumbs
earth wrapped worms ……Love instinctive
Droplets of night-rain decorate
fairy tightrope washing line
phone battery recharges dead dots
a memory too full of autumn
leaves crackle
Valentine missing winter’s breath
he is Red rising
I am Black silent ——
walking towards Pink ... Love intuitive
The Crown whispers, ‘winter is only a prudence of waiting ~~Black, Red and Pink is One
the Red shall flow like your
warm blood…as mine did…
the Black holding roots
Pink is the Core’
A dude, I replied, ‘ Keep warm’,
a trickle down my cheek
________________________
[HONORABLE MENTION WINNER
ALLPOETRY CONTEST : April 26 :
Inspired by : The Red and the Black by
Henri Beyle Stendhal ]
Staff Meeting
At my desk each morning,
over my first cup off coffee,
I call the staff meeting to order,
a gathering together
of my various bits and parts
that scattered in the night,
each to its own devices,
be they terror,
notes on that yellow legal pad,
erotic fantasy,
unrepeatable indecencies
uttered in an unfamiliar patois,
a mélange of whirs and clicks,
whooshing breaths,
mah jong tiles scattered in patterns
I don’t understand.
On mornings that don’t hurt
they settle gently
into orderly arrangements,
designs and lines of poems,
the fabric of my day.
Other mornings,
the more ordinary ones,
they reject my need,
become ash
that I scoop into the urn
of yet another
lost
day.
In a perfect world, you are making me coffee,
just the way I like, point two five cream, and point
five sugar. It is a perfect world because I can hear
you sing and we know how you hate it. It is 7 in the
morning and we’ve woken up early because that’s
what we do in a perfect world. Love happens in
little moments in a perfect world. We collect these
mementos and god knows we have a jar filled with
these. You look at me every day and don’t wish for
anyone else and since it is our perfect world, I wish
the same. We move out of this place, we go to work,
we come back home and it is perfect. It is perfect.
Is it perfect?
I swear I saw you gag on the soufflé I made, I hear
your audible annoyance when I asked you about
your favorite anime. There are moments in our
conversations that are lopsided, flaky, downright
awkward. There are moments in our jar that are
okay, just okay. We reach out for each other’s
hands but somehow they get twisted instead
of getting entangled. It is like being handcuffed
with a tree and the tree never grows. But it’s a
perfect world so we go to sleep and wake up with
you making me coffee and I wishing for no one but
you and it’s perfect.
Rising on this Monday morning
Making breakfast like Monday wife
Burning eggs in Owens Corning
Starting early my Monday strife
Mirror glance, I have Monday hair
Sunday wet-head is Monday death
Feeling like I have Monday care
Emitting stench, my Monday breath
Gulping down strong hot Monday joe
Steaming coffee burns Monday face
Fairest of face has Monday woe
Tuesday’s child has had Monday grace
Dealing with grumpy Monday drive
Traffic moves a crawl, Monday speed
Lucky to be Monday alive?
Spatting cuss words, my Monday creed
Greeting my lazy Monday boss
Bitters my Monday rank and file
Losing the first Monday coin toss
Plastered an ugly Monday smile
Boss-man questions Monday alarm
Realize my fond Monday mistake
Drinking weekend did Monday harm
It’s Sunday and I am awake!
Never will I indulge in gin
Thinking that it’s Monday again!
Written 8/4/18
Contest: Mondays Poetry Contest
Hosted by: Tania Kitchin
Childbirth, so worth the cost.
Pictures of loved ones you have lost.
Pen, honestly, poet,no matter the cost!
Your garland of truth, glistens wonderfully upon your head.
You may be despised, but if not
genuine, you may as well be dead.
Bright stars surround a true spirit!
The plastic masses will see nothing in it.
Don't, worry, they are lost sheep-lings..
Born or raised to never get it!?
Fancy poetry is just empty space.
To impress, to win trophies with grace!
Behind them, I query, where is the real face?
"Here, let me impress you with a Sestina," said Paul.
I told him, I was not impressed at all
I asked him, "Can you be real at all?"
We went out and just genuinely laughed!
At each other's infantile poetry gaffes.
Then ordered a second, steaming coffee carafe.
Being real, is all,don't you see?
Sharing your true heart with humanity.
Anything else is but a tragic case of self-idolatry.
There is no reward for being real.
No headlines will you ever steal.
Go, now poet and pen only what you deeply feel!!
1/14/2021
~4~
Her breath was warm with coffee and sin,
Laced dark on my tongue, sharp and thin;
A bitter taste clung to the curve of her smile,
As dawn broke, trembling, and silent awhile.
Her hands, soft thieves, curled 'round my waist,
Stealing the quiet I longer to taste;
The sheets smelled of dusk, of cinnamon's ghost,
Of promises lost, of love turned to toast.
I drank her sighs like morning's first brew,
Scalding my throat with what I knew—
That her heart beat fast for someone unseen,
A shadow between us, quiet and lean.
Her laughter cracked like porcelain light,
Fragile and fierce in the hollow night.
I traced her spine with hesitant grace,
A map of regrets carved into place.
She whispered lies in a voice so sweet
That they curled like sugar dissolving in heat;
I swallowed each one, choking it down,
A queen undone, stripped of her crown.
Coffee-stained lips brushed mine again,
Tasting of sorrow, of pleasure, of pain.
I kissed her deep, kissed her to keep
The ache of losing, the weight of sleep.
Her collarbone gleamed like brittle glass,
A breakable thing too sharp to pass.
I pressed my mouth where secrets burned,
Forgetting the lessons I never learned.
She smiled like dusk—too quick, too brief,
A flicker of grace, a sliver of grief.
I held her close as the morning broke,
Breathing the words I never spoke.
Outside, the rain stitched songs of despair,
Gray threads that tangled in midnight hair;
Her hands in mine felt cold, unsure—
A tremble of guilt I could not cure.
And so we kissed, the taste of sin
Clinging to tongues, dark and thin;
Coffee and lies, heat and regret—
A bitter blend I'll never forget.
For what is love but a fleeting crime,
Stolen in sips, and lost to time?
Our house sits high upon the harbor hill
On the veranda off the bedroom, I sit up higher still
I look down on the harbor still sleepy from the night
As the first rays of sunshine start bringing her to life
I see lights appear in windows from the houses down below
And headlights from the cars that now have someplace to go
Life moves on in our plush, little, cozy harbor town
In just a few more hours, to her I’ll be coming down
The salt that I taste is not from the distant sea
It’s from individual drops of tears, still flowing out of me
For somewhere in that town, in the direction I refuse to glance
A headstone awaits my darling and our goodbye final chance
School buses appear now winding in the distant streets
Coffee houses open where longtime friends will meet
The earth continues to rotate, bringing on a brand new day
Sitting out here alone and crying will be my new normal way
Wales
I used to live in Chester, a beautiful town
and often walked along the Roman wall and, in my mind,
I saw Roman soldiers sitting by the fire roasting mice.
On Sundays, I liked to drive to Wales a beautiful country of rolling hills
and sheep with coal dust on,
Back then and this is years ago, you could drink tea in a pub,
I once drank coffee and it was ghastly.
I liked this country it had a dreamy quality.
Now I´m watching a crime story from Wales and it had nothing to do with
the land I remember.
This country I see on the screen is dark with old houses and people
who carries a dark secret in their hearts?
What do I know? Perhaps the lovely barmaid had killed her father
dropped him in a deep well only a detective who knew the mind
of Wale`s psyche could work out.
As it is I prefer to remember Wales, crossing fords wondering who deep they were, the narrow roads and sheep on hills.
I stick with what I remember, the TV. The program is entertainment.