"baristas" poems
When I saw her
The first woman with the first wide eyes
Bright and light and dark and deep
With life and mystery
My heart beat like the first hand struck the first drum
And the first song was sung
In dark caves of ten times ten thousand years ago
When I first breathed that first scent
My sight stopped
My mind stopped
My mind was my body and my hands and my gut
And my legs extending to the ground and the earth and time
And it slowed down like an ice age beginning
Then it melted into warm fire
Where it burned
The first touch of the first woman
Was electrical chemical radioactive bliss
Every piece of matter in me wanted to move and dance and shake and fly apart
The spark from the start of her heart beat
Crossed through the fibers and
Traveled down the pathways of her body
Down the chemical electric synapses
Through her arm and jumped across to my hand
And traveled up and started a new beat
It was a faster, and stronger beat
And it beat
And it beat
Like the first dance,
Shook with the slap and smack of ground and hands and feet
Oh the first woman was all women
And then there were other women
And they were people
Flesh and blood
And minds and thoughts
And feelings that I could not feel
Good and bad and indifferent
With hangups and problems
Blemishes and baggage
I met women coming
Women going
Here and there
Now and then
For coffee, for beer,
One evening or ten
I met scientists, nurses
bartenders and baristas.
Living lives I didn't mind
Giving time when it was mine
Asking for things I couldn't find
Then I saw You
All of you
In time and space and speed
I caught the scent of you
Your fragrance and perfume
And the primal musk of you
That fatal lusts allure
I felt you
The gravity of your body from across the room
Your electro-magnetic force pulling
Pressure of the displaced particles pushing
As you walked so slowly towards me
And time stopped
Light and sound and movement were captured
Captive to your hypnotic sway
Prisoner to your power over my perception
You moved through the still air
And it swept aside like a curtain as you passed
The world was quiet
And then it pounded
The pressure of it filled the air and everything around it
As you moved closer,
Like ride of the Valkyries
Rising and crashing in waves
It rose as you moved towards me
You carried it in your wake
And then it was a crescendo
A vast overpowering transcendent orchestral cacophony
Of immense intense sound and light and energy erupting
Cymbals crashed and horns blew and strings snapped under the pressure of the vibrations
Brilliant fireworks exploded in the black sky of your brown eyes
As you stopped a few feet from me
And time was stopped
You were the first woman
You were all women
You are
The only woman
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
On autumns ground I walk,
As winters snow sky blindingly glows.
In the thylacines footsteps i tread,
On a path the future presents.
Sitting in a cafe, I realise,
The tea I have just had, was built from a billion lives.
Who tasted the leaves.
Who told the others.
Who invented the farm.
Who planted the leaves.
Who planted the seeds.
Who made them grow.
Who picked them.
Who told the nation.
Who created the plough, made the grow more effectively, created the axe, learned to chop a tree, learned to shape it, learned wood floated, came up with the ships, made the first boat, made it sail, told the others, discovered nations, learned their language, spoke it, found what they wanted, got tea, got it back, gave birth to 200,000 generations who split off as cup makers, baristas, cow farmers, milkmen, sugar farmers, sugar packers, cafe owners and tea farmers.
'CHEERS!'
We are indeed standing on the shoulders of giants, but the weight will build on ours.
Swimming the route laid out by the Baiji.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
In a Somerville coffeeshop, waiting for his single origin light roasted Pour over,
Frankenstein reads a philosophy magezine, seductively planted by the lounging area.
"One lives two lives."
The magezine reads,
"That which one spends in their physical body,
and that which begins the moment one leaves that body,
lasting until all witness to ones first life has spoken its final word".
The baristas eyes widen when he sees Frankenstein,
The barista says nothing.
He knows better than to raise the dead.
Frankenstein is often confused
for his monster.
Condensation rises between crocheted mittens, Frankenstein Lingers on the Cherry notes in his Coffee, while it combs icicles into his snow white mustache.
He likes this new version of an afterlife. It empowers him to take advantage of the time he has now, to make his second life last as long as possible.
He's in the middle of this thought
When his face slams against ***** snowbank.
Dog **** mixing into the icicles of his moustache.
A familiar mob of torches and pitchforks only see the monster.
They take turns kicking.
Kicking
Frankenstein wakes to a lynching.
When he lives
He is not a monster.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 8:06 AM UTC
voices blend, a buzzing murmur
steam swirls, mocha wafts
caffeinated atmosphere
java fog looms above
steam swirls, mocha wafts
music caresses lightly the ambience
caffeinated atmosphere
lively line of addicts
music caresses lightly the ambience
softly, I fall into clouded thought
lively line of addicts
contrast my peaceful bliss
softly, I fall into clouded thought
pen the pensive rumination
contrast my peaceful bliss
busy baristas hollering orders
pen the pensive rumination
inspiration in café population
busy baristas hollering orders
while I ponder life's purpose
inspiration in café population
doodle, draw, and dream
while I ponder life's purpose
I sigh, my mind screams
doodle, draw, and dream
let it out, let me be
I sigh, my mind screams
voices blend, a buzzing murmur
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
When we walked up to the door of our favourite coffee pub
You tangled your fingers around my own
And with a twist of my wrist
We went in
We order our usual from the usuals
The baristas never changed though the drinks did with the seasons
As I pull out the exact change from my coat
You shake some melted snow from your hair
We grab a seat at a nook by the window
There was a ring of dried coffee on the table
I fill it in with my mug
You joke it’s my OCD but I say it’s my love for the unappreciated
We listen to a woman with a guitar at the makeshift stage
She strums off a couple chords and sings with her lips
She fades into the background as I turn to look at you
Your eyes are closed to turn up the volume
I close mine too and let the music direct me
My mind swims like a trapeze *******
I sway with the strings and strums
Your hand grasps mine as I fall into the safety net
The guitarist is packing up
Our coffee or what’s left of it is cold
You lean over and
Two angels kissed like sinners
Two sinners kissed like angels
Jun 20, 2010
Jun 20, 2010 at 11:16 PM UTC
Zen monks sit quietly on
stern pillows of effervescent soul.
I do not,
My patchwork pillow is filled with
styrofoam-- artificial.
Hasidic Rabbis rub their tired pious books
adding more wear marks from years worrying
which appear like a foreign tongue on the cover.
My book is full of yellowed, empty pages
sitting, dust-ridden on a abandoned shelf.
The head of the Shiite rests against solid stone
The penitent countenance like a mirror of Mecca.
My forehead bears only the reddened mark of my forearm
from the vibrant narcolepsy of life.
The Atheist sits in the coffee house
lecturing the disinterested Baristas
about the tomfoolery of religion.
I sit alone,
nodding sagely,
sipping wine that tastes
flat against my tongue.
What does a depth of spiritual belief offer?
There is an unwritten, unquantifiable,
essence that belief gives the human.
A depth of meaning, like
a shot of penicillin to a case of chlamydia.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
I would like this life of endless
Greyhound time schedules to cease.
What self-inflicted alien abduction
tore me from the valley of my birth,
leaving me to wander empty streets,
each the branch of a coppiced maze?
I grow weary of quotidian fastfood buffets
downed with the aid of espresso baristas.
My legs have lost the muscle-memory
that strode the river cliffs with no regard.
Time to end the sleepwalk of forty years;
rejoin the forward guard of Iroquois.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 10:47 AM UTC
Voices blurring
Secrets passing
Dripping through
the coffee filters.
Pooling in
heatproof glass.
Relationships being built
strengthened
raising to new levels
like steam on hot milk.
Stories woven
like the skilled baristas.
Not missing a beat,
not spilling a drop.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 2:11 AM UTC
Another chance
Night sky resurrection
Bruise then
Soothes
You choose
Through whisky blues
Cheap tattoos
Busy streets
Teeming life grooves
To strange beats
Existential speakeasies
Proves
Electric existence
Is Heavenly
A strange bohemia
Resounds, crowns
Road side cafes
Girls with belly
Button rings,
Sing
In different hues
Multicolored moods
Hipsters, weirdos,
Freaksters
Congregate in this
Urban delight
Torn jeans,
Worn boots
Christmas lights hang
From baristas roof
Eclectically surreal
Is how I feel
Cars passing by
Intermingle
I drop my dime
And head on
To my next
Crawl
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 1:31 AM UTC
Bobbin my head to Public Enemy
Lookin' like a misfit Chuck D
Sittin' in the corner clickin' keys
Drinkin' honey green leaf, not coffee
Not the normal old dude in a coffee shop
Shakin' his head to old school hip hop
Writin' poetry and he just can't stop
Hope the baristas don't call da cops
Soon be closin' time in dis five and dime
Kicked to the curb, but I'll be fine
Got my tea, my raps, and my rhymes
They killed the wifi, coulda lost lines
Waiten' for my daughter outside dance
But I'm da one jamin' out my pants
Refusing to listen to dance moms' rants
Bein me, that's always my stance
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
Scarred hands of a
Tired, underpaid worker
Shake while he
Picks the beans.
Tired, underpaid worker
Sighs at the routine as he
Picks the beans
And carries them out the door.
Sighs at the routine as he
Orders the same things again
And carries them out the door.
I watch him as I sip my coffee.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
My college instituted a new policy today.
In an effort to promote solidarity,
All students, professors, service workers,
Janitors, coaches, board members,
Dining hall workers, librarians, baristas,
Gardeners and printers
Are required to mark their foreheads,
A sort of branding if you will,
With permanent marker.
This is retroactive immediately.
I had thought I had seen it all within week one:
Lions, GPAs, phone numbers concealed by long
bangs
Personality traits, four letter words, names of
significant others
The very same that were crossed out as the bottom
fell out,
Rocket ships,
Or what I'm assuming were rocket ships,
Advertisements, slogans, “taken”.
I also saw bar codes
And statistics
And long, non-terminating sequences.
I looked at myself in the mirror
And saw that I had not yet marked my forehead.
I pulled out a sharpie
And upon my face
Highlighted my wrinkles.
Because, who isn't tired of being a cog in the machine?
And who doesn't worry about life otherwise?
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 5:30 PM UTC
I've never felt at home
This isn't a place I know
The ceilings are too high
Strange things sit everywhere by & by
The people who reside there are strangers to me
I'd say that I'm the black sheep
But really, I'm the antelope
And they like antelope
Like baristas like bad music
And when they dip their finger in
Wrist deep next time, then again
'Till I'm left in the bottom of the *** kettle black
Scrounging around blind,
Trying to find what I lack
And all I hear are their pitiful laughs
As they fulfill their petty needs
With all of my earnings
And then they pick me up by the collar
Make sure to shake me loose of any last dollars
They toss me in the water for a long hard swim
The ***** water crashes into my mouth again & again
I choke and drown but fight this death
With each and every beaten, soapy, breath
I climb out wet and ragged and I crawl into my hideaway
They feel uncomfortable in there,
Dreams and love and art are not understood by them
And I look in the mirror
This poor, raggedy, sodden with soap and dirt, broken little girl.
Who could grow like wild flowers in different soil
Is limp and soft and
And.
And...
and...
Her face hardens.
She goes to sleep another night.
And knows she fights tomorrow, the same fight
But she feels her chest harden tight.
Until she can plant the seed
In some other soil,
She'll till it out of love,
Not the turmoil.
No, not the turmoil.
There is plenty of that around.
Her seed will be put into the ground.
And she will grow next to the beautiful dawn.
He can watch her grow and feed her lovely rays.
He disappears at night,
But he comes back during the days.
And they can thrive together.
Just have to get through the last of this bad weather.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 11:36 AM UTC
Oh, how my heart aches with such sweet sorrow.
Your presence in these thoughts of mine, bring forth something so sweet.
Kneeling to inhale a freshly bloomed rose in the break of spring is what you are.
A rose you are my love.
A character I face many times a week.
Oh, how you cause my knees to go weak and my hands shaky.
Oh, what sweet sorrow when for just a moment, your wrists touches mine.
When your fragrance sways my way.
For just a moment, our spirits become aligned.
The same breath is taken from this dream that stands still.
For a moment, it all becomes real.
Then the noise settles in.
The pace surrounding now back in motion.
The cloud my heart rest on vanishes.
Only now hanging from a thread of hopeful thought.
Did he enter into that realm along with me? Or was I alone in my travels?
Oh! But his eyes say so much, yet nothing at all! Can it be all I see is my own reflection in those glossy eyes staring back at me?
- Josephine M. Zeceña
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 11:01 AM UTC
light fixtures hanging down by a single wire,
a single lightbulb adorning the end.
large, gray and brown tiles checkered beneath my feet.
inviting leather arm chairs
caressing inviting cellular people
glued to their books or cellular phones.
warm, minty walls and a cool breeze through the door-
the chill of autumn-
so comforting.
older, disgruntled, bearded men- most likely freelance writers?
and soccer moms in yoga pants coming in for their six dollar lattes.
not to mention the elderly ladies here for coffee and book club...
the college student in a sweatshirt and jeans, fixated on typing-
two espressos in hand.
the baristas- in plaid shirts or floral dresses or striped blouses-
busily taking orders, pressing buttons, pulling levers, calling out coffees.
and me.
sitting in my black cafe chair at my caramel cafe table
with my large, smooth coffee, drowned in cream, and
with my .5 pilot pen in hand, and
with my old notebook before me.
writing the autumn morning away.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC
The blades of grass untidy over some sub saharian variety.
The cumulus clouds are more down town
with illegal builds shimmering in the corners.
We look back at our hopes
and belatedly realise baristas have
subverted our national brew.
Sub let flats with strangers passing through
leaving catering oil drums outside.
Our national prerequisite minding ones own
allows everything unknowing to go on,
including a morning benefits agency raid.
Rules and queues consigned to ailing England
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 9:33 AM UTC
In our subset of society we
worship sweet caramel syrup and
double tall soy lattes with extra foam
and extra shots of whatever
can keep us pumping through
marathon long meetings
where we meddle
in our market’s perception
of health savings accounts,
a muddle of mindless
power point presentations
and persistent pencil tapping
on a cold granite table top.
We cannot blame the
young baristas with tattooed
arms and early morning
smiles for simply slipping
us the goods- we must blame
the comfortable coffee pushing
peddlers with heavy pockets,
the evil executives
who sit in their soft leather
armchairs and export
expensive beans from South America.
They empty our leather wallets
but fill our bladders;
offer less calories for
a slightly heavier price-
only $4.15 for a Grande
Caramel Frapuccino Light,
so many in our stomach
that we undoubtedly
will email ourselves into a
caffeine induced coma.
If we could see the constant account
debiting that swarms cyberspace-
millions of dollars transferring
between molecules-
we would drown in
the onslaught of dollar bills into
the hungry
Starbucks black hole that is
never full.
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 12:27 PM UTC
The goofy middle aged men
are funny as they
flirt with baristas
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC
Scientists say that the average person,
Falls in love seven times before marriage,
But if this is true, I should officially declare myself
As a member of the spinsterhood because,
On average, I fall in love seven times a day.
Subway strangers
Witty waitresses
Bantering baristas
These temporary lovers,
Make me fall head over heels,
With just a glance,
An accidental brush,
A sly smile.
Maybe I’m not the marrying type –
After all, there are 7 billion 46 million people,
Bumping into each other on this planet,
And perhaps I don’t bump into “the one,”
Since I don’t believe in just “the one.”
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 6:25 PM UTC
How do we judge
Patterns of love
For I have found myself
Trying to look
Past the water wrinkled pages of my tired book
Having just used it as cover from the pouring rain
Stepping into this crowded café
And immediately being struck
By the sight of you
I quickly divert my glance away
Yet finding my sight slowly circling the room
Slowly coming back around to
The arresting sight of you
Having realized that I had already given my order
Defaulting to an autonomous response
Showing that my mind was currently preoccupied
I hastily hand over a five
Having missed the exact price
As I walk away I look your way again
And of course I don't pursue
Sitting myself across the room
Viewing the setting in which I would be resting
Insuring it was visible by you
Quickly looking at lighting
And the surrounding set dressings
Of a slightly worn couch in front of a hearth
I set my book down
Making sure it was obvious from across the room
Hearing my name being called
I turn to gather my mindlessly ordered coffee
I see a glint in the baristas eye
Having seen me organizing my setting
And my quite obvious glancing
She called another name
And rising from her seat
The girl I had been admiring
Arose and let her eyes rest on mine
Bringing this suddenly heavy question to my mind
How do we judge patterns of love
And if it's possible to achieve at first sight.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
Johnny likes
the back corner seat
in the cafe
it gives a good view
of those entering
and leaving
and a good view
of the baristas
as they work
at the bar
especially
the Clara Bow
lookalike
with her black hair
and cute cut
and dark eyes
and thin
almost
indecipherable smile
and in the background
the piped Baroque music
or sometimes jazz
setting feet to tapping
but this day
the barista is
the short girl
with the Italian twang
who gets
the orders right on cue
and who knows
your requirements
before you say
on a good day
the tattooed barista
has gone
his favourite gaze
to watch her work
and talk and smile
and the glitter
in her eyes
she works
elsewhere
for other men
to watch
and stare.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 2:27 AM UTC
Bitter coffee swirling in my cup
Not enough flavor to fill me up
Should I complain to baristas till satisfied
As if it would make my taste buds feel justified
A shot of espresso in my coffee
All I'm lacking is English toffee
I keep drinking even though its not so sweet
to stubborn to admit defeat
Its not so bad if you drink it fast
The bitter flavors I soon get past
Bitter coffee is no more
For I am just a coffee *****
And I drank it.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC
you fall in love
so strongly
with booksellers
and baristas
and the girl next door
because as someone said
we are creatures of habit,
and the fact that you're able
to see them more than once
to refresh their own face on your memory
unconsciously blows your ******* heart up.
you see all of these beautiful entities
walking and breathing
and dying and living,
and you fall in love with all of them.
but soon enough,
maybe after three nights of seeing
them blurry in your eyes,
you forget their faces and what they were wearing.
you forget how they laughed
or smelled
or talked about whatever.
but not her.
you don't forget her
with the short
shoulder-length blonde hair,
with the glasses and big smile.
you don't forget
how she said you looked cute
and talked about vonnegut
and charles bukowsky.
but she probably forgot you.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
Somewhere, right at this moment, a man is walking into a coffee shop. He's looking at the board above the baristas head. He can't decide what type of tea to get. This is the hardest decision that he's going to have to make today.
Somewhere, right at this moment, a man is having trouble selecting his drink order, while you're doubled over on the floor with a bottle clutched to your chest and a handful of pills begging to be swallowed, choosing whether to live or die.
-bcg (perspective can be a ***** and a life saver)
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 8:54 PM UTC
this whole world is beautiful
I’ve seen it with my own bright eyes
everything I’ve fallen in love with
oceans that stretch forever
and gleam iridescent azure
while mighty waves crest into the sky
forests that climb overhead
and all the life climbing with them
high on bursting verdant canopies
those scarlet-golden sunsets
cherished only in a moment
but held close to the heart forever
and I’ve heard it sing to me
countless voices singing one song
every single one a unique verse
distant calls of mockingbirds
each note made of avian love
sung to each other and the whole world
faint howling of coyotes
ferocious things of teeth and claws
a black backdrop for a vivid world
whispers of lovers at night
promises of their life yet lived
together with hands locked and eyes set
and I must say i’ve felt it
every single thing strikes a chord
each familiar path or trail unblazed
all of the places I’ve been
fabled cities and fresh retreats
give a sense of time: passed or ahead
all of the stories I’ve read
words by Hemingway or Dumas
spin worlds in both romance and the real
all of the people I’ve met
doctors, baristas, and students
each touched me with their own perspective
the world is beautiful, true
but when I look up to the sky
I know beauty isn’t just on Earth
when I see stars and stardust
floating in galaxies above
the whole universe looks beautiful
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 4:17 AM UTC