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Maria Feb 2
I want to go home so much!
I want to go to my open essence.
There’s coffee on the table. It’s undrunk.
And there’s my future, which is pure taintless.

I want to go home, to my place.
The time is ripe: my heart and soul are holed.
To hell with being along! I go home!
I am invisible. And here I am cold.
Kasansa Kuya Jan 22
Half a tea spoon.
Two sugars,
One extra to measure.
New taste,
South American roast.
Aroma fills the room
I hope it tastes better.
Three crumpets.
a slice of toast.
Oh,
The joy of choice

Bluugh!
this coffee *****
what a waste
Trying new things in the globalized world
empty cup that fills my mind – down to earth man
sips the ground; a scent that erodes all other scents
swirling steam, a bittersweet dream – fruitful energy
given by the swirl of it’s heat; as my tongue ripens
to this flavour in my cup

the days are always a rush; a cup of coffee sort of helps
me slow it all down – thrown seeds to grow in my heart,
rejoicing in the love I have for my morning drink. reaping
for more, coffee seeds planted in the coffee machine.

cos some days I work myself like a machine – I need to
oil the machine, with the fuel from that coffee bean
the goosebumps rise on my skin, I’m in love with this
              coffee bean
Meredith Jan 8
A cute black thing, all neat and tidy on my desk

It has a nifty water component- easy to reassemble

I haven’t gotten to know it well, I’ve poured 3 cups so far

One to get things going

One for my mom

And one for me

I’m looking forward to my first discussion with the machine tomorrow morning.

However, I’m still getting used to the sounds outside, and the coldness of my dorm again

Being hopeful is easy when there is no other choice

I can’t remove my excitement though

It’s a new year, and a new friend
Maria Jan 6
He always made coffee for her.
She adored it whenever she was.
She looked at him by all her eyes
When he was speaking, no matter what of.

He always knew what to say or to do,
As to she scared of nothing.
She could be herself whenever with him.
She could be naughty and laughing.

She always was strict and stubborn
With everyone else nearby.
But close to him she became as cotton,
Light and calm for a while.

She was afraid of losing him,
And he loved her completely all.
He always made coffee for her
And she loved him in spite of all.
This is the poem for and about two. This love is for both of them. They are for each other. This love is very tender and true.
heidi Jan 5
coffee tastes better,
instead of being bitter
when we share a cup
This morning, I come to my table once more,
A cup of coffee gently steams,
Warming hands that feel weighted down
Again and again, I type my goodbye,
But I always delete it, hoping there’s still something else I can do.

You, who have filled my days until now,
Like mornings begun with easy conversations,
And afternoons spent lost in tasks, one after another—
Today, it feels different, as the countdown begins.

The longer I sit, the more I realize this chair no longer fits me
I trace the quiet walls, so familiar with laughter, complaints, and tireless effort
Each corner here has its own story.

Though my heart is still full, I know I must leave
Tomorrow, someone else will sit here, bringing even bigger dreams
For now, I leave my memories in this last sip of coffee,
Heading to the door that’s always greeted me each morning,
Now releasing me gently, like a Momiji branch lets go of its leaves around the building in autumn.
Bekah Halle Dec 2024
living foolheartedly,
open and free,
embodying all senses
to make sense of you and me.
With that post, I have hit 300 poems. What a journey! Thanks for reading and commenting; welcoming me into this community has been life-giving.
Hebert Logerie Dec 2024
J’ai la couleur du café mal grillé
Et celle du chocolat précocement
Sevré, par les rayons du soleil du midi.

Mes cheveux évaporés, depuis des décennies,
Me suscitent à être reconnaissant,
Parce que je suis chanceux et fortuné,
De voir tourner la terre pour tant d’années.

J’ai les lèvres d’un politicien giflé,
Par les poêles d’un chef maltraité,
Et les dents tachées par le sang coagulé.

Ma langue coupée, hachée et fracassée
Sera avalée comme le rôti volé au marché
Des esclaves morts pendus et torturés
En plein air, sous les verrous des voitures.

J’ai la peau des vers de terre assassinés.
Mon nom tachera la langue des oppresseurs
Et anesthésiera la colère des fieffés menteurs.

Je porte avec fierté la couleur du café mal grillé
Et celle du chocolat oublié dans les cafetières;
Aucun humain ne mérite d’être classé parmi les ordures,
Même si demain tout retournera en poussière.

Le marron inconnu est mon frère aîné;
Les rayons solaires nous ont parfaitement flambés,
Comme le café et cacao venus d’un pays émancipé.

Copyright© Décembre,2011, Hébert Logerie, Tous Droits Réservés
Hébert Logerie est l’auteur de plusieurs recueils de poèmes.
Bekah Halle Dec 2024
Brews and beats,
Dogs, with owners, walking the streets,
As locals taste the treats.
From farmers,
Butchers and bakers,
Tunes float above the crepe eaters.
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