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Claudia Mar 2016
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.
Elizabeth Milnes Jan 2012
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.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2013
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.
Greater. Think upon it.
~~~~~~~~
Lipstadt-Roth, Miriam née Peiman, 1915~2013,
passed peacefully Sat. July 20th.  

Critic, speaker, writer,  
her fiercest feat,                    
her leading role, creator.      
A near century of memories  
her legacy, memories that  
linger not, for incised,        
chiseled in the granite of the
books, papers, and poetry
and the very being              
of her descendants.            

Her faith in Almighty,            
unflagging, for he did not    
forsake her in the time of      
her old age, when                  
her strength failed.
Brian Oarr Feb 2012
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.
A true incident which occurred @ the Caffe Lena in 1968
Shortly thereafter Sister Mary Katherine left the convent
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
~
Charming old Street lamps, Trees and Intimacy of a Night walk
~
Tempestuous angels shape
Inner angels
Laid as
transposition
design of one lovely lovely
being who once saw heavens
and a hand of God there
partially enjoying
This sacred intimacy of
Organic Puffy
lambs repose to mortem ipsum
measuring meandres of butterflies
in my mind tummy's mimicry of moral
cathegories only to those who perceived
something as such
Body is a body yet we think
distinctive difference
when subject or a predicat
are in mind~ heart~thoughts
sublime
Onenness
and particularity:
proportions to Antecedens to Consequetias  
lovely etapes of young yet
real old life
cyclone
on a bycicle
of wrath and wonders
neverending
Neverland aware of It-Self
by cosmic serpent   wave pattern  anouncing it's
cycle of pointing nowhere else el Elysium dispersing
the mirrors reflection just to Gather it together
in a cusp of life's elixir sweet and sour
to humans only not to immortal vine
veins where salmon jumps
willingly to open
grizzlys lust for
energy
divine
knowing their
love debt pays
off as in-carnation
Incarnatio
Integrity
Mayas
Aeons
Aions
Reeling
shape­ Shifts streams of consciousness
Emerging as
A fabulous
Omnipresent finger of Faith
fulfiled with alive clouds
Heartfelt colourful Cedar essences
and a spectrum of sharp larch tree leaves
tender transient orchestra nature of many faces
passsing by as facets of magnolias pollen
were
the insight
sounds were Revealed as
Eternal
Love
for
Music Divine
Rainbow wariors drawn over the horizon
of the known Universe to love the primordial
Void Emanating Odes of Big Bangs
A bow of light's harphiscord
Protective Madam
Madonna Prima et Ultima
Palpitations of Pondering Pieta
Of Our World
Swayed in hands
I
of swines we revrewinding our wake-up walk
dissolving black wars of unconsciousness to bow to Beauty
I
Embraced we approach
as affirmative pat on a back
Graceful caress on womanly cheek,
bare *******, bodies by bones rattlled
touched marching peacefully
toward the seats of an old caffe
where lotus flowers grow
within beautiful little lake
I
within the core of a
Lovely capital city Our city of dreams
There is a park
I
on our
right
there is
o' de naturel
library under
the tree crowns
free leisure for kids
on the swings and slides
over there where our love
was heading
spinning
the wheel
of fortune
Peripatheticos
never stand above their nails
but were using softest sandals
to touch firm grasp of grasses and white
Sands
♥ mon amour ♥
~
Imagined by
Impeccable space
love Poet

~
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QfJHmDhLVRc
Poetoftheway Apr 2019
extending thought and delving into intent
(where the poems come from)*


when I was younger, say five years ago,
the summer poems breezed by ripe for plucking,
airborne from the compost fat of
sun, water and soiled nature and its intersecting creatures

then winter poet soldiered on, past the easy season,
seeing rhymes-in-city-fireplaces snap cracking pops,
the wet dog smell of humans in overheated buses,
the seasonal wet sock torture that debated suicide alternately

and the early afternoon dark that closed doors,
a jailing of the populace; when by the glow of reruns,
we perform surgery upon ourselves and poems entitled
all sad words begin with a D get composed

now they don’t come that way

now, wait for you to ***** my eyes into seeing
what it’s that ails us all, what repeatedly fails us all,
and what makes living more than just mere presentable,
oh! your scrappy hints, chocolate covered mints and
oatmeal raisin clues

read now a word that exact interrupts


soloduo

and its timed arrival perfect, making my point too well,
the poems come from you and we transmigrate into a duo,
you are equally responsible for the fat places

in the messages and texts, in the storied themes
underlying all your writings, saying, see man, what the babies
can’t say outright or keep in the studio crevices artfully partially hidden,
the list so credibly lengthy, god sent B12 shots
of extra strong caffe inspiration

that’s why you co create the paintings we paint,
I, paint, you, hang them in the place where they can’t be missed,
in the exact spot when you walk in the door, or overhead,
in bed-overhead ceiling,
cursing that prayerful ******* you let slip

making you mark, verified your, Hancock signatory
in the lower corner

so many pins becoming dagger stories,
change is gonna come, and in every letter is the risk,
that what will be brought, what needing saying,
the penultimate penury,
when you can’t pay the bills with monthly unsocial  insecurity

for what is for the best, or worse, reliving the worst twice more,
it cannot be helped in prevented, only reverted,
what you tell me is the what, of the wherefore
and where the poems come from

so you force me to live in every season,
“breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit,
and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.”
(Henry David Thoreau, Walden)


and its inhabitants that inhabit my every seeing,
which is why I am, is
where you are...


1:33 pm April 6, 2019
Day dreams always end
in  a well  known  caffe
where  we  cannot
finish  cacao
and
.coffee.
Imagined By Impeccable Space Poetic Love
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2014
written one year ago, upon the passing of my mother.


I break a vow.
A serious vow.

In a place, in this site,
Where the pain is the fluid,
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.
Greater. Think upon it.
~~~~~~~~
Lipstadt-Roth, Miriam née Peiman, 1915~2013,
passed peacefully Sat. July 20th, 2013

Critic, speaker, writer,  
her fiercest feat,                    
her leading role, creator.      
A near century of memories  
her legacy, memories that  
linger not, for incised,        
chiseled in the granite of the
books, papers, and poetry
and the very being              
of her descendants.            

Her faith in Almighty,            
unflagging, for he did not    
forsake her in the time of      
her old age, when                  
her strength failed.
irinia May 2015
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
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.
Omarcito Jun 2022
The opportunity to see Artist grow is an experience
Pulling on the strings of imagination.
Ideas mixing with ideologies
While Artist's talent flies yonder people's heads,
Giving the mind a chance to wander with
Loose predictions of predicaments only prevalent
Past current hands of clock towers hovering over
Boston's Freedom Trail, somehow ending at
Caffe Lil Italy.

Artist is on an elevated stage
Holding a piece of mysterious wood
Infront of billows of hairlines,
Presented by
Aliens from The World of Perplexed Tunes
Scattering under the grey sky
While the patient moon waits
Behind a cotton curtain.
  Rhythm was then resurrected.
     The next second,
     Perspective changes.
                                            We are now at
                                 The Show in the art of music
                                     While the crowd awaits
                        The next centennial syllable of the story
                               While an avid listener is caught
                                                In the grip.
Now,
He understands.



I applaud talent in a hierarchal sense,
In an illusioned matter of society.

I appreciate, the determination,
Leading to trees singing melodies
Whenever Artist appears with her weapon of choice from
The fifth dimension;

Presented to a four-dimensional audience.

I hear the joy in the tone,
Yet I feel the turbulence in the voice.
Something has hurt one.

While the hat might not sit correctly on one's head,
Sometimes it can't
So it can;

Spark sensation, Create imagination,

And understand the meaning of where we are
On this melting *** of a lightning bolt
Thrown by Zeus during a psychotic episode
On laced LSD, or maybe
Traveling through space,

The space, in the middle of her curious eyes
Where fictitious time is lost.

So, Dear Artist,
I want to say
Thank you, for helping me grow.
Thank you, for giving me the chance to grow.
Thank you, for the connections I never would've been able to make
If you had decided to never take the stage.

If you need me or this message again,
I'll be in the back of your mind,

In that scene,

Across The Other Ocean,
My focus over the horizon of metaphors,
On the other side of reality
As my feet remain glued to the jagged shoreline,
The sand on my toes washed away by
The waves of life created by

The Mother of The Other Ocean.










As my neurons recall the harmonies
Chiseled by you,


My mind drifts away,

Still thinking of hypothetical predicaments,


And it's endless possibilities.
Anton Angelino Feb 2020
Caffe latte
sunday morning no rush after
resident of the white hour
endless minutes spent on laughter.
You in the doorway
with your old luster
Yerba mate in your veins eyes green standing firm like a dream
perfect disaster
like a substitute for what’s about to happen
worth to question
what’s it all for?
Will your tenderness be the embrace of the summer and its grace
down the roads
of desert worlds
only sand no water ponds
just one road
headed to
Heavens’ floor
or how you call
that one place where I belong with you.
Poem #7 off “John Wayne”.

— The End —