"brewed" poems
Let me pretend our life is normal
there's no illness here
as I lay beneath the covers
With you
My dear
Under the covers
on a chilled mornings day
Outside beyond our window
children are at play
Freshly brewed coffee
drifting in on the air
As we lay
beneath the covers
without a care
Spring flowers bloom
their perfume
dancing in on the breeze
Hear the Kookaburras laughing
outside in the trees
Dogs bark in the distance
a few streets away
But under the covers
nice and cosy
is where we shall stay
Till it's time to get started
on our day ahead
But for now I'm quite content
under the covers with you
in our bed
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC
Above the caldera at Yellowstone,
a brittle soil-rock crust
caps a lake of liquid fire
with only fumaroles and roiling geysers
to slake its upward ******
A single heedless step is enough
to breech that mantle's fragile seal -
spelling death by fire
to any hapless soul
who fails to guard his steps.
Fragile calderas also roil
buried in dark crevices of our psyches -
brewed of failures, slights and fears
dissolved in fiery pools
of self-consuming misery.
To dress and salve our wounded souls
we plant fertile gardens of reconciliation
with beauty, trust and charity
and kneel to gods of grace and solace.
But a despot’s practiced eye
knows how to tap our fragile crusts,
releasing acrid lava flows
from pools where fear and rage reign hot,
and reason has no district.
Friends and siblings - my flesh and kin,
this world is ours to lose or save
so let us seal well our Sacred Calderas
from bitter foes that stalk us from within.
July, 2006, revised December, 2014, 2015 and 2018
Robert Charles Howard
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
somewhere between the fourth and fifth
load of laundry,
sometime after breakfast~lunch,
now served in the USA at home,
as an all day meal, per the edict of Mcdonalds,
start fixing dinner, take a break, walk to the mailbox,
retrieve the post and quick retreat back inside,
ah that Texas sun, bilingual chili hot,
toss the unopened on the prior weeks pile,
cause everyone loves company
the home-cold-brewed ice coffee needs a filling
for the fridge has decided not to help
by automatically refilling the pitcher
even if it could
I, busy folding,
needing two hands
and all my teeth
for folding my master’s rocket ship
sheets
my master observes with one of his alternating demeanors,
this one, super silent watching, announcing that I need a nap:
*“don't you always say, baby,
take a nap when you can, baby,
for when you need one, baby,
you probably won’t be able, my baby”*
with selected-hand-led fingers,
he lays me down to sleep,
bids me to slow slide to dreamland, dinner will keep,
curling inside my frame, hands a-cupping my *******
telling me a drowsy tale, inherited from his mother’s womb
and his granddaddy’s tongue, mindful of his family’s history
there, is where, they find us,
dinner fixings burnt,
me and my five year old baby boy,
still sleeping fast, around 5pm, bodies enwrapped,
tied by blood and entwined in old nursery rhymes,
Texas tall tales of Pecos Bill,
me and my very own
nap-ster master
<•>
p.s. and they call me by my other name to wake me, momma
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC
it wasn’t chaotic.
it was calm and serene,
like the ocean.
the soft pitter patter
of the rain on the roof,
and the cool air it brought.
it was a sip
of freshly brewed coffee,
natural with no additives,
whatsoever.
the gut feeling
of knowing where home was.
and that is how
you came into my life.
the star that shines the brightest
amongst the pitch black sky.
it’s the white cloud that outshines
all the gray and gloomy ones.
the perfect fit of the last piece
to the unfinished puzzle.
it's the warm, fuzzy feeling
of getting into bed
early on a Friday night.
and that is how it was
when I started loving you.
it’s like a deeply cut wound,
one that’s inundating
with crimson colored blood,
having a tinge of maroon.
it induces pain
with every inbreathe
and exhalation.
it manages to have
the appearance of a scar,
yet it still feels so fresh
like a bruise.
and that is how it felt
when you left.
it was filled with haze
and suffocation.
the uncontrollable fast paced beat
of your heart.
Mona Lisa's enigmatic smile,
one that is hardly understood
by majority of the world.
a bite of dark chocolate,
bitter and sweet.
and this is my survival.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 5:56 PM UTC
With skin the color of coffee what I wouldn't give to have a cup of her
Putting my lips to hers taking long slow sips warming my insides
Her fragrance is like freshly brewed aromatherapy healing my soul.
Written by Keith Edward Baucum
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 10:25 AM UTC
The Earth was ours.
We filled its fertile fields full of
Plants of our own choosing: our own design.
To provide for ourselves we drained the Earth
Because the Earth was ours.
We populated the islands that
The Earth had built for us from its own skin.
Like parasites we kept it alive for our needs
Because the Earth was ours.
Then one day the Earth spoke:
You who crawl over my face,
Unthinking for the blemishes you build.
You till my skin and plough my bones, you drink
My tears and feast on my flesh. Slowly, my fiery
Vengeance has brewed, bubbled upwards
And wrath shall be known.
It will begin as a rumbling.
You will think I tremble with terror at your might
But the movement of your monuments is more my
Laughter at your lowliness. The hallways of your houses
Will be hewn by themselves as my body convulses to be rid of the
Sickness of you. You will sound your two-tone Armageddon sirens
In vain as my thunderous thoughts tumble your towers
Fragment your foundations. Break your brick walls.
Stone on stone will spark, igniting infrastructure
And your cities will burn.
But it is just the beginning.
I will bury you.
I will bury you in the fire of my fury.
I will bury you in the ashes of my anger.
You will solidify, screaming, into silent stone.
You will choke, child-like, on my smoke.
You will die by my hand: your home.
And I will bury you.
And this to me is easy.
I am greater than all you build from
My body. So I use my body to wreak ruin:
Reduce your greatness to rubble and dust
Because the Earth was always mine.
I was always my own.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
Blessed are we all to live in a time
when the love of Craft beer exceeds that for wine.
Hops, malt and barley all now rule the day
When brewed up together in a nice I.P.A.
Who cares if some hipsters choose to babble away
about hints of oak in some obscure Chardonnay.
We are no longer limited to our father’s Budweiser.
The vast choice of beers would astound those old timers!
Cherry Wheat, pumpkin, and Oktoberfest
You’ll fall down on your face ere you’ve tried all the rest.
As Ben Franklin stated wittily and succinctly”
“Beer is the proof God meant man to be happy.”
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
1736
Proud of my broken heart, since thou didst break it,
Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee,
Proud of my night, since thou with moons dost slake it,
Not to partake thy passion, my humility.
Thou can’st not boast, like Jesus, drunken without companion
Was the strong cup of anguish brewed for the Nazarene
Thou can’st not pierce tradition with the peerless puncture,
See! I usurped thy crucifix to honor mine!
10.6k
Hark! Take heed, for this cake be both mighty and magnificent!
1.75 cups flour
2 cups white sugar
2 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. baking powder
0.75 cups unsweetened cocoa powder
1 tsp. salt
2 eggs
1 cup (as in 8 fl.oz/250mL.) strongly brewed coffee (make more and drink it!)
1 cup buttermilk (or 1 tbs. white vinegar+1 cup milk mixed well, blah blah)
0.5 cups cocoanut oil (or 0.33 cups basicallywhatever oil), a little less if ***
1 tsp. vanilla extract
OPTIONAL:
2-3 shots (60-90mL; 0.2-0.33 cups) black spiced *** (Kraken, if at all possible)
I also want to experiment with whiskey/burbon.. if you try it, let me know!
--Flour, sugar cocoa powder, baking soda+powder, salt mixed in one bowl
-- eggs, coffee, *** buttermilk, oil, vanilla in another
Slowly mix the dry into the wet until as homogenous as possible.
I use an 8"x8" (20cmx20cm) pan @350F (175 C) for about 40 minutes, but I check on it at round 30 minutes because some variance may well apply. If you use olive oil, or avocado oil, or whatever other more fluid oil, I find a slightly hotter oven (375 F/190 C) can be advisable, but pay attention to your specific scenario! The worst that's happened for me is the top gets a bit crusty, but that pleasantly works with the overall moisture of the cake, especially with olive oil and the *** addition.
Do the toothpick test to see if it's ready!
Frosting is applicable, as well, because this Magical Cake is not horribly sweet for how horribly sweet it sure is. I usually just sprinkle some confectioner's sugar on it to make it look all fancy for my classy friends and band-mates.
ENJOY!
Bake responsibly, but have some fun.
Also, suffer the decimals!
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
You can literally manufacture it in a chemistry lab;
There are formulae and measurements of hormones that add up
To this supposedly tangible entity
A nicely brewed test tube
Of elaborately named chemicals
The very thing that makes you tremble in your skin,
That has caused wars and set ships assail
Confined to a liquid in a glass container
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 10:15 AM UTC
“What do you think
The bravest drink
Under the sky?”
“Strong beer,” said I.
“There’s a place for everything,
Everything, anything,
There’s a place for everything
Where it ought to be:
For a chicken, the hen’s wing;
For poison, the bee’s sting;
For almond-blossom, Spring;
A beerhouse for me.”
“There’s a prize for every one
Every one, any one,
There’s a prize for every one,
Whoever he may be:
Crags for the mountaineer,
Flags for the Fusilier,
For English poets, beer!
Strong beer for me!”
“Tell us, now, how and when
We may find the bravest men?”
“A sure test, an easy test:
Those that drink beer are the best,
Brown beer strongly brewed,
English drink and English food.”
Oh, never choose as Gideon chose
By the cold well, but rather those
Who look on beer when it is brown,
Smack their lips and gulp it down.
Leave the lads who tamely drink
With Gideon by the water brink,
But search the benches of the Plough,
The Tun, the Sun, the Spotted Cow,
For jolly rascal lads who pray,
Pewter in hand, at close of day,
“Teach me to live that I may fear
The grave as little as my beer.”
8k
She tends her cactus garden,
beads of perspiration,
works with a maniacal absorption.
One of many visitors she receives
yet looking at each other's eyes
dawned this quick realization;
similar maniacal obsession and passion.
A tornado she was, self created,
in her swirl uprooted
many huge trees, even tombstones
by the sheer force unleashed,
with her poetic flourish.
Love of a crazy woman
with effervescent creative surge,
is a magical portion
brewed by a witch ,
in her forbidden rituals, night after dark night.
Injured by conjugal lust, unrequited
prompted to walk the garden path
holding hands of lovers, one after the other,
who took her to wilderness, deeper and deeper
and at the end to a blind alley,
life was a tribal dance,
from where return was impossible.
She never had to apologize to her mate,
who for all the world to see, remained with her
till he went behind the curtain.
Imagine a life, a walk
through a cactus garden,where sharp thorns would nip,
searing pain and bleeding has its moments of exhilaration.
Life pulsated wildly for her on such notions,
(There were many who walked with her for each adventure)
They met, poetry flowed like wine,
she had a rare warmth seen in women of such creative combinations,
she feared nothing, but her truth made many squirm.
Midnight dances of her and her friends gypsy bunch,
attained such fame.But all ended in a great betrayal,
she was deep down a naive woman,
craving for love, to immerse in it.
On occasions she would change identities
at will, she was one but many
there wasn't any one like her before or after.
They would walk through the witch's cactus patch,
somnambulists reciting poems,
when they are together, in private,
cactus spine criss- crossed his skin
her nail wrote poems on the back
of the lover of the moment,
each one bled like soldiers in combat.
One monsoon night brought
everything to an end,
the cactus garden was trampled by
big grey wolves, the journey
met with an abrupt end.
What is she, cactus herself,
vampire, witch, lover indefatigable,
with the heart of a lion?
Erotomaniacal poetic surge,
yet a fantasy in flesh and blood?
**They buried her
in a cactus garden away from town
not even ten people arrived to mourn,
not even all her lovers, had time that afternoon.
Her songs of pain, pierced hearts and they
still shed tears,
cactus garden, it was---
the metaphor perfected by her life and death.**
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 12:44 PM UTC
He smelled like my Dad
Or like Old Spice and Zest
He smelled like a person working on cars
Or of the outdoors
He smelled like fresh milled wood
Or like a shirt worn with sweat
He smelled like our living room
Or like our dog named Stanley
He smelled like green trees
Or like a tavern where an un-known band plays
He smelled like an antique dresser
Or like a vintage vehicle
He smelled like warm buttered toast
Or like fresh brewed coffee
Although his smell's been gone for ages
I can still remember the way he smelled
Sometimes I can still smell him
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 9:21 AM UTC
The earth in which tired
city feet desire to rest on.
Plushly thick forests,
be lost and never found,
coating yourself in saturated
autumn leaves that
reflect the pulsing warmth
in the golden sun.
Your sticky honey,
rich and sweet pools in mason jars,
tempting to silver spoon scoop and
spur morning teas.
Or the mocha
in newly brewed coffee,
the bold and the cream
swirling inside your crystal *****
Jul 3, 2020
Jul 3, 2020 at 1:32 PM UTC
I swirled in a ocean of brown.
Venting in steam.
My drown overlapped by current
On top of current.
I swirled around and around,
swimming in sugary spec.
I once dreamed of dry land.
Loosing my footing on the edge of a spoon.
The top of a pink packet torn off.
Sprinkled on my head.
There was no sense in fighting.
One single serving brewed.
It was exciting to feel myself swirl,
All I'd ever know.
around and around.
All I'd ever know.
The more I drunk the more evident it became.
The here after in addiction.
Sweet in taste.
My skin dipped in heart of something so delicious.
I swirled around in an ocean of brown.
Her eyes.
Never once did it occur that I couldn't gulp them.
I still tried.
Lost forever in Mocha flavored aroma
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 2:43 PM UTC
I tromped across North America a few years back
Following the Mayan Elders
Listening to the powerful Lakota Brothers sing songs of mourning and joy
Building community
I was following a White Cherokee
We created clan
I was motivated by the teachings of the Anishinaabe
And represented Thunderbird Clan
We stopped in sacred spaces such as Serpent's Mound
And Cahokia Mounds
We peered briefly through the veil; Samhain
I followed the red path and eventually found I had always been on it
I met Hopi and Navajo elder's
And my friend Sea, a pipe carrier brewed a special tea
I was gifted tobacco that had been grown from seeds
Recovered from an iceman's medicine bag
She transmuted the ancient tobacco into a tea
By folding it into a sweetgrass and cedar brew
Sea gave it to me in a basic stainless steel carafe
Every time we drained the carafe
I refilled it and the essence was just as powerful as the previous brew
When I finally caught up with the Lakota brother's in Sedona
Their voices were raw
We all were
I shared the tea with them
So much magic on that journey
The joy on those brothers faces as the tea reached their throats
I gave them the carafe and told them
It was the gift that keeps on giving
Their thankfulness has been the gift that keeps on giving
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
Because the thirst wouldn’t simmer; it ruptured cities into boils,
turned cultures into armies, an armageddon of cheeky stubborn Irish Catholics and thick veined Germans couldn’t imagine a world without their stout hearty headed pint.
Because white dry protestant angels thought crime existed in a vacuum, in a filthy saw-dusted saloon, the hub spawn of evil.
Because twice as many of those saloons were ******* by unlicensed blind pigs, not through free swinging doors on the streets, but in the domestic sphere; in the dark crept crevices of household sanctuaries.
Because bootlegging capitalist princes turned the industry into a stenchy liability with their home brewed distilled poisons. Alky cookers wrapped the commodity fetish and dubbed it moonshine.
Moonshine – spirits for the poor and blind.
Because this social reform was a moral reform lost in the oblivion of politics, lost in the timeliness of progressive spring-cleaning referenda’s.
Because the ragged, toothless class had to be scold, striped clean of their traditional barings,
because wisdom is everything and they’re spirits ran vilely wild.
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 6:57 AM UTC
Rich, dark soil after rain
Fresh brewed coffee with just a drop of cream
They want sky blue, aquamarine,
Or deep forest green,
But all I can give is brown.
Smooth, chocolate truffles
Hot cocoa on a bitter, snowy day
A ten-year-old boy's mudslide onto home plate
A freshly washed teddy bear
The world tells me these are not beautiful.
Instead they want a polluted, grey sky,
Or littered grass.
My eyes are strong bark,
And sturdy oak.
They are ancient roots reaching into fertile soil,
Out of which sprouts life.
Brown is all I can give to you.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
The moment I saw her I forgot all that I knew,
The sky was green and the grass was blue.
I have been searching for this girl all my life long,
With kaleidoscope eyes as from that old Beatles song.
A girl who would join me in wandering no matter the cost,
Wandering without purpose never to be lost.
Except in her beauty her smile and grin,
Those beautiful eyes desperately dragging me in.
They are as blue and as deep as the Caribbean Sea,
They then seem a light brown as a fresh brewed coffee.
Or are they a shade of dark green,
Glistening with not tears but a playful gleam.
As I look closer they take on a color without a name,
After seeing those eyes I'll never quite be the same.
Many cultures claim the eyes as the door to the soul,
And I found this is true as I saw not just her eyes but her whole.
In those pools of serenity I saw her true heart,
I saw the angel within and then was called to depart.
The harder I fought to stay by her side,
The faster and stronger became the ride.
My heart was broken and my mind befuddled,
As I felt myself being pulled through a long and dark tunnel.
I awoke with a start and sat up in my bed,
I let out a cry and buried my head.
She has to be real and not just in my mind,
But in the real world she has proved hard to find.
I walk through each day vigilant and aware,
Trying to find the girl with the kaleidoscope stare.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC
A pale homemade dress hung to dry in the blazing sun;
It's original color not quite clear but presumably purple.
That stain that never faded, a spot of innocence...
I closed my eyes and remembered the night she wore it,
Childlike with that smile of hers.
He threw promises of love and eternal bliss;
She believed his words and followed him to the train-yard.
An invisible moon hovered over them as they entered
An old rusted cart, abandoned for years and years.
He didn't bother taking her dress off,
She couldn't wait to feel loved.
Right there beneath a dark sky, a man stole a girl's innocence.
But how can love find it's way through the Cairo Slums?
Where human lay on top of another, like cracked bricks;
They bleed.
A grayish sleeveless undershirt hung to dry in the blazing sun,
It's original color not quite clear but presumably white.
That rip that was never mended, a tear of hope...
I closed my eyes and remembered that morning he wore it,
As he maneuvered through downtown traffic
Trying to make easy money, as ordered by his jobless father.
A child of seven or eight running around with beads of
Sweat rolling down his tiny face.
Mr. Policeman grabbed him by his shirt, slapped him around,
Beat him to the ground for approaching Mrs. Businesswoman in
Her air-conditioned car.
But how can this child find hope for the future in the Cairo Slums?
Where human lay on top of another, like cracked bricks;
They bleed.
Let me take you down to the Cairo Slums,
Where people are animals in their nests
Of carton-paper, waiting for the big bad wolf,
To huff and to puff and to blow their lives away.
But soon you'll realize that evil's not born but raised,
That hate is brewed, and money is everything.
Let us disregard this urban jungle under a glass jar,
Let us use them for advertising or marketing our products,
Products they could never afford.
O' what irony, what strife.
The girl and the child never had a chance,
but they deserve one.
They bleed.
They bleed.
So without further a adieu,
Welcome to the Cairo Slums.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 12:21 PM UTC
Today's a new.
Took a breath, stepped outside and Ponder upon Paradise Avenue.
Most haven’t a clue.
Stuck between a hard place and a rock bonded by that encrypted glue.
So don’t be rude.
Look the other way While I pursue.
Get in the way and even you’ll be tighten, fastened and ******* Intrigue or intrude?
Acting with passion taking my life wealth of metaphorical food.
I'm not in the mood.
I came to conclude.
The knowledge hidden will soon be removed.
Over the covenant stove.
Hypnotize lives will be brewed.
Ether produced broth of truth I accrued.
So in this life of Manipulating strife.
Conflict of fundamental issues got me on strike.
Take a hike, better yet ride a bike.
My mind has been overlapping Triple stacking in the apparent. Trying to come up with my own Patton of satin.
I will Manifest anything that’s internally speaking in a Ridicule fashion.
I'm rapidly expanding and the abundance is over flowing.
Is it me, is it you, is it us, was it he who walked above the sea?
Yes best believe.
Antiquity relics through Allegory marriage.
Helps to see Beyond and above the perished.
Come to believe and you will achieve.
That’s the hidden recipe.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 2:11 PM UTC
world-weary,
we sipped coffee,
one black,
one milk and sugar
brewed tentatively by hearts not quite unbroken
in an effort to mend the damage.
As usual you are fluent and fluid in words my tongue could not replicate,
You are a waterfall when I am a drought.
One day, maybe you'll speak to me, you say.
One day maybe I could tell you,
I held earthquakes and landslides in my bones
and clawed my way above the mud and debris to breathe again.
I emerged the sun of my own universe
and I am afraid to ever let that go.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 6:36 AM UTC