"caffe" poems
Nobody believes in me. But, neither do I, and that’s OK. But they don’t really know how I am, and if they knew, I am pretty sure they wouldn’t feel the same way. I sometimes feel like coming out of the closet, not because I am gay, but just for my personality. Then, I realize we are all in the closet. Even when you come out of the closet, you search for somewhere else to hide. But basically nobody will get out of the wardrobe, which makes sense, because we judge. We dislike everything. How people talk, dress, look, or even walk. We are so caught up on ******** that we don’t even get to evolve as people. I know I don’t. Could that be part of the system we grew up in? How do we differentiate a critique from simply judging. The critique highway goes straight into judge, or does it not? We might say — this is just a critique, it’s for your own good— but in reality, most of the times, we have already spoken about it to someone else. Why do we always need to get people’s approval to fit into this world, and therefore, are most unpopular “outcasts” really the most honest people to be around. I will never know, because I am as guilty as everyone else. Involved in the society that simply sits in the caffe window watching people pass by as you consider yourself better than them. Whatever. Once again, I am no better. I just find it sad to think that I am always searching from approval by bashing on other people, who have decided to live their life without caring about the dumb girl sitting by the window.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 9:49 PM UTC
It’s always been just coffee kisses,
they’re all I have left to bring.
Overflowing mugs of latte love to spill on your hands, your lips, your heart,
Caffe mocha affection
laced with cappuccino hugs.
Iced or steaming, you decide.
Hazelnut, peppermint, French vanilla
(dulce de leche piquitos para ti)
warm espresso admiration,
americano dreams,
sugared and creamy to sweeten your tongue
served up with a coffee house smile—
bitterness hides in a candied disguise
but not today.
No sugar in the raw, no milk, no cream,
no sweet sticky flavors to trick your lovesick mind,
no fancy names to make you think it’s worth the cost.
Just pure, dark caffeine,
ground up this morning,
rich and smooth, but bitter and dry—
brewed with intention.
Just one coffee kiss, for you.
One plain black coffee kiss.
Take it or leave it.
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 11:09 PM UTC
Which Is Greater?
I break a vow.
A serious vow.
In a place, in this site,
Where the fluid pain
Is the water of the world,
The element that is crux,
The amniotic liquor of creative flux,
The morning juice,
The afternoon caffe,
The first beer of the day,
The liquid that we rinse and spit out our every day,
I will write about pain,
Arrogantly, as if there is any unused combination of
Letters, vowels and consonants left unspoken, *****
Having sworn not to, for pain is cumulative.
Asking myself,
Which is greater?
The pain of creation, inception, origination and birth,
The pain of wreck and ruin, destruction and death.
Homework Self-Assignment: Compare and Contrast
Suddenly, I am expert.
Creating a poem a day is very painful.
A poem that is the sum of
Reflection, research, and purging.
Once I wrote:
*The poem is the afterbirth,
A conflicts resolution, an outcome,
Battlefield debris, the residue of
An exacting vision, a sentiment surging,
And your army of words, inadequate to the task,
Fighting to capture that insight flashed,
Each word a soldier, disheveled,
Crying, let me live, let me be saved,
Let me make a poem,
Let it be inscribed upon my victorious flag.
The poem is the sweat left upon the brow,
Having exercised the five senses,
The salt of struggle and debate,
It's completion, each word,
Both a victory and a defeat.*
Suddenly, I am expert.
My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.
I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown,
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
she ever possessed to the atmosphere,
One breath at a time.
Is that painful?
It is for me.
Now you complain. They're different, not to be compared, et cetera.
Pain is pain,
Whether it is in the service of creation, or
Creative destruction.
Once I wrote:
*With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poem's birth diminishes me.*
So, one and the same?
Nope. Yes. But. Cannot one be the greater?
Yes, one is greater.
When I lay on my deathbed,
I will exhale the answer
Into the atmosphere
For your retrieval.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
The Saturday night crowd, all here to see Dave Van Ronk,
sit huddled in the fashion of Antwerp diamond cutters,
sipping cinnamon/marshmallow coffee at the tables.
Caffe Lena is Saratoga's happening place in the 60's and
we're here to forget the war and civil strife in the ghettos.
Sister Mary Katherine, sans frock, is the warmup act,
but no one really gives her any mind,
as she struggles to seat herself upon the stool
intended for the six-foot plus Van Ronk.
Joan Baez prepare to eat your heart out!
Without so much as introduction, she
breaks into a high soprano Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues.
Heads pivot like synchronized swimmers toward the stage.
Her silken voice emits notes blinking
into reality from quantum fluctuations in space/time.
Every quivering high-C grafts the audience together.
She's spinning veils of sound,
the like of which our ears are unfamiliar.
The quavers in her throat match the tremors in my coffee.
In the back of the cafe a drunken Van Ronk passes out.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 8:49 PM UTC
Subdue
Imerge
Intantations
.
.
No, it is not so complicated!
.
.
An honest
Re-connection
You - a man
Me - a woman
.
.
Living, loving
.
.
Best years!
And
The tallest Thuja Tree
Winks at us there
.
.
So we stop. . .
We breath and look up
In the night sky
.
For
A while
.
.
The World seems Endless
.
.
Three Beats
Veins rhythm
Kiss on a bark
Now, dear reader! - Try to -
Correlate this dreamers shrine
.
With a dark deep ocean
Of your elusive and
Dangerously devouring
Subconsciousness
.
.
Then you might call
Me on a
Phone
.
Perhaps
I won't pick it up!
.
Occupied . . .
Enchanted
By stars up - Above!
.
.
We can share hot chocolate
at Old chic Cacao Caffe
.
.
The Orange anime
Angel was served
Water in a paper cup
Made for ice cream rounds
.
A silken coat carresed by strangers
Melting their gazes
Pouring only
Goodness
.
.
And affection
Without a leash
.
.
On a leash by my side
At my knee
Between us
Ears along
The neck
.
White paws of my
Dearest friend . . .
.
.
Running as a speed of light!!
.
.
The Train is Tchwooot
Tchwooooot-ing
.
I have a ruby ring
And white black gloves
With Stripes and
Charming finger
Holes
.
.
Oh, Holmes!
The moon is rising again -
Like inspiration
For your new novel
For another Conundrum
.
.
To solve
.
.
It is quiet in the park
Dark and quiet in the park
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
Day dreams always end
in a well known caffe
where we cannot
finish cacao
and
.coffee.
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 7:59 AM UTC
I’m writing in this language
to forget about myself
to spit out the caffe latte
my mother’s milk
and my father’s coffee
the mind has diamond edges
virtual slopes
the body is a jungle
writing to me is like
writing to you
I’ll let go
of the spitting image of you
of me
no slogans
no slop
you are some unfinished poetry
in the unwritten me
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC
'Ciao'
'Salve!'
'Un caffe con latte per favore.'
'Un cornetto?'
'No, un caffe con latte.'
'Ah, un gelato!'
'No! Un caffe con latte!'
'Latte con zuchero?'
'Why you idiot! I'm asking for a coffee!'
'Scusa?'
'...'
Feb 12, 2025
Feb 12, 2025 at 2:02 PM UTC
When the package ends and when I drink the last crumpled cigarette out of my pocket
Then I'll think of you, only you, Because only you
Only your body can give my mind the peace it seeks
And as I think of you I feel the light smoke from the cigarette that I saved in that caffe on my face and fly
I remember that library we first met and our dreams collided one by one.
Dec 10, 2019
Dec 10, 2019 at 2:12 PM UTC