"carafe" poems
#
*Inside the carafe
Another splash of surprise
Glass walls get first taste*
#
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 1:02 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
Distant island shapes beguiling
Floating ghosts of far off land
Appear sentinel as we lay
Hot and sunbathed on the sand.
Scorching beach has tricked our minds
Ever beckoning cool seas flow
Finely placed as time stands still
Myths of people long ago
Heat above the deep caldera
Yet at water’s edge a breeze
Every wave a stroke of calmness
Drags the black sand out with ease
Pushing, combing lava rock
Once a liquid burning hot
Hearts massaged by the tender noise
Deep sighs as the day burns on
Windy gusts caress unclad torsos
Smiling we hold hands out to catch
Throwing our heads back with the pleasure
Letting our warm brown frames collapse
Lazy resting towels on bodies
Sunbed dreaming, time for lunch
Decisions on the midday menu
A carafe of red or white, too much!
Later when the sun’s behind us
Deserted beaches for the night
Couples then prepare for evening
Soon tavernas come alight
Poolside dwelling welcomes back
Two weary souls from day outside
Scorching sun takes all about us
Thanks for love where we abide
Since we came and soaked our souls
In this perfect atmosphere
Love has blossomed even further
All is wonderful never fear
Patio evenings lying out
Herb aroma fills the nose
Drifting in and out of sleepy
Eyes feel heavy in repose
Cool wet noses brush our legs
Warm fur strokes a silken pass
Feline friends have come to visit
Glad that we are home at last
Nervous ******* lying still
Mewing loudly all surpassed
Two so gentle but true survivors
Bright eyes hiding traumas past
How lovely to have given respite
As more and more attached we grew
Warm and tender stroking softly
Alongside us as if they knew
Feb 3, 2010
Feb 3, 2010 at 12:11 PM UTC
1966, my first school book review, aged 13.
**It's hard, to say the least when you are bashful
to give voice to all the words you wish to say
for when your restless feet beneath you start to shuffle
you know you'd rather take your chance and run away.
You have a premonition to be elsewhere
to a place they call 'the land of two left feet'
where self-confidence is ****** beyond redemption
where the introvert is king, and not dead-meat.
As the arms of doom draw near to embrace you
and the ground before you cracks and opens wide
tongues of flame curl around to engulf you...
in the scheme of things you're skinned, trussed and fried.
You take a sip of water and start choking
as a splash of liquid dribbles down your chin
then the teacher offers you a paper tissue
and patiently she smiles as you begin.
Breaking out into a sweat you feel self-conscious
as the collar of your shirt begins to shrink
then you twist and tie in knots that paper hanky
and wished you'd poured yourself a stiffer drink.
Though you fumble for the words, they're not forthcoming
as you pour yet one more glass from the carafe
and while a tongue that's tied in knots may be amusing
in a mouth that's parched you really should not laugh.
Amid a mixture of derision and ovation
with that sickly smile still plastered to your face
you waited for the hard word from the teacher
but she said 'sit down' and well done Howard Brace.
You prayed that you had never stirred that morning
and rolled your sleepy body out of bed...
of the precious weeks you failed to spend revising
for the Book-Review and the text you barely read.
... ... ...**
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 10:13 AM UTC
When insistent morning
forces the cracked blinds
It finds my eyes stuck
Atop a stiff, angry neck.
I wake
And I rumble
My joints grind
the coffee beans
A bit coarse to dank the water
My callused hallux worries the floor
Dripping done, I pour with sore fingers
The steel carafe silver as a nickel
The kitchen sink ablaze and singing
Light reflecting
Last night’s ice cream spoons.
The warm mug soothes
my a.m. arthritis
My arthritic mind coughing cobwebs and sleep.
This moment stands
for itself alone. Truth
can wait until past noon—
it’s coming soon. The truth comes soon.
10/2/2011
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 1:25 AM UTC
Recently
it seems
every time we talk
our cacophonous
voices don't sing.
The harmony's off--
lost it's charming ring.
The tye-dye mind's eye melody
is mellowing into a gray spring.
And I'm wondering why?
But...
I think I know.
Only asked cause
I was hopin' you might hum some other musical notes,
ones that won't turn this song into a black swan dive
forced to call the huntin' dogs to track
back to a time where you and I laughed freely.
But there's this feeling
that this is how your other he must have felt
while you and me were undoing our belts--
yelling & screaming
as my parents were sleeping
upstairs above--
we played each other like saxophones
to this grand Nirvana relaxed crescendo!
But as this poem progresses
the tempo stiffens--
your voice lessens--
as the harmony's off-key
and the melody's riff softens.
It's not hitting me hard like a gong-
feels like two people singing
different lyrics into the same microphone.
Someone with synesthesia can see
our colorful speech atrophy
instead of pirouetting in turquoise dreams.
If that sounds harsh,
sorry, that's the reality I perceive--
we don't want each other to leave,
But our avoidance of labeling
what we are also established what we weren't
and now this playful...thing? we had
feels like a breaking carafe as it hits the floor.
I want to continue writing you more poems and songs
but it's hard when the harmony's off-key
and losing it's charm.
This new lentando^ tempo's like a left arm going numb.
I want to keep composing
but it feels like water
instead of kerosine pouring
on the fire that was inspiring
as this mournful melody dilates throughout my being.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 12:37 AM UTC
She asks me,
To calm the ocean storm inside of her.
To harbour in her fickle fears,
And quell her urge to fly or run away.
She asks me,
To silence her cacophony,
A chatter's choir, passion’s angry mob,
And I soft my fingerprints, a lover’s mark,
On the pout of her red, red lips.
Talk to me in confidence and whispers,
She purrs,
As I undo the buttons on her dress,
She says,
Tell me,
No,
Convince me
You have missed me.
She shifts her shoulders,
And
A curtain call of fabric falls free,
Her dress,
A parachute,
Floats into a pretty bunch,
Settles round and round her ankles in a heap.
Sigh.
Sigh as if I'm your last chance to be free, she says,
Her hands in yoga pose behind her back,
Her bra disappears,
A red memory of elastic,
Tribal indents in her skin,
Temptation’s fragrance overwhelms,
Becomes a taste.
She turns her back to me.
Her thumbs hitchhike inside her ******* waist,
She slips them down
Steps out of them,
Naked in high heels, she pirouettes,
Hands above her head,
Her *******
Stiff and brazen buds,
They point and accuse me,
Of some premeditated crime.
Her voice in echo, hardens my intent,
She offers me a carafe of oil,
Warm wet,
Her fingers find the best of me,
Through the thin fabric of my disguise.
Make me shine she murmurs,
Make me slippery and easy to handle, she begs,
My slick hands fill with her,
And I fall fast and forward,
To slip and disappear into a passing cloud.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 12:01 PM UTC
-----
---
-
This isn't about being numbed,
or blinded....and most definitely
not being an ingrate.
an eerie feeling came with a breeze:
a life of long ago
came back......and lingered,
fed my hungry mind with
resurrected difficult moments.
there were tears.....and laughter,
our feelings, our heartbeats were heard,
we had that kind of warmth...a nearness
only we, could possess.
t'was like brewing coffee....waiting,
'til bubbles started seething,
aroma and taste were satisfying,
steam...evaporating.
what remained in the carafe
got cold...became stale and rough
to the mouth.
confused heart,
refused to fall apart.
how hard it had been at the start,
our kites flew high
so did our sighs.
how could expected changes,
how could progress be trailed by an emptiness?
why did i hear a pricking whisper of discontent?
plans didn't stop........i thought,
half the ladder was high enough.
:::::::::
somewhere along the way
....why did love have to stray?
a smoke of displeasure
took a long while...to disappear
:::::
in those times of simple dreams,
our humble needs and wants did scream
some days may have been dim,
still................we were a team.
...i miss...those hungry years...
-----
---
-
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
April 1, 2018
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 1:33 AM UTC
we sat on the grass
for a little while
and had a chat
Loneliness
was a catalyst
Just sitting under trees
drinking heavily
from hope
that someone out there
wanted someone else
for company
share sympathy
some tea,
or coffee
offering a carafe
of nectar from the Gods
bagged in brown paper
sharing sips of
morality
taking gulps of
mortality
Pretending a bed of moss
are feathers
and beneath our head
lay the pleasure
of long forgotten comfort
that we gave to ourselves
at the most
We share our simple bed
with an unlikely ghost
And upon a day
when the Sun
decided to gild skin
with a kiss
of luminescence
we guessed
that just sitting here was no fun
so under
The Sun
you promised to come back
to go play on the swings
to push me higher
than the Earth
you promised me wings
and I got excited
well how 'bout that
I had a promise
from someone
who I knew
(not at all)
no takesy back...
but Sunday at the park
when all the families
went home
I sat still
on a swing
oxymoronically
alone
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 6:41 AM UTC
Blended and aged to perfection
semi sweet or dry to taste
you pair well with any meal
We toast with you
and celebrate special occasions
when you get all bubbly
Rosé
Blush
Blanco
Burgundy
Chianti
Moscato
Reisling
Pinot Noir
Malbec
... just to new a few
My carafe breathes
with FERMENTED GRAPES
fill my Waterford crystal glass
Poured to perfection
I drink you in
you complete my day.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 12:09 AM UTC
Once more the trolls rear their heads
like a pox upon the mind and soul
yes it's true they have no grasp
just aho's and lumps of coal
Evil from the fount
it's just a a ***** they have
easy to surmount
an empty whine, carafe
Here they come again
like a fish out of the sea
******** like useless fools
and in the USA
such is free
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 12:33 AM UTC
Keeping Time
Since you left the faucet’s started dripping.
I asked it to stop; It would not.
The lithe silver neck wilts as it cries,
Watching me make the coffee
Nodding out tears that go plunk all morning,
Like it understands why two cups is too many
And the extra stagnates all day in the carafe
Staining the glass the sick color of burnt chocolate.
I catch myself swaying along with the ticking
In idle evenings spent staring at a blank TV screen.
It wastes water, keeps time, my immutable metronome
while I burn down slowly like someone left in a hurry
and forgot to shut off the oven.
In fitful dreams the dripping is a knock at the door
gone unanswered, for I am distracted in the kitchen
trembling with fury, strangling to death
that mercurial throat that drummed a lonely racket
in the stainless steel basin, counting out mocking measures
of this new silence.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 1:48 AM UTC
(sonnet #MMMMMCDXV)
There was a science to extraction. Pale
Morn's wintry eye does not observe the sense
I rather feel as boiling water thence
Steams up the pipe, to settle without bail
Above my waiting carafe, as't fail
To know the vacuum meant it'd drain from hence.
And none else trouble-shoots the Pebo, whence
My griefs **** weary thumbs in sheer betrayl.
I know Mum would ask why I bother fer
The umpteenth time to make this work, and brew
A *** of grim frustration joe in poor
Excuse shan't bless. Dad cites my dreams, to stew
By halves oer this grand failure. I don't stir
Aught grounds, pray, miss Mum, and what'd aye, subdue?
28Jan16a
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
Death is merely
Emptying the Goblet of Life
Back into the carafe
From which it came
I am bitter wine
Aging on borrowed time
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 6:44 PM UTC
A breakfast on a train,
packed one as you normally find during a rain,
I had company with me of the kind that entertain,
it was an orchestra that will play again and again.
As I was preparing for my next stop,
noticed a new menace that was taking its hop,
landed on businessman’s nose at a hat’s drop,
his face was on fire as he hurt his nose with a plop.
It had whale of a time and a freehand,
not knowing where this demon would go to land,
unsure what the storm outside had planned,
storm in my teacup became the next landing target for it to stand.
With ears like a giraffe,
It gave everyone a good morning laugh,
I had to empty my water carafe,
to catch this strange yodeler flea on everyone’s behalf.
Jan 19, 2020
Jan 19, 2020 at 9:21 PM UTC
I am the madness I could handle, for love
is one, of which, all passions cease to dawn.
And I was more, I used to feel and know.
Laying down darkness, layers of layer upon my
left lives. Wishes outgrow this space and I was none
to be it in belting down lost cries into
the ravines of the unknown.
I held your hand but it was air, sulphur glass
breaking into shattering bits of the fine dusty
air.
There is not even a you I can talk to, all that is
remaining are my useless soundless pictures of “once you”, all
I am pleading to now. I am pleading to my empty self
if there was only a “you” once.
The gathering storm crashes on me without potency,
rushing its thick waves thundering through unhindered heavens.
My taste is that of the skeleton drinking a void carafe
of the most wondrous of wines. If all that I am
is my imagining, let my name fall mirrored into that place where
I can chase my reflection away. Let my pretty bows hang
in my hair, I will ask anyone if they look nice.
© December 3, 2012
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 7:00 PM UTC
My heart to your tick tock
Beats around the clock
I look at you sweetheart
I see a million pound art
Let's share a water carafe
As we travel down a path
Of love and laughter in a cafe
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 6:18 PM UTC
It’s this recurring waking-dream,
especially on these blustery nights.
I can almost see the sheen of the mahogany
surface of the bar top.
I can almost feel the weight of the tattered
rag that sits on my shoulder.
Barryman’s is a place to come in from the cold.
There’s always a fresh carafe on the burner of the Bunn
machine.
Or, there are stronger drinks.
This is the place where you can talk to anyone about anything.
And, no one is ever wrong, because we all know that we all know
that everyone is full of **** but we like them and ourselves anyway.
Well, there was that one time that one poor ******* got the boot.
Everyone remembers that one.
He was hollering about how Winston Churchill could’ve made a better
cup of coffee in spite of his drink of choice being blackberry brandy
and how Kafka was overrated.
So, he was out on his self-righteous ***
Oh, how he did howl for a while, this piss-drunk sonofabitch;
but then we remembered that we’re all a bit like he was then
from time to time.
And, we retrieved him, his muffler, his hat,
gave him some coffee, a copy of “Catcher”, and a seat
by the fire.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 10:05 PM UTC
You don't drive me crazy the way he does
You don't
Make me reckless, obsessed, sleepless
Holding something I thought would slip
But an illusion that was never there
You don't make me beg for your love
Maybe you don't
Ignore all my feelings, hide my heart under my sleeves
Making August January in one blink
Plumbing my heart into nitrogen gas
But You don't know what you did to me
The party your eyes found my figure in the crowd
the hoarse confessions of love,
Besides my ears, hot breaths and strong arms
Holding me tight even when you sleep
Burying your face in my neck, calling it home
Pulls me into the shower against you and kiss me
wet and willing, until I run out of breaths
Dinners and Carafe, collars and leashes.
The way you look at me, eyes full of love.
So if they ask me if you are my type,
whether you make my heart go mad
I would smile and say no
My heart doesn't go mad, because it found home
You are not my type, you are the love of my life
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 9:07 AM UTC
a sire
of Oliver
is spring
in Baganda
with carafe
here might
muse the
daughter in
craft and
slaughter now
leader for
features incumbent
in the
sprawl of
louche theatrics
to vanish
in mire
Dec 25, 2019
Dec 25, 2019 at 7:41 AM UTC
.
The grapes,
dangling from a leafy vine,
an off-season vintage
in well water dreams
where I come out the victor,
the gallant one
who leads her from the wine
to savor the brandy
poured slowly,
steadily
with affection
but
It is just a dream,
as I awaken
to realize
the alcoholic content
does not meet the region
along a hillside vineyard,
dripping into a café carafe
tempting fruits
that are far sweeter
than something
produced
with feeling
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 10:55 AM UTC
Strong emotionally and physically; while it is strong in flavor
A mug of coffee wakes one up; yet you’re the smile in the cup
You’re the feeling a child gets when handed a party favor
Caffeine is soon to crash but yet you liven up
One thousand cups can’t wake me up the way that you can
A Rosetta painted in the milk can’t compare to the beauty of you
Full of life and full of color; coffee is only black or tan
Even when the *** is empty you never bid adieu
Though black coffee is dark, it’s not as dark and mysterious as you
More life is given from your laugh than all the caffeine in the carafe
You’re the superior flavor no matter the way I brew
Your heart holds all the power; the complete opposite of decaf
Out of everyone in the world, you’re the one I adore
As for the coffee, I’m already brewing more.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 10:04 PM UTC
An Englishwoman distress
when her remark finesse
her pebble with her hand
when sororities clothier allure
welcome ****** tourists that mall require band
when with a carafe round eleven these bargain hunters enliven extra browsing with delite wrap on pleasance in Kuala Lumpur.
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 11:27 AM UTC
Carafe or ***
the coffee's, just as hot
as for pot's cleverness
eloquent, it's not
Either one works,
I'll certainly admit
but you surely win
the battle of true wit
Wits are overrated
I'd rather have better words
But, I guess that I am fated
not using merde', but ****
Words over wit
I suppose I would agree
but having both is more
my mode de vivre
A witty repertoire
and wordy revelry
existing in the fables
so rare, in reality
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 9:21 AM UTC
Come on over and love me up.
I so admire your big gold eyes and long black whiskers.
He loves the kisses
Rolling and soft murmurs as we watch TV
How relaxing this is.
Every day when I go away,
my attentions he misses
But count on it: He won't be still
Perching out on the window sill
calling out with all his will
singing his heart out to neighborhood misses
And when at last I'm home again
he lets me know
It's been too long wherever I've been
Slipping off my shoes, I softly whisper,
"My, such big gold eyes and long black whiskers."
He's not pleased when men come calling
He gasps on smoke and the stench of beer
They're much too loud, and three's a crowd
But he flaunts his charms when ladies are here
With a kingly stride he proclaims his entrance
Endeared are they, he knows in a glance
"Oh, see those luminescent golden eyes and long black whiskers."
It's hypnotic, peering into eyes never blinking
Those wondrous, golden, moon-like eyes
mysteriously veil all he's thinking
There come times when I'm low and sinking,
glow of life dimming, shrinking
No, not again, down I'm slipping
familiar dark whirlpool firmly gripping
down
down
down
down
ever down
Ebbing low, it's of white zin' I'm thinking
Fond echoes of goblet and carafe crisply clinking
But my friend and savior lifts my mood
and my down spiral he does preclude
After all, it's much better I partake of food.
I reflect that an undesired gift,
a "rescue" of best intentions made
whose denial would have caused a rift
in a friendship nurtured over a decade
This rescue gift, truly more than a gift
A travesty to call it ownership
A blessing, tho' one so grand,
it is only I who understand.
It's a splendid treasure of joy and companionship
Life has its troubles, but it could be worse
I don't exist with the loneliness curse.
T.F.Kaye
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC