"coffeehouse" poems
Is there love in a coffeehouse?
Like those silly Hallmark movies?
Coffee is love
But hides in mystery
In laptops and cell phones
In wandering eyes
And ****** musings
In the buzzing sounds of a lovely brew
To be consumed by you
Mar 17, 2024
Mar 17, 2024 at 3:34 PM UTC
In a hollow off the main road
sits a village that time forgot
Where things flow, a little slow
and peace of mind need not be bought
The main street beckons all to see
how life ebbed and flowed in the past
Where smiles abound, the happy sound
of a life not metered nor fast
There you'll find the town Silversmith
making jewelry in a forge
The coffeehouse, echos of Strauss
a trodden path out to the gorge
It is home to the Glen Helen
part of a thousand acre woods
Steering the helm, coin of the realm
are the fruits of the craftsman's goods
There by the Antioch College
we spent a good deal of our youth
Climbing the trees, skinning our knees
among beauty we knew as truth
You might just see children playing
Hide and Seek throughout the street
Where "all yee all yee in come free"
sings of a melody so sweet
So should you find that your bones ache
from the pains of life you endure
Take a stroll, over the knoll
to the little town with the cure
Tate
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
I'll see you around, but
not again on this empty floor,
the two of us in blankets, slept on our clothes,
woodgrain just out of reach.
Waiting at the station,
the 5 a.m. trolley home,
hands wrapped around my fare,
There's some memory of a dingy lastnight bar
where we chain-smoked through
the muted stop-motion of late-night,
whiskey breath and fingertips,
tracing the side of a face, the ends of nerves,
lost
in the traffic river crowd footfall,
at some patio latenight coffeehouse,
we were cinematic, mysterious under
the mercury lights that lit the sidewalk, that staged us
full, small, like hands wrapped around a cup with our name on it.
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 10:05 PM UTC
Gently he'll take her in his arms,"Öh! my precious orchid"
he looks deeply in to her eyes, classic lover style, it still works,
that was the hope he finally clung on,her mother would murmur
something away from his ears,to be careful, he didn't get her point.
her eyes were bright and deceptive, his Waterloo,those two were,
eyelashes always would flutter, as if she is afraid, he would abduct her,
how romantic, his heart jumps up at once in delight,
a shipful of bounty returning after the hunt of a lifetime!
"Could I call you anytime, please let me, even if it's too late"
she would plead, too cute,then pretend dejection, ah! he likes it
as if he'll deny it and she can't bear that thought, her heart'd break,
he'd say" Ẅhy not, I'd anticipate your call all night"
he would stand sentinel,that night, wait for her call
hell, she won't call, not a day!, still can he go and sleep?
he'd meet her with bleary eyes, the day after so apologetic,
she'd get offended at his disheveled , mad look.
"Aren't you my heart's poem, then come to me little more decently"
asking him to keep awake all night, this wasn't her speaking!
"Come to coffeehouse, sharp at four" she is curt this time.
then, someone will come and inform, "She won't make it today"
And when things get muddled, she comes running
and pretend **** apologetic,"Sorry, a fool I am, to hurt you, dear"
never did he tell her what she really was, never asked her to **** off
she was a shipwreck, spectacular, rescue was someone else's business..
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 7:19 AM UTC
Inside this plastic orifice pulsates the vibrations of flies
Around the frontal lobe of the brain,
A honking trumpet of confusion and
Fake self-confidence,
With that fake eyebrow raise of condescending question.
A drunk woman’s loop just spilling insecurities.
I remember when I was 18 years old
and so much more sure of myself
than I am now.
Now, my questioning analysis turns to stammering cindersm
My voice to quivering gibberish,
My spine to a trembling cane.
This is the age we were worried about,
Shaking coats off to try on new ones.
To be fearless again, a shit-talking hardass
With no reason to five a **** no reason
To be ashamed of words I spit, the norms
I shatter, the growing genuine demeanor
I cherish.
My words leak off the page and down
The spinal column of answers,
Stacked and jacked for another gear change.
Green lime crime in a gray lipsticked
Lip-lock torn asunder in cheap talk.
I’ll stop apologizing for nature’s wrongs.
I’ll forsake the jumbled up mumbled mess
That drooled down the spider fingers of
Those lonely, lost days.
And for a coin, I’ll stake my life
On the candle that refused to burn
Because now the reason crests the waves of
Pedantic experience.
Made past the overly-viewed statistics.
The curves now drip away the
Remnants of fabricated wool
Into a bed of once exhausted syllables
And frequented sobs.
Without a known ending, I’ll know this much:
The insecurities are a bottomless chalice
Full of the Catholic’s guilt
And the people you see around you
Are warriors bred without Fathers.
Streamlined sick in a wonderbread coffeehouse,
These are the hours worth reckoning.
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 11:44 PM UTC
he awaits the brittle thought
its naked vocal is neat and clean
it comes to him from the open window
overlooking Cinderella's shop of horrors
her glass slipper now
serves as a wine glass to the gluttony
of the desperately affectionate old men
who would melt at the thought of even her smile
the brittle thought arrives
and he unpacks its pieces parts
and assembles himself in their divine image
now a brittle man
he wears his fractured frailty with
a dignified pride
take one for the team his new catchphrase
the pieces parts swallowed wholesale
become the recycled food for thought
in the hipster gypsy's coffeehouse
the brittle thought
is more than a concept
its a grassroots movement
to be one of the pieces parts
left in the wake of the slowly sinking titanic of sanity
the brittle thought is there
is more than a con artist pulling
off his masterpiece
its a game show host doing a miami vacation
its a dollar store version in a Ritz Carlton lifestyle
Cinderella's shop of horrors
is just his kind of place
filled with the recycled gods and devils
that made the old world such a colourful
place to live
Cinderella is giving away all expense paid
trips for one to be lunch
the privilege of being fed to lions
is not to be missed
the brittle thought finally breaks
he walks home in the rain
grateful to eat lunch not be it
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 1:21 PM UTC
Will it be latte, espresso, or tea
Daydream coffee drinker, that would be me
Nat King Cole on the audio
Singing about things I already know
People watch
Coffee cup lipstick blotch
Pours the cream to cool the steam
Fearing what the future will bring
I may be living on a shoesting
In a coffeehouse daydream
Things are better than what they may seem
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 5:13 PM UTC
Bohemian goddesses stalking the coffeehouse
All wiry hair and flowing skirts
Points of view and opinions and self worth
How her soul craved to join them
Don headbands and sandals and learn to be like them
To play the bongos and be part of natures and kove what’s real
She wanted to feel her soul in the mass joining of the human spirit
She envisioned it, and it was beautiful.
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 7:11 PM UTC
all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.
milk the silence.
fingertips trace the
splintered podium.
clear my throat,
once,
twice.
"We shoulduh' seen this coming."
great opener.
**"Our end was scored
by symphonies of sitcoms,
reality television, coffeehouse blenders,
and fanatical braking.
Our pride in resilience was the
spark that lit the powder keg.
Foreigners couldn't stop us,
for we stopped letting 'em in years ago.
Time couldn't stop us,
for our bodies are made of plastic,
and words don't dent us,
for our emotions are backed by
the most stubborn of metals.
We broke love when we were still young.
All us boys were aiming for quick fixes,
and all you girls were aiming for margarita mixes.
Ladies decided they wanted to nest around the
smoking age,
and if they were attractive enough,
us boys bit.
We all got divorced.
We all got into politics.
Some of us died for a country,
but none of us are sure why.
Some of us ran from debt,
some recorded folk songs on laptops,
some sexed their way out,
some drank themselves to death.
We shoulduh' seen this coming.
But we didn't, so that makes you and I, the idiots.
The smart ones had foresight,
and departed us early.
Now we idiots look to the murderous sky,
and wait."**
all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.
milk the silence.
i raise my arms up,
as though the crowd is crucifying me.
they want to finish their burgers.
they want to stroke each other's egos.
they want to pass the blame on some
distant land,
and stick boots up ***** and wave a few flags.
**"So civilization doesn't get to rust,
it goes out in a flash and is carried away as dust.
Mankind annihilates itself in a fit of boredom.
Get stoked for the funeral pyre."**
all eyes,
all on the ground.
all skin,
all plastic skin did melt.
all forgotten dreams,
all torn from hidden seams.
all the thin, the fat, the republican, the democrat,
all the white, the black, the chinese,
the arabs, the jews, the druggies,
the christians, the monkeys, mtv stars,
toilet seats, pamphlets,
all the newsreels, dvds,
collector's editions, suvs,
all fuse together,
all in one immaculate heat.
no one even got a chance to applaud.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 9:57 PM UTC
I wear my loneliness on the ring finger of my right hand, upside down.
A beautiful reminder of
Empty coffeehouse booths and
Cold bedsheets, imprinted only by one.
Someone asked me what his name was,
Noticed my confused glare,
And nodded quietly towards my hand.
I had slipped it on without looking that morning,
Right side up,
Wearing a fake lover upon my finger.
I stammered as I turned it around again,
Reassuring them of my loveless heart.
Any stranger, near or far,
Can see my loneliness.
The brilliant emerald embedded only proves
To be a distraction.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
Where do you stand. Now
Alone in the sun
Miserable earbuds
and backwards youme
Forever
this moment in the loneliest place in my life
suburban parking lot, USA
Covering secret hope with blankets of anonymity
Money just cools them
Freeze each other LIKEICECRYSTALS
can't even be together
Never. Even when it can't get worse
in the sillyfuck of summertime sticky countertop of hangover
Seasons without the hot seatbelt of safety
and the inoutness of us
not careful always
Sick bruised overdue goodbye
life sentence
Stealing it back with the work of no worries
Just hoping art still means something
just ******* praying it's not empty
like your neverpromises
and your didntlies
Cowering with broken heart fever
Burying strangers shrugs in coffeehouse choketears
Who-gives-a-fuck cliche misery
I hope your own shadow haunts your periphery
Like narcissus' fear of drowning
Sometimes the goodbyes are should have
A whole year of goodbyes
All I wish for is the end
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
We’re alone, together,
The rhythm of the coffeehouse swirling around us,
A quiet cacophony of colliding ceramics,
flatware, and the splash of coffe hitting cups.
Each lost, writing on legal paper
I buy in daisy yellow in a small attempt to brighten my day.
The couple to our right aren’t anything spectacular, really.
Even though they did talk about
The drug market when you left for the car.
Even farther right, at a table you suggested, I sat with josh.
We came in early on a Sunday morning,
Stumbling clumsily upon a place he really wasn’t too fond of.
Funny, as he complained of the coffee and décor, I wanted to stay more and more.
It irritated me: his lack of knowledge or the willingness to gain one.
With you I’m comfortable,
And secretly, I wish he was sitting there,
So you could butcher him with words.
Chop off his 70’s ***** hair, with one swift cut,
Because you always seem to peg him,
Exactly where he deserves to be hit.
I love the contrast of the moments,
With him, I struggled to see, wished for more, and searched for an end.
With you, skin is velvet, voices: harmony, memory a beautiful cacophony.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 1:14 PM UTC
My hair smells like you--
Old Spice and popcorn smudged
lips. Hold the butter.
I want grease dripping
from your palms, a salt
sea of foamy yellow. We
reject kernels bob along
unpopped, burnt, steamed to bursting
refused the right to blossom.
The neighbors have a noisy truck
spitting exhaust onto my rear
window. Gray. Hazy. Ugly
as the reason you're covered
in glitter. You taste like gin
and ginger, orange tea and cold
chai latte, notebook paper
in a dark coffeehouse.
The elves are holding hands
but your hand is on my *** and
this movie's boring--wood
pannelling in a split-level apartment
above your father's bathtub.
Your mother wouldn't like me.
She's a ***** anyway. You tell me
she can't cook because she can't
subtract. But you're no good
at math either, lovely boy. Double
your handprints on my ***
Curl your toes to the three-four swirl of my hips.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 4:53 PM UTC
*******
keyboard
hamburger
blue
coffeehouse
smile
the
joy
citizenship
face
she's
Slapped
brightly
a
cold
lot
on
sweat
singing
Dance
merry
stuff
a
canned
about
mayor
of
Cool
macdonald
croudsource
major
was
work
loud
birthday
red
call
measure
workingclass
monogamy
silence
a
his
carnivores
down
street
manly
ordnance
every
happy
steaming
beginning
rattle
place
ukraine
sniff
serial
place
We
testing
laugh
bro
my
worker
of
crap
juice
water
canon
man
shuffling
the
bread
Shaking
fried
peanut
Johnny's
cleaninglady
based
upbringing
hums
flanberg
flames
the
brainface
got
of
before
awkward
flight
foresaw
on
black
She
travels
meaningful
fell
hamster
fighter
lack
correlate
was
day
colony
what
man
She
train
fortify
Guitar
piano
orange
intermezzo
butter
squints
cackling
happy
mate
hot
breadsource
browsers
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
I've got this awesome idea
To write the greatest of poems
It'll start out nice and easy
Then with a BANG make some noise
It will be widely read
In every coffeehouse in town
Soon to catch on like a wildfire
Then #1 with a bullet nation bound
Writing so amazing
It'll astound everyone
Why it might even get hired killers
To turn in their guns
It'll make the strong want to weep
And the weak to stand strong
There will be waves of applause
This poem will have it all going on
They'll beg me to let them use it
In a Presidential speech
Afterwards they'll fly it straight to the conflict
Where it'll bring peace to the Middle East
Finally coming to rest at the Smithsonian
Taking up it's rightful place
They may have to move that old Space Shuttle
To give my poem plenty of space
But before any of this can happen
Before it rings true, buckaroo
I suppose I should think up something special
And jot down a line, maybe two...
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 6:22 AM UTC
that buzz starts
and my palms flood with
sweat.
the needle hits flesh
and it’s all familiar;
I’ve been here before.
still, it’s all forgotten,
except for the idea
that the images I’ve
asked him to mix up
on my arm are very comforting
to me.
Our Lady of Guadalupe
and an ink pen,
I’ve grown up surrounded
by both,
so to stir them together is safe
in its sacrilege,
not sacrilegious at all;
permissible in fact,
because of their combined power,
a display of faith in my own
ability to create, to destroy
darkness and demons
with notebooks and prayers
offered from a small stage,
through a live microphone,
or in a coffeehouse with
the newsman,
the laureate,
the tiger,
the bundle of nerves,
and the denim-clad
troubadour.
Our Lady of Poetry
will watch over us all,
in our church,
the church of the spoken-word.
***
©P&ZPublications; 2015
-JBClaywell
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 2:10 PM UTC
"hey ******* let's meet"
i'm glad you've come to that premise
the rain - its slick concrete
and so narrow
staining the streets,
i would shelter you
but here we are
at coffee dropping hello's
and following the pack
to high ground
i would
keep
my
scarf
wrapped
'round
my
pretty
head
from melting in the rain turning to snow
but little did i know
i should have given it to you
to keep you from turning the snow red as strawberries
these fall days you'll never know, here we go again
to define a relationship whose particular lusters ferry
us together, i don't see an end, but if you bend i'll know when
to go.
i like the way you smile, here in this quiet coffeehouse
despite you arguing with me, that is the cornucopia i offer
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 5:32 AM UTC
My sons sit in
the faux leather chairs
next to the faux fireplace.
It is switched off
for the summer
that is coming.
The boys are switched on
for much the same reason.
I am watching them with lazy eyes.
(halfway)
The homeless man is here too.
He sits in the chair opposite
my youngest.
They are exchanging introductions.
No one is nervous.
(I am too near for that.)
__
When I am alone,
the homeless man
will ask me to buy him
a cup.
I usually do.
The 1st time this happened,
he pulled a fast-one.
This tattered man
asked for a triple-shot
espresso
with steamed milk,
setting me back
5 dollars.
Now, I’m the one who orders.
(A small, dark-roast,
with plenty of sugar
and milk.)
Last time,
he chuckled to himself
and happily vibrated
down the path.
Today, he is well-met,
but,
remains
decaffeinated.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 9:35 PM UTC
nothing makes me feel more alone than the way I'm in love with the idea of love. And how every new prospect drowns me in dreams of what we could be, who I should be, how this could happen and how it won't. Touching palms like we'd never torn apart anything of value and drawing parallels in the way we both sleep on only one side of the bed. Locking eyes like mirrors never made us want to cry and clutching memories like the hair on the back of your neck mid kiss. Let me know I'm yours, if only for tonight. Calling dibs through the flames and sending kisses to the escape. This is what I wanted but, I still can't get this web of missed connections cleared out in time. I'm in like with a boy who loves movies and a girl who defines sexuality. I'm in heat with a boy with weathered hands just because they make me think he's capable to handle the storm. I'm in awe with a boy channeling an ivy leaguer and a wise suburban coffeehouse. Wish me luck because I just don't think I can pull enough seats to the table to coexist with all my dreams and frantic attempts at being somebody I'm not. Who knows and who doesn't but most importantly who cares? Break this bread and let live. Take me or leave me.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
Rain coming down sideways
sheeting on the window pane
fogged up glass humidity high
casual conversations earnestly spoken
all the while studiously ignoring
the couple in the middle of the room
Stealing kisses completely
in their own world
oblivious to children's homework and
business people's envy
steaming cups of coffee
can't compete with
heat from their coffeehouse kisses
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 11:23 PM UTC
Downtown there was a coffeehouse.
Inside that coffeehouse, worked a boy of barely eighteen
If only he knew how much I loved him
I watched him from afar, wanting him to come and ask me what I wanted to order
I’ve been watching him ever since he worked here
With my bright red lipstick and white dress,
I’ve been wearing this exact look for almost two years
Sometimes he walks past where I sit on the balcony
Sometimes he comes and sits with me on the balcony
He acts like I’m not there though, strange
He’s usually nice to everyone
Or maybe it’s because
I’m dead.
(l.e.)
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC
Warm coffee, foldable chairs, and wholly sounds--
maybe this is the way to spend your free Wednesday nights.
At least then there will be an escape from calculus and combustion reactions.
Here pencils are used to write a different language,
one with a beat.
Between toe taps and smiles there's a place for the music to go.
It seeps in through the molded cracks and bounces around
like the acoustics.
Hold fast and don't blink, take it all in.
Go home and hum to yourself.
Sit down at the piano and remember the night spent
with the kind local stars
hoping to hear their sound
until the night breaks.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 11:22 PM UTC
I had a vision: something I never truly expected
A flash of something I wasn't sure I wanted
As I noticed the speck of green
that was you.
I saw your face against my own, no space
Between our breaths, between our eyes
Those deep brown, almost black
that are yours.
I imagined-or maybe not-returning here
Two hands entwined as they should be
One dark, one light - contrast -
that's me and you.
I swore I felt the rain against the window
In an apartment near a coffeehouse
With arms, strong, eternal, on me:
they are yours.
Then, I glanced up from my beautiful reverie
To a pair of eyes twin to mine, tossing coins
My heart, it plummeted alongside,
straight to you.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 1:48 PM UTC
The second light of sunrise filters
through the blinds of a broken transom window, gliding the kitchen.
There’s an instant
in which bottomless jars, worn out dishes
and a headless Mickey magnet that has fallen off the fridge
Seem to levitate in a sea of dusty honey.
I haven’t witnessed the scene.
I think about all the other ordinary prodigies
That must be happening somewhere.
A trembling chrysanthemum blossoms in the frosty gardens of Nagoya.
Six grey wolves fail to hunt down a white deerling.
A middle aged man whispers into a hollowed stonebrick, then covers his secret with mud.
Two giraffes disappear in the middle of a starlit Colosseum, to the astonishment of a roman dilettante.
Twenty years of boredom; then an ex con feels the tact of dewy grass under his feet again.
In a balcony over the Seine, two lovers prepare a padlock.
Some skinny kid from La Matanza scores a last minute free kick to win the neighborhood derby.
A pretentious teenager watches The purple rose of Cairo for the first time, and discovers his true calling.
Days before dying, an old man stops by a bakery and inhales the same caramel fragrance he would inhale in the afternoons of his childhood summers.
An older brother decides to throw a game of Mario Kart to his sibling.
On a deserted reed bed, a blackbird sings the most beautiful tune in the world. There is no one there to listen.
A single mother finishes cooking breakfast for his son, and decides to let him sleep for another five minutes.
A physics grad student solves the meaningless quantum noise model that’s been torturing him for weeks, and stops wondering why he didn't choose to be a lawyer
Two old friends share the same espresso in a hidden Manhattan coffeehouse, perhaps for the last time.
None of this everyday miracles are
happening to me.
Oct 7, 2019
Oct 7, 2019 at 11:24 AM UTC