"aftertaste" poems
You cause
a break inside my organs
Pointing out my flaws
our differences.
You are at peace.
I sit jittering, worrying
what everyone will think
of when I didn’t care
you made me laugh at
everything
Changes. You’re not right for me
Nor I for you, but I can’t help
Thinking
What if? Then I remember
you’re not what nor
Everything I want.
You are an intellectual snob you
have a depth about you
I would love to delve in,
a psychological study
that even the best critics would praise,
but I don’t want anyone else to have been there
or ever go there.
I cannot hold on to you
tear me away while
You’re haphazardly gluing us together
We’re a kindergarten art project
messy, trying to see
Beauty within the confusion,
unfinished
You asked me
Where am I most at peace
4 years old.
I could be anything
No fears
I hadn’t been ripped apart.
I was the girl that said everything,
until I felt the need to screen my thoughts,
like the filter you use to make your coffee
each morning. I wish that’s where I was,
having you tell me
that you like your women like your coffee
Dark and bitter.
I can look past your chauvinistic ways,
not giving a **** about anyone.
You’re not really closed minded
You just act like it,
which annoys the hell out of me
Sometimes. I wish life was simple.
But then
I would never know your complexities nor
Feel the things you help me feel,
like hate for train whistles
or the burn of gin hitting my throat.
Music
you introduce me to
offstage trumpets, bad movies. Your politics,
your brown eyes
and how you can hear frequencies
that most everyone else can’t. I worry
that you hear
the fear in my voice and heartbreak
With every word I speak.
When were you going to tell me?
Or was that your plan all along?
To throw me out
like yesterday’s coffee grounds
or cut up scraps
Used and unwanted.
I wish I could tell you
to tell her you don’t want her
but me instead,
you don’t, I don’t want you to.
I want holding hands, laughter
comfort, personality, humor, intellect.
You want that plus things
I can’t give
But you always take.
You are your coffee
disgusting, caffeinated,
addicting
the only patch that helps is
comforting words you never spoke.
We had many conversations
of your desires, lusts, mistakes,
but I was burned,
by lies, distrust.
You left, like always,
a harsh, acidic aftertaste
on my tongue.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
so I noticed that we both drink coffee.
just like anyone, we both like ours a certain way.
i like mine sweeter, with just the aftertaste of coffee there.
caramel, sugar, creamer.
i think about when i’ll have my next cup, and the idea of it alone makes me happy.
i don’t care what time of day i have it, i almost always have a cup.
i make time for my coffee.
it might be safe to say i think you like your coffee black.
you might add just the smallest touch to soften its bitter taste, but never too much.
sometimes i think you just pour it and carry on, as though it’s nothing important at all.
as though all it is, is just some quick fix.
like you just want to get it over with.
we drink it in two different ways.
i drink it slowly.
i note every flavor in every sip, i enjoy it.
i note the warmth it brings me.
i like it all hours of the day.
you drink it quickly.
quicker than me, at least.
you don’t care if it burns your tongue, or perhaps you’re used to the pain.
you accept it.
you never let it last, you move on to something else soon after.
i lay in your bed, watching your eyes as they skim the screen in front of you.
your mind is somewhere else.
i savor the moments you look my way, if even for a second, and smile at me.
i wonder if you even notice them.
i feel your laugh vibrate my bones, making the hair on my arms stand on end.
do i make you feel at all?
i reflect on it every time i drink my coffee.
i think about it with each and every sip, taking my time.
something tells me that you don’t do the same.
after all, it's just coffee.
but i put my all into this coffee.
i think you like your coffee black.
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 4:07 AM UTC
It's beginning...
As my day matured into the tangerine sun.
Familiar feelings effortlessly conjured as the same old tales were spun.
Some came in hues of marmalade
Traces of citrus that left in haste.
Initial sweetness on the palate that would fade
Only making way for a bitter aftertaste.
A few were wrapped in tints of ginger.
A jolt-like sensation that spoke...
Intense and unmistakable in nature.
Like glowing embers engulfed in latent flames and smoke.
Several bore the colours and scent of marigold
Boasting of orange petals whimsically waving to the clouds...
Whispering hints of rumours from days of old,
Days of when mine was the only silent face in a boisterous crowd.
The ones forged in bronze were few and hardly said.
Like the only compelling excerpt embedded within infinite chapters.
Hidden words in plain sight strung together boldly in red.
Rubies cast carelessly in the swiftest of rivers...
It is beginning...
The end of today as the sun grew redder...
I'd bide the sands of time as it slips away into forever...
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
Mixing tea, let's say lavender with something as simple as milk
Must sound silly and weird at first glance, as both come with their
own tastes and flavors which seem to not match at all.
Even the most unmatching couple can find bliss, harmony and
perfection in their very relationship, however.
Such as for the tea;
The milk manages to soften, embrace, advertise the taste of lavender
while leaving a pleasant aftertaste which is alike a ghost poorly
detectable, but present nonetheless after all.
With some sugar to sweeten this experience, it becomes divine,
something I would never have thought of, of such an odd couple.
The image of the lavender becomes overdrawn by the milk,
Engaging in a pure, creamy, brief white which reflects light just
in a majestic sense.
This is a taste to become lost in whilst reading a book in the best
of lightings, together with someone who causes your heart to race
and just turn ablaze
~ Umi
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
~a question of a thousand dreams~^
“Where are you going now my love? Where will you be tomorrow? Will you bring me happiness? Will you bring me sorrow? All the questions of a thousand dreams, what you do and what you see”
this one composes itself
for all dreams go unremembered
the first, the thousandth, the every in between,
erased by the push button of opening eyes
but dreams come, marching in, saints mining the raw materiel
the quartermaster has stored, awaiting requisition by an
unarmed unnamed corp, witnessed but never seen
these dreams wisped soft willow budded, tempting taunting,
leaving nothing but unanswered questions that colored come
in black and white
elementary clues,
a pillow indentation,
single hair that stretches
across the sea between two pillows that is blonde or red
but
certainly unmine,
dregs of soured sentiment linger like the
aftertaste of too many coffees and stainless steel beers
heated summers breezes give no succor or relief,
and the rain following gives no pleasure,
for now you are hot and soaked,
but somewhere in there a dream is part replayed,
and eyes widening in major league surprise,
the question acknowledged, the dreams quest hinted
she has gone, neither happiness or sorrow will she
provide on the morrow, no toweling of your wet hair fair,
and you awake sweat besotted, it is not rain, just pain,
and it is only one dream a thousand times repeated
and what you do and what you see
is the abraded night ahead, and
you bitter laugh, for there is no more other than to think,
the question answered, and you beg relief by
uttering
“perchance to dream”
3:49 pm
see the notes!!
someone accuses me of Plagiarism
because I did not acknowledge that the quote in marks and Italics was from a famous song written 39 years ago
so here is my response to
“just saying”
congratulations on ******* me off
and yes I agree, you do not know the rules
“#1: Quotation Marks Are for Quoting People—Verbatim
Perhaps it should go without saying, but quotation marks are for quoting people. Quoting doesn’t mean summarizing or paraphrasing; it means repeating exactly what someone said. If you put double quotes around a phrase, your reader will often assume that someone, somewhere, said that exact phrase or sentence.“
http://thevisualcommunicationguy.com/2013/09/11/10-things-you-really-need-to-know-about-quotation-marks/
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 3:59 PM UTC
I'm dreaming again
I kissed you and you kissed me
We both felt the aftertaste
Of coffee in our mouths
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
Don't be scared, Love;
show me your scars.
Give me a piece of your soul,
and maybe a glimpse of your mind.
I could show you beauty,
without a field of flowers.
And an amazing high,
without the foul aftertaste.
Just let me in,
let me feel your pain.
I'll touch your soul,
and make you go insane.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 7:54 AM UTC
Somehow I got used to the aftertaste of been alone;
day by day
now
I see growth.
Feelings used to be all over the place
when everything needed some space
- I needed space -
I don't want to be wanted
I'm still not good at it
Trying to find peace
Selflove is what I deserve indeed
Dec 16, 2020
Dec 16, 2020 at 6:18 PM UTC
you
had a chapstick tube
stowed away in your bag of things you never put to use
those scarred chapped lips
scratching, tearing
crevice of your mouth craved my heart
bleeding, uncaring
and subsequently my mango chapstick would serve it's purpose
on your lips and never mine.
among other things, you had a pair of white socks.
you never wore them,
too pristine
(you'd ruin them as you teetered on slippery suspended logs)
you reminded me of a cracked open window,
always hoping you would be at the mullioned panes
chapped lips, white socks and all
but the only thing that pushed against the glass was the scent of mango air.
and
mango never smelt so bitter.
when
will you come home
replace the mango air with your feverish cologne.
a swaying of the breeze and your tee shirt wraps a cotton arm
around your waist
the bitter aftertaste
your tongue like grapefruit wedged against my teeth
i missed the smell of burnt bread bottom,
when we were in the kitchen
and the gown of silver hemmed water that danced down the roof,
tapping
again and again and again
but, when you come home next month.
I will be gone.
the mango
around our home
had long since
turned bitter
and that brown picket fence no longer bends around my heart
i am somewhere where the mango still smells sweet
and
boys give my their chapstick for i've long since run out of mine.
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 2:30 AM UTC
there are bones between my teeth
moonlight glimmering in my eyes
dried blood in my nails, in my hair
my head pounding (thump. thump. thump.)
you know they say blood is thicker than water but that just means blood is more likely to stick in my throat
coughing up family ties one by one
glistening red memories, leaving only a metallic aftertaste
sick nightmare fantasy of ripping open bodies
im the monster in your fairytale stories
lets do a bit of editing, perhaps?
lets shred the whole **** book, perhaps?
lets set fire to the town, perhaps?
im tired of pretending to be your precious child, perfect student, "the innocent one"
i want to paint obscene material in your blood (in the name of art, of course)
@god do you ever feel unreal? are you even real? am i?
no i have to be real, I can feel the blood dripping down my arm, the bones cracking in my spine
im real. im real. im real.
everything hurts!!!!! fuCK i cant wait to rip you all to shreds !!!!!!
T H I S I S N O T A D R E A M
walking on eggshells is far more difficult with digitigrade legs, im not gonna try to be nice anymore
i dont need to be nice anymore
why be nice when you can **** why just **** when you can slaughter?
nobody can stop me from lighting up the post office,
nobody can stop me from gouging out your eyes
im no god but im closer than you
im no angel but you might be soon
close your blinds, lock your doors
big bad wolf is back again
bigger, badder, better wolf
greater, darker, madder wolf
teeth like knives and claws like daggers
six golden eyes staring into your soul
oh right, thats me!
i m i n y o u r h o m e
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 12:10 AM UTC
The first time I made love to my mind
When love escaped from the gaps
Between our silences and overthinkings
I saw the naked mind.
We sailed from thousand cuddles of imprudence
To a long warm kiss of sanity.
While I dwindled in her arms of fool's paradise
No sleep just one long weary night,
Her ****** reeked of loneliness
I licked it. Hoping to taste ingenuity,
it was the aftertaste of forsaken feelings
that made me ***** her
till she stopped moaning neon dreams.
Somewhere in my walkabouts in her
I created deep craters of memories
Which she took for love bites
were, in fact, scars for life.
We were virgins on our quests
Thirsting our way through wanting and longing......
She made me swallow lust
Slowly. Heavily downtown.
And fingered it, the ***** of thoughts
Ruptured.
And she bled musings.
And Phantasmagoria exuding from her holes
And Spurting into mine like a cascade of brooding melancholy.....
And.... And....
The night my mind lost its virginity,
I sat down to write.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 6:21 AM UTC
I am jealous of your cigarette,
won't you place your lips against mine instead?
Inhale-
Exhale
A dance of rapid breaths.
I'm jealous of your cigarette,
of how delicately you seem to hold it
and yet never let it go until, of course,
it burns your fingers;
but I promise I'll never do such a thing as hurt you.
I am jealous of your cigarette,
of the aftertaste and the time it takes away from you,
of how you confide in the smoke in times of desperation.
I'll be here, your addiction,
you won't need to light me up;
and leave you a better taste.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
I hear voices somewhere inside my head
telling me that you are not worth writing about
but I wrote about you anyway
There was a fire in me and I feel your touch
igniting more flames, striking my heart,
wanting to explode
My thoughts were raging and everything was a blur,
shadows were dancing before me
but you were nowhere to be found
You are here, but you are not real
I craved to taste your words again,
to replace the aftertaste of what was burning
I chewed on the ashes,
searching for a tang of you, stinging, yet sweet
And I remember your promises,
They tasted like whiskey and tears,
like a drug, running through my veins,
and disappearing into an ocean of wounds and blood
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 3:59 PM UTC
*Bittersweet
The higher we go
The harder we fall
Bittersweet
Leaves you feeling
Lower than low
Smaller than small
Bittersweet
Sweetness
With a bitter aftertaste
Bittersweet
Helplessly feeling our joy
Go to waste
Bittersweet
Pleasure tinged with sadness
And pain
Bittersweet
Efforts to achieve happiness
All in vain
Bittersweet
Life's cruel little game
Bittersweet
Always a crying shame
By Lady R.F. (C)2017*
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 7:58 AM UTC
Sun, heat and sweat
and what remains but the bone
the indecipherable whisper on our ear
the bitter aftertaste of a potent drink
you show me your tattoos, i show you mine
you show me your scars, i show you my poems
you show me your breast, i show you my
sun, heat and sweat
the ghost of a body that has not yet died
pill after pill till the stomach is pumped
till the brain swims in endorphins, nirvana, heaven
till the night screams to be heard and the moans fade
till the bone-sun rises and clobbers our throbbing skulls
no more
for once i want to sleep by 10:00 pm sharp
for once i want to know what the birds sing
what maria callas means by "vissi d'arte"
for once i yearn to be silenced
by another's dream
dissolve in the radiance of a pure syllable
vanish beyond the confines of light
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 8:55 PM UTC
You've got lies
Like you've got acne
Raw and sour
They deform the skin of the room
Leave scars on its silence
Creep unbidden into pores
Brand themselves into reflections
Hung
Ugly as battle wounds
On the arpeggios of conversation
And you wear your lies
Like you wear acne
Smothered in pretty chemicals
You deliver them like scripted text
Into a world of disingenuity
The self-affected
One-trick-pony of your tongue
Plays them down with beauty
But fails to remove their aftertaste
So please,
Feel free to keep talking
But I thought you should know
That no one's listening any more
And we no longer believe in
Your cries of 'wolf'
Because we know that
No matter how you sing your lies
The world will not cease to orbit the sun
And then re-align itself to you
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 2:43 AM UTC
you are the aftertaste of coffee.
after the jumpstart,
the palpitation,
here you are,
sadly bittersweet.
you are the persisting vision
of a falling star.
its trail of light
remain before me
even after it’s long been gone.
i’ve tried to catch it
with my feeble hands,
only to grasp nothingness.
you are the aftermath
of an earthquake,
of which i found myself
at its epicenter.
even after rebuilding,
i found
that nothing is
as it was.
you are the tune
that keeps playing
over and over again
inside my head.
i’ve being lss-ing
over your memories,
singing a song
i’m not sure
if i’ll ever hear again.
you are an aftertaste,
a persisting vision,
an aftermath,
an lss
that i wrap around myself,
holding me together,
keeping me from falling apart.
for j.e.
100314
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
You can’t smell it anymore,
static cuts out the radio,
it’s the new
aftertaste in water.
&
the smell
of someone’s house
you’re visiting for the first time,
Gawking at old buildings,
hearing syllables differ-
ntly, speaking the same,
different, words heard
A new kind of music and the scent
of childhood
You think you could
stay here, escape
You feel your soul
change, and your heart
beats stronger
There is nothing to fear.
There is nothing ***** here.
How the thunder
and lightening
give you a new
but old kind of fear
but the rain washes everything
the same.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 3:15 AM UTC
pale clouds at the summit
water color sky
cattle guard at wood bridge
creek bed running dry
split log fence downtrodden
razor back in wire
sinkhole on the wild plain
grouse fields under fire
pine bug and a lone wolf
clear cut on the trail
stump lake on the open range
kettle valley rail
raven on the hatheume
slash and burn and scar
blasted church in a tired sun
wild rose under char
thistle in the hollow
quails nest sitting high
carriage house at lone rock
curtains of july
smoke jaw in the canyon
percolator dream
silver sage in chapel
schneider's requiem
stockmen on the wrangle
big horn antler chase
table top at sunset
deacon creek in grace
quarry in a furry
lines of tinted red
spurs and blades and columns
patchwork of the dead
past the bow hill junction
cattle ropes are black
indian amphitheater
saddle on the rack
sun is at a high bake
sedimentary stone
three days on the morphine
skeleton and bone
cold water road is lonely
corrals are cut and paste
gone but not forgotten
the dust filled aftertaste
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
Innocent Hyacinth tinted with mint
Tingèd grey hinged on stem singed
With chestnut leaves flowing, to me a fair hint
Of off-centred carousing, black eyes perusing
Wares of all sorts and stocks of all shares
The leading on of a pleasure most gracefully enthusing
Drops dews of all shades, of selfsame structure
And we full of rowdy Sedition;
But Wait! Recognition.
In my hopes and tired efforts, a puncture.
Music blaring loud, aftertaste of rejection
And full on full strand of all smoke addled people
Oh! How great Quasimodo I fell off my steeple
In the midst of the crowd, full dejection.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
not many people favor
the flavor
of the green tea latte
sweet from the start
with a slight bitter aftertaste
as the matcha on your tongue fades
i remember the time
we went to your favorite cafe
and you commented on how your
green tea latte
was a little sweeter than the usual
and now i comment how
it is a little more bitter
compared to when i had it with you
the green tea latte
is my memory of you
sweet—for every time
we sat in that same spot
sipping the warm green drink
and bitter— for the moment
i drank my
green tea latte
alone
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 10:39 AM UTC
I am reading poems by Billy Collins:
AIMLESS LOVE, a retrospective,
A sampler, as it were
For the Books and Brew;
Our monthly selection.
Nine manly men
Meeting for monthly meals
And book-talk
And politics
And, of course, good beer.
They like nonfiction,
I like fiction.
Richard Hughes,
British writer of poems, short stories, novels and plays said:
“All nonfiction can do is answer questions;
It is fiction's business to ask them.”
Still, my repertoire has expanded:
Nike shoes.
Civil War.
Institutional racism.
Opioid addiction.
Rafting the Grand Canyon.
Climbing mountains.
With Baron Von Humboldt.
And now this:
Poetry.
Nine manly men
Reading poetry to each other
While sharing a meal,
One lovely poem after another.
You can't read a book of poetry
Like you consume other books,
Fiction or nonfiction.
The table of contents:
The lid of a box of exquisite truffles—
A map of pleasures contained within.
You look at the map,
And make a selection.
The caramel truffle
Is not the coffee truffle.
You look at the map,
Make a selection,
And bite!
The crusty chocolate cracks!
The darkness melts,
Floods your mouth with taste.
Then the rush of caramel!
Flavors, smells sloshing
Swooning with sensate memories.
What? Turn the page and read another?
Reach for the coffee truffle?
No. Linger with caramel;
Luxuriate on aftertaste.
Is that a note of citrus or salt?
I will enjoy my coffee truffle tomorrow.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 12:26 PM UTC
*Rambunctious heart
Euphoric moments
Dizzying heights
Pleasures galore
Lofty heights
Erogenous zones
Passionately explored
Dreamy delights
Life’s desserts
Honey glazed
Aftertaste of love
Synchronized ******
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 12:22 AM UTC