"demitasse" poems
as soon as these blue speckled
socks go, that's it. A new bright black death.A solemn weir on a stark horizon.Give me a reason to wear color. My hueless affidavit
runs me into the Earth, where I sprout up
a pallid keb- brain orf'd, you could drag my etiolated ebon
body through the ovine fold or take me to the theater. When I was just a minor teg, I sheared my mim kip, I fuckinggave it to you outright. In this little
cote my wan mien nigrifying; my calamitous black, quaffed full of congou in demitasse, of souchong & saucers. My atrous wethered body albicantly degenerating in the atrous sun. I'm crusting over with wanness and you, you're fortifying in the cwm where I used to yaff and stray. Your ovivorous hunger,something I never knew, when first you came for my jecoral flesh, just another bot digging through my soft toison. Like Dall's Prometheus being sheared from the flock-you cut me away. In this drab and achromic world, you put the wanness in my flesh, the gid in my heart. Still.
Just these blue socks are left.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:20 AM UTC
His wife is as
assiduous as
a mother bird.
She keeps
the windows
clean with rags
and buckets
of vinegar and
steaming water.
What happens here.
He sweeps
the ceiling
and ponders
the meaning
of the word
perspicacity.
There are
mornings
spent fussing
over underused
demitasse sets.
What happens here.
There are
afternoons
side-by-side
on the front
porch glider,
watching clouds
attenuate across
a porcelain sky.
What happens here.
The smallest
sounds never
fail to surprise
them.
How sparrows fold
like feathered paper
below rectangles
of polished air.
*What happens here,
happens over there.*
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 2:28 PM UTC
My existence is taunted by the mesmerizing aroma,
The delightful demitasse of her Mocha brown essence,
A mere arm’s length away yet still an unreachable distance,
The inviting warmth of her crema’s supple surface,
Intensifying temptation to unending heights.
Espresso feelings brew for an eternity,
The barista’s pressure refusing to cease,
Steaming desire straining at every point,
Ever seeking release from the torment.
Ground, grated and pulverized am I,
In the grip of my addiction –
A tortuous thirst that can never be quenched.
But for the warm dark brew being wrapped in the sleeve of another,
I would pour her in to the most precious Italian ceramic bowl,
Embrace her warmth in the palms of my adoring hands,
Breathe in her rich exotic essence,
Explore her complex depths each day till the end of time.
And still I’d wake each morning anew,
Longing in my never ending desire for another sip,
A deeper understanding and appreciation,
My lips longing to embrace but one more luscious drop,
Love’s ambrosia - the hot dark brew.
Stuart Zukerman
Vancouver, B.C.
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 4:18 AM UTC
He doesn’t owe me the very breath I just savored
so I yell at the stars,
“I think He owes me a favor.”
He does not.
Yet, there's mercy.
Even more, there's love,
and still I spit
on jewels wrapped in burlap
I don’t need You.
What more, I plead and bargain
for light to peak through a crack
in the crevice of your soul
that cannot feel, nor love
because precious, precious jewels wrapped in burlap
do not compare to an explorer’s find of Alexandrite
in the cave I call your soul.
A fool, an explorer – one in the same,
there was not one jewel in burlap,
but many.
What imprudence! I still long for
one glimpse of Alexandrite
hoarded under hate and lies,
deception and malice.
What nerve! To demand for
light to leak in caves
that are not mine to reconnoitre.
An explorer is a demitasse
for when she is graced with eternal diamonds
she selects coal instead.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
Death dropped by this morning
With espresso in a mug
Not a dainty little demitasse
And he sat down on my rug
His face was rough with stubble
But I didn't ask him why
Some things you just don't ask
So I let some time run by
In course he gazed upon me
And in a hoarse voice spoke
“I really do not mean you harm
It's just that when I woke
I found that I was lonely
And I hoped you wouldn't mind
If I dropped by for just a while -
If that's not out of line.”
“You see I know about you,
I've seen you once or twice
And I watched you comfort others
And I thought that you seemed nice
So though your own appointment
Is a fair time away
I hoped you might allow me
A few moments here today”
“I know that people fear me
Though I never knew just why
I do a vital service
I'm really a nice guy
Do people really want to live
Forever without end?
Because that's not as good as it
Might sound to you, my friend.”
“The life you live is precious
But it's not all that there is
You can take my word on that
Or if you like, take His
There really is a purpose
And I'm part of the plan
Even though you might not see
It from this mortal land.”
You may not think all of this real
But I tell now, it's what he claimed
And when he finished up his mug
I feared I would be maimed
But that much of his words were true
He did no harm as he did say
As for the rest, who knows for sure
I guess we'll see another day.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 9:32 PM UTC
the ice sliced the street while counting the paced steps under my breath. we're all here for the temporary feeling — the things that kept us alive, the books that were written, the songs that were sang. your demitasse of cold coffee and glass of sangria with fruits that was drenched in the cold blood of wine. the intervals of your horrible sanity, the tingling edges of your pulse and the pain in its very unusual degree. the infinite possibilities of what can be taken away from you until you actually run out of things to write about or realizing that nothing is meant to last for more than lightyears away in time.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 11:44 AM UTC
Everybody's in a tea-mood these days.
At the moment,
I prefer Chai,
but the greens are still my favorites.
I love white monkey
& silver rain
in my pottery cup.
There's nothing
like a warm demitasse
& the comfort
of spinning
a prayer wheel,
watching the flags
fluttering at base camp
below Heaven
with my good friends.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
aromatic and deep mahogany
decoction swirled with steam
a cupped nectar of rebirth
morning glimpses of heaven
first sip a remembrance
nuanced tincture
delicate demitasse
mmm...Mine
Mar 31, 2021
Mar 31, 2021 at 9:37 PM UTC
London, 1999
Oh the fences they hold true,
wandering through heavy woven forests of tree roots
to pastures of sunken vegetation
along dirt roads nestled in overcast shadows,
as a family picnics, or so it would appear.
A rejoice of sorts if only you were still here.
I see your silhouette appear and reappear,
the wind etching your likeness
upon each cairn that dots pastoral.
The walking path becomes overwhelmed by sunlight.
Perhaps you are still working in the fields,
Your wind-burned and calloused exterior
holding rough rooted abhorrence in your lowered brow.
You remain sanctified and unpolluted,
piling sun bleached stone upon sunken roots,
the dark shadows solidified in foreground fate.
Oh how your canvas womb gives heartless birth.
Thrice mangled memories,
of dark French roast in an earth tone demitasse
and crumpets served slightly charred on the veranda
on a chipped porcelain Victorian saucer
with only a faint shade of lavender along its edge.
As the dark brown stain in the once white silk tablecloth
glowers through the prongs of your tarnished silver fork,
You stare across the table
at the emptiness of the once filled bookcases.
I realize that your only genuine notion of remorse
is in the severed piece of an antique plate.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 5:44 PM UTC
Find out what makes you happy
A demitasse in hand
A moment to yourself
What you’re enamored with
Discover your inner soul
Be who you are
These are the stones that begin your excursion
Into a life you can enjoy
If you’re feeling out of place
Maybe you’re not being you
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
her gravity, that next morning, was one heaping demitasse
of swirling dense nebula ebbed-not-yet. we drank coffee
in silly mugs together while looking at the sun
as it came up for us,
bathed in freezing cold blues. she stretched. yawned.
she struggled to wipe a sleeper from her eye.
her kimono opened,
showing a cascading ledger of ribs behind vampirewhite skin -
my namesake was now scribbled on its rounded surface;
hers, on the inside of my femur, calligraphic.
she was too young for me, i know that.
no worries though,
her soul was older. it was sacred stone. megalith glyphed.
we held each other and
downing that bitter morning brew
watched the sky flick on.
then we picked up our heavy bodies
and went back to bed,
and ****** so hard i got a cramp in my left foot when i came.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 1:58 PM UTC
it’s easy to miss the juncos’ slow, sudden departure in spring;
messengers from colder warming worlds
they arrive a dulling autumn:
peppering notations of life in a landscape encased,
each deep dark demitasse
brewed on increasingly tardy dawns
painting a night sky inverted
standing ankle deep in first snows
searching for leftover springs beneath the detritus
but then they finally emerge with the warblers,
orioles, robins, and buntings
and pointillism fades beneath impressionist palettes
that flash over treetops and underbrush
but the last juncos linger:
quiet familiar trills outside my window each morning
disrupting stillness till it disappears
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 6:53 PM UTC