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Jenny Gordon Apr 6
"...Merrily, Merrily, Merrily, Merrily/Life is but a dream!"  (Row, Row, Row Your Boat)


Wash dinner dishes after dark for sense,
To rise and wash the dishes 'gain, t'avail,
In such wee hours tis night still in betrayl,
The hellish nightmare I was jolted thence
From for this lukewarm taste of what fr'intents
I like to think is sweetest minutes' pale
Chance, hark to rain cuz traffic'd shush in frail
Notes by, to trundle off to work, ah whence?
It's like our sleep was but a nap in tour.
And I half cherish that vague sense we knew
Ere dawn, as blueish twilight warms, astir,
Not lost in slumber, freighted chances to--
What, eh?  I do not know.  Espressos fer
Time to just savour coffee are good too.

So there, I guess.  Or mebbe recite Ps 90 is it?  That part about "...we spend our days as a tale that is told--"
Jenny Gordon Apr 6
Come, does the title recall a more familiar admonition?


Sip coffee from espresso mugs for sense,
Yes, cradling that wee tazo in betrayl,
To sigh that tis perfection thus, t'exhale.
Feign I don't give a hoot in sheer defense,
And how my niece plays with me til pretense
'Most carries off the trick like't could avail.
Ya, watch as she eats all my grapefruit, frail
Joys juxtaposed 'gainst what? til I'm blind thence.
I told myself "three days..." a week 'go, poor
As thinking I'll do better now.  The crew
Of crimson buds wink from the distance fer
Reminders leaves shall soon be fluttring to
Capricious winds in lieu of trash.  Bestir
Me to see far off, yet alas, t'won't do.

Prithee, what's left to add?
Jenny Gordon Mar 10
...grasping water that sifts through my fingers.


I sip espresso Dad pulls, foaming thence
The milk to sheer perfection til t'avail,
While not adorned with artistry, the frail
Notes on that white crown look sweet for intents,
As he talks on--oh!  I forget what hence--
Til he's pulled his; and though winds howl, th'exhale
Chill like twould send warmth packing, how to scale
Our minutes are as erst...philosphy dense?
Not Shakespeare, nor sweet Shelley to demur
This feigned attempt at glory we'd accrue
By dint of "home barista" now as twere,
Or my half stylish gear the ladies do
But offer kind words for:  he lectures poor
Me as wont 'pon that scale to seek, LORD, You.

The title's reference comes directly from the old photo album and the pictures my father snapped of his firstborn uncomprehendingly trying to grab the stream of water from the faucet.  My baby pictures.
Ori Valentine Aug 2018
I drank an espresso
And met with god
We talked of good days past
His son doesn’t call
My mom ****** me up
In his eyes we’re all just dust
Sally A Bayan Apr 2018
<3 <3 <3

She enjoys her morning espresso
while he savors his mug of cappuccino

she shapes his dimpled face
in her newly wakened mind
he imagines her big brown eyes
gazing like a buck...inquiring, yet dreamy

she hums a lover's lullaby, for him,
each morning, before leaving,
he lets his charcoal pencil play
on his ever ready sketch pads
draws her face with pixie haircut

they think of each other day and night the very same time

yet...not a word is said when their eyes
meet...not an effort done, to break the ice
they'd rather keep things within,
their coffee mugs...witnesses,
to their similar daily practices

what a shame...what a waste!

their elbows, their arms touch in haste
as they hurry....towards the quay,
the ferryboat takes long, they both wait
leaving their untold love go by
along with their unsung lullaby...

it happens daily...without fail
their feelings, bubbling as they sail
but...neither has the guts to bare

how could they let life go on this way?
content with just a secret love affair...
<3 <3 <3


© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
April 5, 2018
...a work of fiction...
macayla Apr 2018
taste of espresso in between my teeth
my caffeinated mind, buzzing with rainbow zig zags
boom. a shock wave wracks my intellect
and a three-dimensional bass is lodged behind my ears.

i can hear everything and nothing
silence is fuzz, with cracks of awkward
hope is brought by tiny silver fish
they swim all over my arms, leaving water tracks on my skin

so i slip,
and stumble over my own feet.
my tongue is tied
i feel myself falling behind.

coffee hits me hard
All rights reserved to Macayla :-) please don't copy/steal, each poem I post is usually something I am proud of.
Infinity Nov 2017
This espresso tastes like poison,
In spite of all I've added to cover the sweet bitterness

I want to release rather than increase
Release rather than increase

My mind is full, from my ears to my neck to my head,

A consistent pressure throbs
It robs me of peace
Of Mind

We all go through it
We are slaves
We are victims
Of long forgotten systems

We live to work, and work to live
Work to eat, and eat to work
An endless cycle of compromise

Open your eyes
Your senses
Smell the prosperity, the disparity
The paradox
Watch the rise of Pandora's Box

Feed, greed, need
I've planted the seeds of doubt
And watched them grow
Into luminous, prosperous trees

They are silhouettes against the sun
And against the backdrop of the moon

You live in a cocoon
Awaiting a metamorphosis that may or may never be
I live in a cocoon
Awaiting a metamorphosis that may
Or may never
Jenny Gordon Aug 2017
Um, um, don't let me parse that out yet.

(sonnet #MMMMMMDXLII)  

What of the two espressos long gone hence?
Perfection, as lunch' fine spread was t'avail.
Eclipsed in ya, one phone call, aught detail
Was likewise, 'cept our dinner, or the sense
Of fleeting time I grapple for now, whence
Oh me!  Now Texas winks at me like's bail,
Ten-gallon hats with crueler heat to scale
Than Lincoln's Land, and lo, a man fr'intents.
It's wonderful to be encouraged fer
All that to fear the LORD. I've missed it too
Long now.  To talk together like's not poor--
Of Scriptures--ah, and with a man.  I do
But fear now losing what's sae precious, were
It mine to have.  Ne coffee's like this brew.

Breakneck speed, and funny, like I mentioned to you earlier, that's exactly what I asked for months ago--you're too perfect, there are not words enough for you.
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