"cuppa" poems
Nan,
being slightly Victorian and
very old
would decant a bottle of Mackeson
into a teapot and
pretend to us children that she
was having her
daily cuppa.
We knew though,
could smell the sweetness
of the alcohol even through
the odours of Number 3 ***** and
macassar oil which seemed to
be an integral part of
Nan
and her Lodge street home.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 5:13 AM UTC
Thought I'd have a cuppa
to assuage my carnal thirst
I didn't know what I should drink
who I should have first
I thought of my friend Jack
Daniels to his friends
Life of the drunken party...
But it's only 9am
Then I thought of Harvey
who'd come in from the coast
But i really do not like him
'coz he's a milquetoast
Ah! I know who's perfect!
Tho I could be wrong
But he's tall, dark n handsome!
So very hot and strong!
He's uplifting! RICH!
He makes my heartstrings tug
He is bold yet mellow...
... and that good lookin' MUG!
Yes. I think I'll try him
he's got get up and go
He's the deep and "brew"ding type
*he's my cuppa joe!*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 1/23/2016
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 1:16 PM UTC
)
. ) ( ) (
( ) ) ( )
) ( ( ) )
( ) ) ( ( (
) ( )
there you are...sitting right across •
and here i am...fidgeting in my seat
•searching for words...but seeming-
ly at a loss•only the eloquence of
my racing, thumping heartbeat•
trading only in silent words and
coy gazes•mingling within the
tendrils of wafting steam•
divine moment as the
heart rapidly races•
over our hot cuppas, soaring into caffeine
fueled dreams•
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
Here's a story of the tortoise and the rabbit
Petty fights were kind of a habit
They couldn't decide who'd get the carrot
And so they agreed on racing to the jungle pit.
The tortoise made some calls and told the press
He said he's sure of winning the race
The rabbit sneaked in and asked if he's ready for his pace
The tortoise trashed back 'get ready to save your face'.
The race kicked off with much fan fare
Friends of the tortoise were outnumbered by those of the hare
The slow movin buddies were taken aback by the dare
Some even shouted 'this aint fair'.
The rabbit took off and was out of sight,
The tortoise could only take 2 steps which took all his might,
He knew he can put up a fight
If all that was planned just went right.
Miles behind but the tortoise didnt lose hope
cursed his legs, wished everything were a downward slope
the rabbit on the way came across a pretty doe
'Come in boy' she said 'you could use a cuppa joe'.
The rabbit told her he was in a race,
She said 'We dont have time, let's get to 3rd base'
The tortoise skipped the route and to get ahead
Took a bypass through the jungle maze.
The rabbit woke up from the one fine stand,
The doe confessed she was part of a plan
The tortoise could see the finish line
''More than the race, i wanna see the rabbit whine''
With a happy face, the rabbit left her crib
Approached the finish line to welcome the press clicks
And this is how the story was spun
The glory was slow but a deceptive one
The tortoise laughed after the race was done
Asked him 'how does it feel to be the slower one?'
The rabbit said 'I must admit I had much fun'
'Procrastination is in my blood, if i get that I think I've won'
There is a point which Aesop missed
Just calm down and go with the drift
Take what comes with the roll of the dice
As for the happy ending - the rabbit got it twice.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
~for Maya, the Persian Canadian farmer in the dell~
your poetic riddling questions without hesitation re
my claim conceptual
refuting with factoids actuarial experiential derived,
that cows need milkshake making daily by sunrise
nonsense
so you wake me up groggy on a Miami Saturday 6:00am
with a reciprocal poetic to a dashed off to contra my
code of conduct poem-mine;
and all that stumbles through my almost reset rested,
main stem cortex is an a ancient hebrew homily:
on Sabbath Saturday, even the cows sleep late
ok;
just tween us rare passes the day that a glancing phrase doesn’t register a stabbing whine “of me, of mine do sing” and your point counterpoint incision demands inspiration instant re-mission
around 10am when the amiable barn aminals sipping cuppa #3,
and the chicken children want a weekend brunch xtra feeding
are done, in the yard, put out to
pack n' peck n’ play
so that’s an intro to this work
that jumps the line of a
hundreds of other’s poems promised and overdue:
insight inside your crafted wake up slam slap was
pretty **** near the makers mark bourbon of this distillers
bourbon barrels bulbous poem’s bibliothèque that
has an impatient waiting list
of poems waiting anointing
each a personage~poem of that day it was birthed inscribed
this particular one for you,
~
my complexity non-Napoleonic
just humanoid each, here are my leaders from and
into a veining so lovely colored
each poem a waving wheat stalk
before these old tired eyes close to closing hear once more
“of me, of mine do sing”
so I follow all of you by dimming yellow light,
for this is the soil of nutriment rich from where my
words grow taller and the yellow infusion feeds my wheats,
the amber, the red hard and soft, the whites, the durums,
and mon préféré, prairie spring white,
which is my secret nickname for a duality woman,
poet and farmer,
posing riddles
that deserve answers*
maybe
—-
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2503650/little-ole-me-a-riddle-of-sorts/
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
Counting... Always... Counting.
A cup of herbal tea, maybe with some sugar.
If I feel up to it.
Maybe some soup, grilled cheese.
If I can stomach it.
Dinner. Whatever mom makes.
My only supervised meal.
Tired, all day... Every day.
Drowning in college papers.
The curves I worked so hard to get back...
Well. They're nearly gone.
Protruding hip bones,
Protruding collar bones,
Boney fingers,
Pale skin,
Fantastic figure and pretty ribs,
Cold toes and bad circulation.
Heart murmurs... Shaky breathing... Migraines... Exhaustion... Confusion... Lethargy... Weight loss
Shaking, Shaking, Shaking...
Shivering?
Gotta go make a cuppa, warm up a bit.
But... what's left for me to be healthy for, anyway?
I'll take a bath to warm up instead
Probably.
Nov 18, 2020
Nov 18, 2020 at 1:27 PM UTC
He sold his pure soul for a fiver,
maybe, the price of a cuppa tea,
sold it to the man of bonds,
of stocks and shares,
who had no cares,
The customer,
he wanted a *** or a ****
wasn't sure which,
either would do.
Glimpsed him out the side of his eye,
what he didn't note was that he cried,
He didn't care the callous man,
Gets satisfaction however he can.
Girl child, boy child,
one thing for certain,
he gave not a ****
He was selfish and cold,
his currency was gold,
pure gold the purity of just past infancy,
crowding in the shopping mall.
The by-passers wanted to intervene,
unable to believe the things that they'd seen.
Day by day,
still the stay,
They should still be free and able to play.
It's life in London, so they say,
Living pain day by day.
Thought that they may find the streets paved with golden kisses,
Home again the other side,
the punter hugs his Missus.
(C) Livvi
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC
~ one more for patty m. ~
slept late after dancing with my devils, from,
from the wee, until a pealing pearl from the Earl of Dawn,
recovering from an intrusion~invasion~brain~regurgitation,
and it’s nearly 9am, sipping my first cuppa Hawaiian,
& woke to a repost of a ten year old wondering plea(1)
makes me think “This old thing,” poem, like a fav
frock/suit that still drapes perfectly, and yet draws the
***** admiration and drippy drawling yummy compliments,
gracefully, gratefully demurred with them three words,
& it’s 8:39am, Bruce pitching in with “Born in the USA”
recipe for a new thank u Gawd poem to make room for
a fast~break diet for an old man with a rebuilt ticker, this
very emission~transmission of a verbal politesse writ going
some where, cooked on a medium slow burner fueling dressed up seeds of heartfelt appreciation made of ancient oat grasses
birthing a poem~child of thanks to the Lawd for one more day,
opportunity, the five sense’s delivery gratitude and gratifications, and the desire to intertwine the sights, music, a crisp blue November Sky, the need to bleed brew these words into a fulfilling,
second moment mug, for the pearls and Earls
of poetic humans
10:01am
Thu Nov 2 2023
Nov 2, 2023
Nov 2, 2023 at 10:16 AM UTC
With a Jewish religion and a German Queen,
Who has a clue where the Brits have been?
Mum’s clan were Huguenots,
Dad’s maybe Welsh.
Lots of Africans in our football teams.
Keep out those immigrants many do say,
Even those whose parents came from Bombay.
We’ve lots of patriots from Pakistan:
The younger generation, Brits to a man.
But some are Radicals I hear you say,
We should be sending them on their way,
Back to Asia where they belong,
To the tunes of a UKIP song.
So what is “British” we must ask,
For this is not an easy task.
Justice and Democracy I hear you shout,
Tiny islands with some clout.
Shakespeare, Beatles, Rugby Lions,
Churchill clapping foes in irons.
Let’s be glad that we are free
And settle down to a cuppa tea.
Paul Butters
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 5:47 AM UTC
***Fell heal over heads
in love with a poet,
he's mostly a rhyme schemer
likes Poe and his dark Raven,
in actuality, I'd fancy him more if
he were like Pablo Neruda, but I digress
I'm much accurately fashioned after Emily Dickinson
chasing heaven's June bugs toing and froing,
we'd meet at a perfectly superfluous coffee shop
he'll be murmuring elegiac pentameter
I'm simply looking to devour precious words,
we'd argue about abstract destinations,
straight forward persuasions and
premonitions of wayward ink allusions,
some days I want to claw mine own eyes out
amid all that nonsensical alliteration
others, I want to rip out embellishments
of his black heart's magnification,
he mutters tumult under his breath,
states he's abundantly sickly tired of all my
fanatical froufroutant flourished fantasies,
albeit, we're mild mannered artistes
of overstatement and simplification
thus, we continue laying it on thickly
I, with my hyperbolic cuppa tea and honey,
he's all brass tacks, no nonsense black coffee
ultimately, we reservedly seek gratification,
envisioning who functionally makes it first
to a finished line of manifestations's publication,
in eternity's poetic intentions and beyond***
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 9:14 AM UTC
This house was washed away weeks ago.
Freak storm or tidal wave or something;
One of those natural disasters.
I was sleeping, so I didn’t notice.
Look out of the window and you’ll see I’m right.
We’re mid-Atlantic now perhaps,
Not beyond help, yet too far to be seen,
The visible invisible.
I’ve gotten to love these waves,
The lap, lapping sway and the cabin headache,
The bluster of wind and spume, flung against cold glass
Like snow from a gun.
It floats, obviously, this house,
And the watermark is lower than the letterbox,
So everything’s fine, just fine,
And there’s not the slightest chance of drowning.
‘Solid construction, energy efficient, built to last’ –
Those builders knew their stuff inside out,
And I have enough supplies to last until tomorrow,
Which is all that matters, isn’t it?
Do you fancy a cuppa? I’ll put the kettle on.
I’ve thought of everything, you see.
It’s just as well I turned the house inside out
Before the weather changed.
Vicki Watson © 2014
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
i am the boss, and pay the cost
of your life every week
i'm upper class,so kiss my ***
twice daily on each cheek
you are my slave,until your grave
depend on me for pay
you must obey,all i say
eight hours every day
my status rules,you grateful fools
that grovel to my money
i demand, your grafting hands
feed me milk and honey
yeh, but......
i work for you, and listen to
the ******** and the crap
because i've got two kids to feed
along with mortgage trap
but you don't see, where i ***
when you demand a cuppa
laugh aloud, feeling proud
each time i eat my supper
you spit your **** i laugh in fits
recall your furrowed frown
the night i painted your new car
and let the tyres down
shout your clout, boss me about
don't care how i'm feeling
but you don't see, where i ***
and everything i'm stealing
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 10:37 AM UTC
For Atheists, God does not compute
And religious fervour does not suit.
Believers, on the other hand
Keep their heads down in the sand.
Both camps are certain they are right,
Faiths for which they’re willing to fight
And die.
Well maybe not the Atheists
It must be said:
They stick to logic,
Ruled by the head.
For me I’m baffled why these folk are so certain.
We won’t know The Truth ‘til the Final Curtain.
I guess an Agnostic I’ll always be,
So let’s sit down for a cuppa tea.
Paul Butters
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 8:41 AM UTC
Sí. You do.
When You . . .
Pour me your 'cuppa'.
I taste your morning.
Text me your emoji.
I know your expression.
Spout out your wit.
I laugh out loud.
Show me what you see.
I behold your clear view.
Awash me in your color.
I'm ablazed by your vibrance.
Throw me your smile.
I throw one back.
Send me your music.
I feel your mood.
Choose your words deliberately.
I absorb your meaning.
Share your day.
I simply smile.
Take me with you.
I see your world.
Ask me to 'Please S'Plain.
I value your sweet inquiry.
Seek to understand.
I feel worth.
Kinda like our bubble.
I breathe more air.
Fall for the make-believe.
I fall for it too.
Just sayin the truth.
I admire your honesty.
Reply with warm understanding.
I adore your sweetness.
Share your insight.
I de-code.... reflect.
Breathe with inspiration.
I feel alive.
Send me your portrait.
I stop and stare.
Unveil your expressions in Face Time.
I'm drawn to touch the screen.
Show your sweet vulnerability.
I admire your courage.
Speak your true voice.
I know your choice.
Respond with Yeah! & Yah!
I feel your shine.
Feel like falling.
I hold you.
Share your fear and pain.
I help you to regain.
Tip toe with ambivalence.
I hesitate and wait.
Say 'What are we doing here?'
I doubt. I wait... I wait...
Take 1 step in, 1 step out.
I ponder poetry to pull you in.
Shuffle in and out of the room.
My heart rises and falls each time.
Promote healthy boundaries.
I respect them.
Throw me your x.
I feel your affection.
x softly and slowly
I smile and blush.
Risk your heart.
I trust (again).
Reveal your pure humaneness.
I endear to you.
Touch me.
I dissolve.
Brush my cheek.
My breath slows.
Kiss my chin.
My self opens.
Breathe me in.
I take you in.
Reveal your true presence.
I understand your existence.
Adore my presence in your life.
I adore your presence in my life.
(c2j2c)
ps.
C
Our fleeting moments in this bubble shimmer.
These subliminal and true moments we share.
I see hints of your presence and scribble them on paper.
These words of your essence exists with me in here.
J
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 1:00 PM UTC
your admirers are unlimited by geography or name,
but only by imagination
~for Albert’s wife~
~~~
the tattoos on my body, a complete list
of the seven names^ shared with a heavenly human,
who pretends he has no
skin in the game
but that is a poem for another time...
you thank me for being a “follower”
unnecessary for your admirers are unlimited
by geography or name,
(and all the sliced and diced human pieces deem greater than the
whole)
we are limited only by imagination
whatever name you/I choose,
what we/me love about your poems,
flora, fauna, the human cuppa,
is that you write what your eyes feel,
yet, it is I doing the seeing
for that
I’ll follow you kicking and screaming,
I’ll be your babe in arms
~~~
^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Names_of_God_in_Judaism
false poets
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 1:40 PM UTC
Coffee, I adore thee,
somehow you never bore me.
Bold and dark or mild and smooth,
you get me up and on the move.
In warm embrace or cool frappe,
mocha, french roast, or tall latte,
crema, sospeso or con panna,
you never fail to make my day.
It’s the best thing ever manufactured,
without it, my mind is slow and scattered,
for a quiz or formulating I’d be knackered,
every morning the Keurig is where we gather.
You pick me up and keep me keen,
in complementing any cuisine,
by delivering a dose of sweet caffeine,
you are the original magic bean.
In doses quick or lingered over,
on mornings with a hangover,
I reach for you, your warm embrace,
the morning fogginess to erase.
The flavors, the scent, which is the best?
They are of compound interest.
French press or espresso - take your pick
- they all provide that delicious kick.
Jitter juice, rocket fuel, cup of joe,
cuppa, morning brew or ristretto,
your flavors please, your scent rouses,
a coffee shop is where the crowd is.
In slang they call it Mormon-crack,
but sugared up or with a snack,
with creamy art or straight-up black
once I’ve got it, you won’t get it back.
Jan 27, 2023
Jan 27, 2023 at 9:27 AM UTC
I wish I was her cup
her favorite cup
the cup she holds affectionately several times a day.
The cup she urgently needs to place her mouth upon
first thing every morn.
The kick-start her day cup
her pick-me-uppa cuppa
I wish I was the cup she always holds
the one she never argues with
the same one which helps sooth her.
The cup that receives those intimate thoughts
she shares with a stare
when lost in reflection of its depths.
If I was that cup
I'd not be envious of the others she uses
the ones she disposes of once her needs have been sedated.
Or the fancypants ones
she uses when guests visit
because
she'll always come back for me
and
never
ever
let another hold me as she does,
but
I'm only her lover.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
Woke up and a feel rough
Lord knows that a drank enough
In way past midnight
Looking out to the day light
Need to rebuild my energy
Cuppa t is the remedy
When a man's from Yorkshire
No milk is torture
Wanna go back to bed
Have a nap like im dead
Had too much whisky
Scotch is always risky
Then was drinking red wine
Deffo not fee ling fine
"Goes to my heaaaaad"
Is an under statement
My head fell off on the pavement
Never wanna drink again tell me what you think again now I wanna start again shoulda smoked the reef instead
Now I really need hydration
Or maybe migration
Did i say something bad
Did I make someone mad
Woke up and I feel rough
Lord knows that I drank enough
Aug 31, 2019
Aug 31, 2019 at 7:09 AM UTC
“Have a cup of tea, it’ll all be OK”
No matter the problem, that’s what they say
Whether you’ve lost your cat, your keys or your Nan
“What you need is a brew”, not some help or a plan.
Got a paper cut?
“I’ll make a ***
Laptop caput?
“It’s nice and hot..”
In massive debt?
“All soon forgot.”
Mourning a pet?
“It’ll help a lot.”
It’s as if that milky brown solution
Held inside the resolution
To every problem ever cried
And yet it tastes like a bare-faced lie
“Have some tea, it’ll be OK”
Will it make all my problems go away?
Will it fix the famine or end the war?
Will it house the homeless or feed the poor?
You’re telling me dried vegetation
Is the answer to my agitation
“I’ve stubbed my toe!” “I’m going blind!”
Drink up, cheer up, never mind!
If it were true, can you even dream
Of a world where tea can fix a melted ice cream?
A cuppa here, a cuppa there,
The end to all the world’s despair!
But we’d eventually run out of space
There’d be a great big global tea-growing race!
The cost of tea would go sky-high,
Only the wealthy could afford to buy
The medicine, the wonder drug
Your future secured in a polka-dot mug.
I simply find it hard to believe
That a soup of steaming boiled leaves
Has the unlikely power to relieve
Even the very most naïve.
But don’t you worry,
Don’t dismay,
Have a cup of tea, it’ll all be OK..
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC
My father.
Old sailor.
Old farmer.
Old carpenter.
Old interpreter.
Old archive of facts
And history. He knows
Our ancestory by heart down
To the 1600s. Born 1946, 68 years
Old today. Bought me my first pen,
My first book, taught me English
From the age of five. Told me I
Had the gift of language and
Expression. And that I was
A stronger boy than any
Anyone had ever seen
By the time I began
To learn English.
I owe him credit
For every word
I have written.
Weak now
With age and
Bad lungs, I still
See him as a giant
Handling a chainsaw,
Smelling of forestry and
Gasoline and winter, smiling
At me with eyes deep blue from
Seeing more ocean and sky than I
Ever will know with my own.
His name to me is pappa.
After a few pints of his homemade
Wine, I sometimes let him beat me at Armwrestling. Then we laugh like
Old friends, remembering how
The roles were different back
Then. I am glad I stopped by
For a cuppa on this day. He
Would never ask me to.
Happy Birthday, pappa.
I'd cut a decade from my lifetime
To add a single year
To yours.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
When I see you,
my heart fly high
On gossamer wings through
a cloudless sky!
Dont ignore and escape
from my sight
Every cell of my heart
is waiting to hold you tight!
Loving me is like drinking
a cool cuppa
I'm sure, you'll be loved
back like Newtons third law!
Can an atom be neutral
without proton!??
Baby, be my proton and
let my life neutral!!
Girl, you're awesome you
got me singing those veres
Come into my galaxy
my love is like univers!!
----de3pak
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 6:27 AM UTC
Powdered Sugar Daydreams
All time becomes invisible, ceasing to matter
as this place in all its magic and wonder
blooms upon the gardens of our imagination
playing like birds on a sky of opal blue, wandering streets of old
Where rising suns on aqua horizons shift,
singing of a new day which is happily part of the prior,
extending beyond any view offered along the rocky shoreline,
as we stroll on delta desires and riverboat reveries
Brick paved streets, uneven but smoothly polished greet us,
a sidewalk table, warm cuppa, green on white awning shade,
sweet treats beneath wings of powdered sugar and tender kisses
within the eyes of all passing, and we without a care
Music fills the square with harmony in our heart beats,
a three piece jazz ensemble plays melodic romance
while your hand, your fingers, tightly holding mine
and I feel your pulse tap out the rhythm of our days
Jasmine arbors bound by geranium breezes
invite us to be one, as love springs forth
in cool waters from passion’s fountain of forever
and we daydream together eternally
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 10:38 AM UTC
**You're the perfection
of thunder & lightning
like Bogart & Bacall,
Marilyn & DiMaggio
a breathless view of Monet's allure ,
midst abstract Picasso's wonder
Beethoven's 5th and silly love tunes,
complexity in contradictions
simplicity of minimalism,
apples and oranges
cuppa tea with honey
spiked with something toxic,
nice with the just the right amount of naughty
you're the poetry in my endearment,
harmony playing my affection's song
thrumming in satiated indulgences**
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 8:50 AM UTC
she always make the first cup,
for the pleasure of pleasuring
is but another love poem
in disguise,
she, a prolific writer in dance,
in her own right nights
never enough milk,
yet never tell,
nonetheless,
my lips loud kiss each other
the exhaled aaah
can be heard just far enough,
to reach her kitchened, richened ears
who enjoys more that first cuppa,
she or me,
is a debate reinvigorated daily,
the judges remain secluded,
happily refusing to a verdict issue,
necessitating a new trial,
no mock this one,
for it is a daily-born creation
a Hawaiian java creamery of just
another love poem
5/13/17 7:24am
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 7:39 AM UTC