"beverage" poems
Love is a ***** soup going stale but steaming like it's brand new;
And I'm Oliver twist walking up to the *** with a rusty spoon full of desire and hope asking for more but getting none.
Love is a Doctor gathering dead bodies and shackling them up in chains;
And I'm a green freak with Frankenstein bolts ****** through my head walking around with only a mumble to muster trying to love people who just want to run away.
Love is a white paper rolled so finely, full of sedatives and drugs;
And I'm sitting by a fire reaching in for a log to smoke.
Love is puzzle made by Einstein and Sam Loyd;
And I'm a child with eyes made of glass and hands made of thorns crying to my mother because that puzzle is a *****
Love is Navy Seal training on a beach covered in cold water spilling blood for a chance;
And I'm a pot-smoking hippie who holds up signs and tells soldiers they’re monsters as I take a puff of death.
Love is a ten-syllable word compacted into one;
And I'm a hooked on phonics children’s thesaurus struggling to find a comparison that I can actually pronounce.
Love is a white egg timer sitting on the fridge set to all nines;
And I'm a busy housewife waiting to cook dinner at the sound of its bell.
Love is a robber with a 45 in his belt;
And I'm an eager dad trying to protect his family with a wooden stick.
Love is hot coffee from a luxury beverage shop;
And I'm a plastic party cup melting away.
Love is a doctor with a PHD in heart surgery;
And I'm a sick child waiting with his mother with no healthcare ******* on a free doctor’s-office lollypop.
Love is a huge pink eraser;
And I'm a graphite pencil struggling to write while me and the eraser fight.
Love is a pickup truck speeding through town drunk;
And I'm a lost puppy running through the same intersection looking for my owner.
Love is meant for fish;
And I'm a bird.
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 12:18 PM UTC
Here is to the bitter eye of the even sky
The acidic beverage I imbibe
So I can feel just a little more alive
For that cardiac killing back breaking
Blood spilling sweat distilling nine to five
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 6:00 PM UTC
Your smile warms my morning like the Thai Lemon Ginger tea that is your favorite.
In fact, a glass of hot water in your presence would not require a tea leaf to be the most exquisite beverage I could enjoy.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 5:54 PM UTC
You are my morning cup of coffee,
My hot, steamy, caffeinated beverage made to wake me up,
I sip you,
Bitter,
Some sugar to cheer you up?
I dowse you in vanilla cream…
Any better my darling?
How come you are so nasty?
Not a morning person either?
Well I can't blame you,
Why do I think I drink so much of you?
Because I like you?
Well I do,sorta, the effects you bring to me are quite uplifting,
I shake,
Nervously,
Oh you startle me and delight me,
I feel comforted as you break open into my bloodstream,
My body on fire and ready to start my long and trying day,
Maybe we can get through this together,
Another cup is what I think I need of you,
Whether bitter or not we can make it through,
So my little cappuccino, so frothy and frilly,
I want you to know that I need you,
Like to start my morning, my every morning
Whether you are just black, or a venti latte with skim and carmel syrup stirred inside,
Or else I be stuck in bed all the time
There be no you to keep me awake or alive,
No reason to go outside and try,
No motivator, no mover, just me living my days on my own,
How terribly depressing I must add,
So I'll keep you company if you keep on stirring my brain with your caffeinated ways
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 10:55 AM UTC
The girl i liked
she's the one with eyes starry
like the night sky
a mouth red and cherry-like
her smile
is the springtime rain
that gently awakens hundreds
of flowers
i don't know when exactly
i fell in love with her
the love germinated
perhaps concealed in the bashfulness
during high school
i knew it's love
when her head's on her desk
glasses on one side and sleepy-eyed
i couldn't help but take one more glance
my love for her
was hidden in a piece of eraser
in her little piece of bread
the feeling of liking her
is when i remember her smile
either with friends or alone
it is also after we parted ways
the feeling of missing her
couldn't forget and couldn't let go
she appears in my dream
running to me
the girl i liked
her name is so special
i still hope i can meet her
even if it's just one time
i will no longer hide
my love
i hope the thread of fate
pulls us together
love essentially
is the miracle of destiny
the girl i liked so much
her name contains neon and beverage
it's been inscribed here
since forever.
Jun 16, 2022
Jun 16, 2022 at 5:01 AM UTC
I open my fridge door and what do I see?
A half empty bottle of beer, relishes, old vegetables and water.
I close the door.
My groaning stomach persuades me to open the door once more. Like an alter ego, I obey it's commands.
I'm sure this time, there will be food, food that was invisible just a second ago. Food that I will see, if I look hard enough.
I grab the chilled silver handle and give it a pull. Wide open swings the door to reveal food galore!--
Oh wait, there's no food, not even a decent beverage. There's still just a whole load of nothingness and hunger.
A deep dark depression cuts me like a knife through butter. no food here, no food there, nothingness all around just starvation and suffering.
I close the fridge.
The cycle repeats itself.
Such is life.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 1:58 AM UTC
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison? O generous food!
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.
I have heard that on a day
Mine host's sign-board flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer's old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,
Said he saw you in your glory,
Underneath a new old sign
Sipping beverage divine,
And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac.
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
4.4k
Now I'd like to tell you of a liquid
And a beverage clearly divine
It matches the holiest spirit
And most blessed communion wine
But it's not to be found at the altar
Of the temple, the mosque or the church
You'll see it in glasses lined up on the bar
Wherever the pensioners perch
Oh Gin, Gin, fabulous Gin
Finest concoction there ever has bin
A knee to the crotch and a kick in the shin
To him that speaks ill of that heavenly Gin
I had a great aunty called Floris
Each morning she'd sternly arise
With a fire in the pit of her stomach
And a merciless scowl in her eyes
But thanks to a magical fluid
By the end she was quite the reverse
And her face was serene and so tranquil
As they bundled her into the hearse
Oh Gin, Gin, glorious Gin
Remover of troubles and varnish and skin
There's many a baby that wouldn't have bin
If not for a bottle of beautiful Gin
Edith was crippled with cramp of the back
And terrible gout of the thighs
Her walk was askew and her bottom had swelled
To a rather astonishing size
But with Gin in the morning, the noon and night
She was right as proverbial rain
She still couldn't walk but now couldn't talk
So no one could hear her complain
Oh Gin, Gin, medicinal Gin
Bracing your face with a permanent grin
Cleans up the silver but tarnishes tin
Joyous the juice of the juniper, Gin
Tis a regular modern elixir
And a kick in the liver to boot
It's companion for many a mixer
To the tonic or blending of fruit
Instilling a mighty contentment
And removing all traces of rage
Though it's mainly imbibed by ladies
Those of a particular age...
Oh Gin, Gin, magnificent Gin
Clean as a whistle and sharp as a pin
Puts hairs on the ears, the chest and chin
Of nannies and grannies all guzzling Gin
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
She said "I think, I'd be coffee."
I had asked her:
if your personality was a beverage,
what beverage would it be?
I reply,
"No. You wouldn't be coffee.
I wake up to a cup of coffee every morning.
If you're going to be coffee you need to have somehing else to you.
Be sweet and cheap with tons of sugar if you have too.
Or more preferably, be locally roasted with high notes and low notes.
Or be dark, bold and roasty.
You can taste like anything!
bing cherry, citrus, earthy, chocolate.
You can't just say coffee.
Coffee deserves so much more explanation than that.
I had coffee brandy once.
I woke up to her every morning and I got drunk off of her.
If I ever stopped drinking water i'd throw her all up and feel sick.
but I would never drink water.
Every morning After I drank her I'd walk down the hall and find a sippy cup full of milk.
Even she was not just milk.
She was strawberry milk.
She was coffee milk.
She was my little coffee milk.
You are not coffee.
I had coffee before and it's gone.
You are water.
I don't wake up to you every morning.
I don't need you to get through my day, yet.
But run you through my filter enough times.
Soak up all my grounds.
Maybe one day,
You can be my coffee.
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 1:54 PM UTC
(Why do you look at drinking as such a nasty thing?)
Oh, no reason.
It’s a silly little beverage,
That twisted and turned,
My childhood to shambles,
All because it was who ‘he’ was.
Oh, you’re right,
I’m just being dramatic,
It was just my innocence,
After all,
Silly me.
Nov 2, 2023
Nov 2, 2023 at 10:02 PM UTC
We seem to gravitate towards coffee shops, even those who don't like hot beverages find themselves there. I suppose it's a good place to let go your baggage. Lose yourself for five minutes. Loosen up and unwind. That's hard to do even on a good day. The world always has an agenda that needs seeing to. Rather selfish of the Earth to be honest, and quite damaging to your self worth. You can't be at it's beck and call 24/7. But we try to, dear God do we try. Of course this leads to us burning up rather spectacularly. Giving, worrying, stressing, doing. Until we are left smoking, steam rising like a freshly made coffee. But nothing is fresh here. Burnt coffee. Unusable. No longer capable of the great feats we once were. Like the world had chewed us up and spit us out when we're no longer useful. What a ******** But what can you do to stop a ******** Not much as they are inheritly selfish - deep down in their very core, nothing but molten arrogance, festering beneath their skin this sense of entitlement. That is what it is. You can't change the world from what it is. Just as much as you can not change who you are. So take five minutes and go to a coffee shop. Lose yourself in a hot beverage. Watch the steam rise and be thankful it isn't yours.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 3:41 AM UTC
I'm a greet-you-and-meet-you professional
I get straight to the point and don't mess around.
I'll ask you how your day is,
If you found everything okay-
And if you prefer paper or plastic.
Like a superhero from a comic strip-
I'm out to make you smile in five minutes
or less.
I have the super power
To turn you away from your favorite alcoholic beverage
Or turn you on-
It all depends if you can pass the test,
the secret code to a top secret nuke shelter-
No pass, no go.
I'm like a greeting card,
Everyday; a new message.
Sometimes I'll hear about the weather,
Other times,
I'll hear intimate details which I really don't care about-
But I'll pretend I do...
Things like-
What you're having for supper,
How much wine your sister likes to drink
Or the fact that you make the best homemade sauce.
I'll get to know you the more I see you,
And like an app on your smart phone,
I'll remind you to come again.
I'll see your kids at their worst-
Moments their grandparents don't get to see.
I'll learn about your financial status,
Your marital status,
Or the fact that you don't have a status at all.
I'll take all of your complaints
And sometimes pass them someone else-
I'll hear all your requests like an overworked DJ
And if you're lucky...
Your wish will be granted.
I am a food slinger,
A cash ringer,
A handle-your-food winner,
I am grocery store cashier.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 5:33 AM UTC
The Poet is the language,the mystery of Monalisa's smile,
the brush of Caravaggio and the finest painting of Vangogh.
The Poet is the sonnet of Mozart anf the symphony of Bach,
a tragedy of Shakespeare and the saddest verse of Pablo Neruda.
The Poet is the blue Danube in waltz and the Swan Lake in Ballet.
The Poet is the renaissance of passion and the remnant of life,
the dilemma of morality,the shadow of deed,and the ombra of sin.
The Poet is the fantasy of each Sunrise and the illusion of every Sunset,
the wave in tide of wishes,carried in a bottle to dune drunk shore.
The Poet is the believer, dream lover in a hot passionate crazy affair,
the magician who creates fables and fairytales from a deadly reality.
The Poet is the worker who works and works to survive,to cope in this
demanding,sophisticated,stigmatic concrete hypocratic world.
The Poet is the thief of time,with eyes flutterin on late nights,
Still loyal to the pen,His thoughts in verse,bleedin fragranted words.
The Poet is an Omnipotent servant,with a will to ask and crave to learn.
A Philosopher,whose always an amateur in the pursuit of wisdom.
The Poet is an eternal slave of His Muse,the beverage of inspiration,
the spouse married to literature,adulterer of lyric,deceiver of prose.
He Knows no lapsus in all that is scandalous,royalty or sacred.
He is the artist, musician, actor,the clairvoyant of destined paths.
He is the cheap clay's mold,carved in the sculpture of the next century.
The Poet is the unfinished book,the chapter in yesterday,
He is the Nobody of today and the bookmark of tomorrow.
T H E POET IS YOU ! ! !
Nov 6, 2010
Nov 6, 2010 at 10:29 PM UTC
Lounging in a chaise
Soaking up warm rays
Peaches and cream
Hills of soft green
Come closer and whisper
"You are my living dream"
Sipping on devotion doesn't fill me up
Pour another drink into my cup
Sugar sweet beverage
The right amount of leverage
When the taste stays on your tongue
Lemon twisted love affair
Never did I have a care
Gonna leave you high and dry
This time I won't be the one to cry
Carnival lights and
Forbidden nights
Ruthless and reckless
Take me out for a drive
Dripping ice cream
"You are my daring delight"
Sipping on devotion doesn't fill me up
Pour another drink into my cup
Sugar sweet beverage
The right amount of leverage
When the taste stays on your tongue
Lemon twisted love affair
Never did I have a care
Gonna leave you high and dry
This time I won't be the one to cry
Stomach clenched into a fist
Pucker up for a sour kiss
No one to give you a warning
Pursued another the next morning
Bitter words inflict raw pain
"Your misery is my gain"
Lemon twisted love affair
Never did I have a care
Gonna leave you high and dry
Shriveled heart awaits to die
I won't be the one to cry
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 3:34 PM UTC
I can't rip myself asunder from such a magnanimous prepositional
as this.
While the fishes hang from my window
like little ice-ickles in spring.
So foams the frosty beverage that tells the gills to sing.
Twilight music and the sonnets contained therein
have little left to offer us, save a right-winged jerry-bin.
So the muse of ages goes round and around and around
for the malarkey of a daffodil creates folds and hills
where none exist.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 12:27 PM UTC
Dining Hall
The day that Darwin dies
you call me at lunch
surrounded by raucous boys
who would ridicule your tears
Milk
You’re downing a glass
as I sip my wine
Separated by years
and words you don’t know
Our preference in beverage
is the space between us
The Other Side of Mt. Heart Attack
Lullaby redhead croons my fingers bend three at a time choking out two-syllable death trap.
Constellating
Sandwiched between
fresh books
spines not yet cracked
Secretive soulmates
sharing espresso-scented
pecks on strawberry lips
Hush Hush
Hands that aren’t yours
hold back my hair
dampened
tears shed
over words you threw
shattering
showering me with shards
of the way you once felt
Day Long Marriage
Air-conditioned summers
bare skin on leather couches
your hand resting
on blue ruffled *******
Happy New Year
Crouching
behind closet doors
your voice
at once comfort and affront
I’ll forget the words you say
still clutching my phone
wishing it was you
The Other Emily
Purest form of you and me
Benadryl-induced delusions
refusing sleep
exhausted
warm and doe-eyed
in the glow of your fondness
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 12:37 PM UTC
Even from far away, you could see it.
They were drunk.
But not from any type of beverage.
They were drunk off of each other.
The way they laughed, the way they kept sneaking glances even though both knew the other one was looking too.
The way they curled into each other with a nervousness hidden behind a subtle excitement.
Even from far away, you could see it.
They found each other utterly intoxicating.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 10:23 PM UTC
Throw a few rose petals into the mix.
You always fancied the smell of those.
Do you like mint and sunflower?
I hope so.
Tulips are too soft for you.
I thought you’d prefer buttercups or daffodils.
Don’t worry,
I put both in
for good measure.
Ivy feels nice.
Perhaps you’ll like the taste of it.
Can’t hurt to try.
Remember Christmas?
The mistletoe was romantic.
Perhaps I’ll put some of that in there as well.
The colour’s a little bit off, though.
How about some periwinkle?
Or foxglove, even.
That should make it better.
I hope you like this, dear.
Here, have a sip.
Or two.
Apr 2, 2010
Apr 2, 2010 at 12:22 PM UTC
I can't rip myself asunder from such a magnanimous prepositional
as this.
While the fishes hang from my window
like little ice-ickles in spring.
So foams the frosty beverage that tells the gills to sing.
Twilight music and the sonnets contained therein
have little left to offer us, save a right-winged jerry-bin.
So the muse of ages goes round and around and around
for the malarkey of a daffodil creates folds and hills
where none exist.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 12:28 PM UTC
Love isn’t a feeling
Love isn’t an action
Love isn’t a person
Love is a place.
It’s the cave of wonders
It’s a hospital room filled with new life, balloons, and flowers
It’s an altar in a church in the countryside of a town unknown
while a man pleads for the soul you’re not ready to give.
It’s a tent pitched next to the lake while fish cook over a crackling fire
It’s a home with a swing-set in the backyard with a dog tied to a banana tree, while naked children dance through sprinklers.
It’s the treehouse in the neighbor's backyard
It’s a living room where friends sit and play Nintendo 64
It’s a bathtub with bubbles and a book and a beverage
Love isn’t butterflies in your stomach
It’s a butterfly garden at the city zoo on a hot Saturday morning
with butterflies flittering and fluttering and flattering around.
Love isn’t jumping in front of a train for someone
It’s the parking lot of a hospital you run through to stand by a death bed, reading from a Bible you haven’t opened in twenty years.
Love isn’t your parents or brothers or sisters or cousins or friends
It’s the patio screened in, with the rain tap dancing on its roof,
while a father of three snores peacefully in a rocking chair.
Love is Calvary’s hill
It’s a trustworthy bank
It’s a dog kennel jam-packed with the loyal, the faithful, the brave, and the true
Love is an underground railroad connecting those who belong together.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
I was in the car with the mama of the girl I babysit,
her brown deep eyes like whittled wood flicked over mine,
and she asked me what I had learned at school today.
I don’t know, but I think it’s this spring fever
that seems to have burned a hole through my head
letting my brain bounce up into the blue abode
but the blame is not solely on the season
Everything I learn that keeps me living,
lives in the trains of thought,
thought by others.
The mothers I meet with the babies who greet the failure
at the first knock on their wobbly knees
compel me to contemplate further,
because with each waking breath
they are reminded that to live, you learn.
So I tell this fragile woman that today my teachers taught,
but the thought of their subjects
subjects negative connotations,
I want real lessons without plans to hand you wisdom, courage, and consideration
I get to learning in the jaw clinching, artery pinching, eyebrow flinching
awe of the way that woman can sing.
I’ve learned the color of my best friends teeth
because some days she smiles.
Learning to heal is hard enough, but to deal with a scab left raw
is something I will always need improvement on.
With, or without school I’m going to learn.
I’m going to learn cold beverage condensation rings,
percolating dreams,
my little sisters shy smiled wings
and societies racist, sexist, sizeist, ageist, ableist, tightly sewn seams.
Im rattling off my bare brisk list of ambitions,
of pleading for a voluminous scholarshipped tuition,
as I sit next to this woman waiting for a robust reply
I’m learning, that the whittled wood gap in her eyes
are round with sticky sap.
She will teach her daughter academically, never letting her size our common ground;
The skies.
I want her baby to experience,
and as if on cue,
her yawn brings in the tides of the oceans in her eyes,
something she’s learning to cope with,
she’s grasping my soft word’s
“This too, shall pass,
make sure you look to learn with your eyes not your brain,
dear baby girl, choose water over wood,
and when your mama tells you to pack that school bag,
make sure its zipper barely closes over
tightly stuffed open mindedness, and a few colored pencils.”
Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
A drink that I remember
On a cold wintry night
By the steamy fireplace
We shared hot chocolate lattes
Cozy in each other arms
Her reflection by the candlelight
Seem warmth,but beautiful
A beverage in one hand
Our hearts in another
Comforting to a sudden twist
I relish those days of loneliness
Now that a unity is formed
As doves nesting in love
Can this night last a little longer
Until the dawn breaks us
Slumbering
In dreams of sweetness
While the lattes remain cold
As darkness overrides me
I push away
Causing this dream to face
A reality that is mine
But only a fool's rekindle
Dec 2, 2009
Dec 2, 2009 at 6:36 AM UTC
Creased felines crossing lines,
Pressing claws into dust.
Western hemisphere,
Reviving the pilgrimage.
Bubbles and logs
Satiate their under garments.
Enhancing hair follicles
Resembling shards and spurs.
At a woodsy bar,
A tabby liberated the fangs
He rented last holiday.
The bartender shook with perplexity.
Reacting simultaneously-
A minor character, Little Leon.
The dusty town called him
Leon, for he was alone.
Little Leon got taller
In a basement full
Of water. The dusty town
Was an adjustment.
The tabby and Little Leon
Faced off for recognition.
Leon wretchedly charged
The floor boards with sopping ends.
Crayon versus colored pencil;
They chose their weapons
Anxiously. It was
Bring your son to work day.
The bent bartender
Spared his child’s eyes.
“I’m not your little boy,”
The child shrilled at him.
“I don’t want trains,
Or fake guns meant for play.
I miss my mom,
And dresses on Sunday.”
Cats on a pilgrimage,
Rarely stop from
Slurping a drink. Pity refilled
Cups, as tails twitched in trial.
The tabby and Leon
Came to a halt, seeing as
Punishment was engraved atop
The bartender’s grungy mitts.
The clowder gathered,
As the Tabby scolded the man
Behind the bar. “Remember where
you leave your beverage.”
And that was that.
Leon’s internal complexity,
Being left with only himself,
Dissipated. There are others
Who feel more alone.
Tabby picked up his crayon.
His spurs clanked
And spun, as his guided
His feline friends out the front.
Tumbleweed skidded
Outside the bar.
The bartender finally saw
That his son was not a son.
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
i will write simply
like a snow melt in the spring
water brings music
and our feet are washed clean
remind the stars that we named them
even if they take our souls
we will forge them again in the fireplace
and breathe life back into them
soon we can rest in the music
but first let us use them
just like we were meant to
now is the space
to give your heart its grace
so we feed the lakes
their icy beverage
and make the songs that melt the frost
i arrived like fire
when rain was your only hope
our souls washed in the burning sun
the conundrums of love
somebody escaped with our watermelons
sundrops upon the lake
feelings we can never shake
our ecstasy is awake
and we have outgrown our shallows
swallowed by the hand of fate
our lives we did partake in
yes we have reached further
into the thick of it
into the blackest night
i walked into my own dismay
and displayed upon the sky
was the light that caught your eye
like threads of shredded rope
as darkness could never
cope with the worst of it
i sold all of our hope
for you should never
have to ***** for emptiness
send me the wisdom
to unleash you from this prison
so please give me another kiss
and fill me with your stories
for now we will forever know
that dreams are only allegories
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 2:37 PM UTC
Beautiful.
One word.
Nine letters.
By now I've told you countless times in so many different ways of how beautiful you are, and yet I don't feel I told you enough.
Thing is your beauty isn't just about your face or breathtaking body or your heart melting voice or your soul filling touch, nah it's way beyond that, it's hard to put in words because simply there's not enough words to do justice to it.
You see your beauty cannot only be seen but felt, it's as radiating as the sun coming out from the clouds after a rainy day, it's as comforting as getting a hug from a friend after hectic day, it's as warm as that first cup of hot beverage in the morning but mostly it is just a blessing to the eyes of those that witness it.
To me when I say you're beautiful I'm referring to more than that in which you see in the mirror everyday but something deeper, so till the day a new word is that can truly define beauty beyond words I'll just settle for AmazGorgeTifull.
Apr 17, 2019
Apr 17, 2019 at 7:36 AM UTC