200 grams of tea in the morning
to call upon my power.
per 1 academic hour.
60 minutes at lunch
and an old funny man
saying he’s gotten to see much
but the best ice-cream he’s tried
is made in Japan
of Fudjiama ash
and that I should
before I’ve died
save my cash
and buy the tickets 180 days beforehand.
300 grams of coffee at 4,
tons of tea before going to bed.
the day is over.
I think I’m glad.
I think I’m happier
than some time before.
Of all the words, grams and minutes
there’s none of love.
My tea's gone cold yet again
yesterday's ink stain still the same
even the clutter & the litter still remains
sleepy haze affected the brain
today was much emotional drain
and I try in vain
to construct another line
which fits the rhyme
but I got no time
I got to sleep, Goodbye.
used to stand over an open flame
every cold morning.
she would fan the fire
allowing it to breath.
then she would boil the water
for the cinnamon tea.
this ritual was for
all the men in her life.
just so they could awaken
to the smell of spice and
at least she kept warm.
strong men like to drink cinnamon tea.
they like to mix their coffee into it
it's a beverage with double the damage.
they also enjoy dipping their tongue
in the boiling drink
so they can
sample the taste
of a woman’s burning.
still makes her
te de canela
The leaves are falling outside, like harbingers of
a season filled with warmth in colours and
cold winds, with pumpkin spice and blankets
and pillow forts, and the idea that endings
are beginnings, to the patient ones.
I love the golden sun and sweater days of Autumn,
love the fading freckles and the laughter lines
it paints on my face, and the silent knowledge that,
among candlelight and the smell of coffee,
everything comes alive. My fingers tangle in
a hand-knitted sleeve, and hot tea warms me
from the inside, until I am like soft caramel.
His fingers brush my skin and linger, like
a promise made and meant and kept.
Red lips curl watching Earl Grey unfold in clouds inside a cup
and brown eyes flicker over long fingers folded around porcelain.
She is a carefully written poem on ivory paper, royal blue
ink blooming on a page, kissed and tied with a ribbon.
She is a timeless woman, inhabiting a thousand eras.
Her sharp eyes have outlived the courts of many kings,
have seen revolutions unfold and succeed and be shattered;
she has watched fights started over her in warm saloons and
soapboxed revolution on Boston Common, smiling dangerously.
She is the brightest of all muses.
He is in his element, shining bright with eyes like starlight,
a compliment to the beauty he saw first of everyone.
I feel a soft adoration for what she is to him, and think how
that, really, is poetry.
I have run from fears
For too many years
Not knowing if you care
But say that, I don’t dare
With lies people spit out
I am beginning to doubt
I don’t know what to do
When the hurt seeps through
All I can do is sip my tea
And pretend to be happy
But on the inside
I have a different side