"lattes" poems
big sweaters, ghibli, acrylic paint, cafes, knit blankets and unplanned afternoon naps on the couch, gardens, bananas, vanilla almond milk, soft yarn to crochet into ****** scarves, candles after midnight, the big trees with bulky roots, patio furniture, pianos in random buildings, the internet, manatees, the boundless colours of nail polish, peanut butter & honey, rubber boots, pens that write well, fresh new notebooks, skylights, american netflix, mothers that understand, tête à têtes, one glass of sweet white wine, awkward eye contact that turns into comfortable kissing, airplanes, fresh air, baseball caps, the female collective, the really good dark chocolate, flowers, pumpkin spice lattes and ***** chai lattes, candid laughter, yoga, oceans, high waisted shorts, striped t-shirts, docile cats, playful pups, french presses, integrity, sunscreen, meerkats, penguins, chameleons, autumn leaves, fall fashion, ruby woo mac lipstick, osho, dynamic meditation, compassion, siblings, scrambled eggs, smart phones, garageband, metronomes, hot glue guns, quinoa, ferry boats, soft hands, bicycles, real people, fat snowflakes in ample, graceful ********** backpacks that don't hurt your shoulders, hair conditioner, multi-vitamins, soft sand under bare feet, people that own up to lies, clarity, samsara, satori, samasati, visions, echinacea, lavender oil and frankincense, ambrosia apples and ripe avocados, authenticity, Morgan Freeman's voice, good kissers, ******* iced tea on a hot day, curtains, the smell of beeswax, art galleries, hand massages and foot massages, reiki, plums, mild thunderstorms, soccer ***** good surprises, when birds don't **** on your head.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 7:24 AM UTC
Every time I walk into the line I can only hope to run into you like I've done before.
Your smile brightens up my day and
In your conversation I could forever stay.
Will you be my Starbucks lover?
We could grab some coffee and lattes,
talk about our lives and mistakes.
Cause I want to be the peppermint to your mocha, the pumpkin spice to your latte, the caramel to your macchiato.
We could compliment each other.
I just want your sweet company and I'll wait in line patiently.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
so like
i know this isn't the classiest way of doing things
and i apologize in advance for posting my proposal
on the bulletin board
of this skeezy coffee shop -
no offense to the owners
please don't throw this letter away -
but last week
you stole my bike
it was a great one
not shiny or fancy or anything, but it worked well for me
worked for the past four years
and the twenty years before that
when it was still my dad's
and he rode it to the post office every day to
help letters get where they belong
(maybe letters like this one, isn't that romantic
maybe he's guiding this
thanks dad, you're the best)
and passed it on when his knees froze up
and i rode it to this skeezy coffee shop every day -
sorry to the owners
(again)
but i buy your ****** lattes every day
least you can do is let me propose -
but then last week
i left it outside
and didn't lock it
(fate, see)
and you stole my bike
i think
you were probably walking by -
maybe about to come get a ****** latte
from this skeezy coffee shop
(sorry)
but then something caught your eye
i think you saw all the emotion invested in my bike.
two decades of getting letters where they belong.
four years of ****** lattes.
and well
who can resist so much meaning
spread out in the open for anyone to take?
and i mean
since you saw it there,
didn't just say 'oh'
'a bike'
like everyone else,
you were probably meant to have it.
it's a piece of my heart
(the bike i mean)
and now you have it
or maybe you just liked the color
and like
i do too
green is a great color
i like green
you like green
you wanna go out sometime
we could go on a bike ride
except
you stole my bike
anyway
i don't think the bulletins are supposed to be this long
but it's an important one
so maybe it's okay this time
so if you see someone with an old green bike
tell them i'm in the skeezy coffee shop
i'm the one drinking the ****** latte
and holding a jewelry box
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 12:24 PM UTC
Oh Coffee Machine! My Coffee Machine! You've finally finished my drink!
For every morning you brew me one -I place my mug in the kitchen sink,
Every drop of your goodness; topped with whip cream; finished just in time,
The things you make, lattes, coffee, are absolutely divine,
Just as I was about to fill and pour the once empty mug,
almost as empty as i'm feeling; there's still that leftover bit of hope,
But wait, Can it be? My old trustee machine?
It mustn't be the end of my coffee machine peering near,
It can't be the end of my morning routine,
For all I hear are crashes; unfamiliar to my ear.
My Coffee Machine! Dear Coffee Machine,
The hiss of steamed milk, cream and roasted coffee beans,
The wisps of steam lingering in the air as you make my coffee,
Dripping ever so slowly in my cup -Coffee that's dark, bitter and black as night,
Early in the morning before breakfast; before I take a bite,
This half-full cup of coffee won't do me good for the day,
Without you I think that the morning skies themselves will be grey,
But wait, My dear coffee machine!
I keep pressing the button clear
It can't be the end of my morning routine,
For all I hear are crashes; unfamiliar to my ear.
Waking up with no cup of coffee, ask not what the future may bring,
Without the energy, I don't know whether sorrow shall reign or happiness ring,
Everyday I now wake to breathe deeply the aroma of life's bel-fry,
For if I ever smell the subtle hint of coffee in the air, I let out a sigh.
Oh Coffee Machine! Dear Coffee Machine,
You've been here for so many years,
It can't be the end of my morning routine,
For all I hear are crashes; unfamiliar to my ear.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 5:51 PM UTC
Her mind was in Hawaii,
Dancing under waterfalls,
Wandering through rainforests,
Picking tropical flowers and
Braiding them into her hair,
Simmering on sandy beaches,
And gazing at the stars.
Her heart was in Normandy,
Eating crepes and sipping lattes,
Strolling through spring green fields
And along lazy river banks,
Kissing the walls of castles,
And scooping up scallop shells,
Soaking up French syllables.
Her hands were in her pockets,
High-fiving friends and
Running through her lover's hair,
Sewing, cooking, washing,
Punching, tearing, scratching,
Caressing and confessing,
Catching the very first drops of rain.
Her feet were on the streets of Seattle,
Tapping to the rhythm of the bass,
Shuffling in and out of the rain,
Dodging puddles and strangers,
Observing art and sculptures,
Chasing down a taxi or her dog,
and embracing the crisp autumn air.
Her lips were on the edge of a soda can,
Singing along to her favorite songs,
Whispering sweet nothings into the air,
Empowering the impoverished
And scorning the injustice,
Kissing a forehead, lips, and hads,
And stonecold silent as her mind does the work.
Her eyes were fighting back frosty tears,
Swallowing scarlet sunsets,
Painted in yesterday's make up,
Tracing your stoic silhouette,
Rolling like thunder before the storm,
Lapping up dizzying moonlight,
And buried in words, and words, and words.
Her body was in Los Angeles,
But, she was on a metanoia,
Breaking free of past and future
To find herself a presence
That would always be worth fighting for,
To reach sophrosyne, namaste,
And to put her frantic body to peace.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 2:53 AM UTC
Our solar lamps
plead for more sunshine
as they die
in the middle of dinner
every night
even in this stark Texas
late afternoon light
all the while
I can still
get a beastly burn
the faintest suggestion
of Fall
wafts through
the chilled
grocery store air
rife
with frothy pumpkin lattes
maybe if I stare long enough
at the neighbor’s
front porch
loaded with gaudy gourds
I can almost
trick myself
into feeling
crisp.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 1:24 AM UTC
Hildegard of Bingen
the most musical abbess
of the year 1097 a.d.
met with Jung the unconscious detective
and Ginsberg the howling poet
for lattes at some Starbucks
in a vibrating city
on a shimmering afternoon.
Angelic minuets keep flowing,
effervescing through my chakras
like tonal champagne . . .
the glowing femme declared.
Beams of ethereal light infuse me,
tsumanis of energy tempt me
to dance right out of my habit.
Ignoring the possibility
of seeing a naked nun drink coffee in public,
Alan mused behind his hornrims . . .
I get what you mean
like I have felt the same perfusion of joy
watching cans of peas and ayahuasca
dance with talking bananas
at the A&P; Market near my pad in Brooklyn,
can you dig it?
Still suffering from his Freudian hangover,
Carl reframed them both . . .
Any conclusions or convictions
drawn from such experiences
may not self-verify because
your introspective identifications
attempt in vain
to concretize the amorphicity
of decentralized psychic sensations
which reach conscious awareness
only at the expense of extension.
What did he just say?
Hildegard asked Alan.
I have absolutely no idea,
the portly poet answered
as he doodled an intricate mandala
on his hemp napkin.
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 12:21 AM UTC
The music plays and the espresso machines steam and hiss
Feet tap. Fingers type. Phone screens ******
Skinny lattes and peppermint teas. Soy chai teas extra hot.
Peppermint soy latte. New names for familiar poisons.
Flat whites. Cortados. Espressos and macchiatos.
When I grew up, it was just a cup of coffee…
Hipster coffee shops serving to the hip, the wannabes and the lonely
The woman in the leopard skin coat and the man with acne.
Credit cards are swiped and cash machines ring
The business of poisons is thriving in the city.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 4:15 AM UTC
going outside nowadays is just a game of
who can hold their breath the longest and of
looking for reasons to pass the time in your
own backyard but the gardens i see are only for
the literary muses haunting writers into submission
and for digging up holes with plastic shovels and
for wishing that i could pick up the daisies
and place them in your hair
i was in the middle of drawing a circle when
my arm quivered and now the line shoots
way past the paper and it's currently
undulating over my desk and zooming past
a caterpillar that's contemplating whether the
process of becoming beautiful would actually
make him beautiful when he already knows
that he is beautiful
i hope the god i pray to forgives me for
making all the lines i write be about you
May 3, 2021
May 3, 2021 at 1:20 PM UTC
She's blond, sleek, and hot--
Complaining about failing
A tough college course.
Busy barristers,
Make lattes, teas, and smoothies
On Valentine's Day.
She's quiet and shy;
Holds head down, sips a mocha,
Reads romance novel.
Nice, pretty women
Without candies or flowers,
Not looking for love.
Old, balding, obese--
He does not look too happy,
Wonder if he smiles.
Nice Asian features,
With a body to die for...
Still, she's not my type.
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 5:44 PM UTC
Magic beans and fairytale lattes
ease your burdens, supply you with strength.
To survive through yet one of your Mondays,
sip the warmth and release a held breath.
Sep 5, 2021
Sep 5, 2021 at 12:26 PM UTC
Let's go get high on caffiene and drunk off each other.
Lets spend hours in coffee shops, with nothing in our stomaches but butterflies and my cappuccinos and your lattes. Let's become giddy and delusional and find everything amusing and not be able to do anything but laugh.
Lets drink and drive as we ride around to exciting places. With every turn down a new curvy road you'll travel deeper down the curvy roads of my mind. Ill become intoxicated and weak and you'll become more and more charming as with each turn we'll fall deeper into a drunken memory.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 1:58 PM UTC
Text her. Send her messages that she won't know how to respond to. she'll read them and put her phone down. Stare at the read receipt for hours until you realize she's not picking the phone back up, she doesn't have anything to say to you.
Eat lots of chocolate. It has serotonin in it, the happy chemical. When you cuddle with her, your brain releases oxytocin. As long as you eat enough chocolate (and throw it up) you won't miss the oxytocin one bit.
Bleed. When she tells you that she cuts herself, cut deeper. This is guerrilla warfare now, and for every shot fired you must fire back.
Read your messages. Laugh at the nicknames she used. "Princess". "Baby". "Darlin". You were never her princess, never her baby. She was the child and you were merely her plaything.
Make art. Write dumb poetry about falling in and out of love, take photographs of your ****** thighs, paint a picture using only shades of red. Let her figure out what all these things mean.
Drink. Green tea, ***** over-priced lattes. Stay up all night crying. Wear stilettos. Sit in art museums all alone and wonder if being a starving artist is as much fun as it sounds. Take long showers and harmonize with your favorite songs through your tears. Use heavier, blacker eyeliner. Spend time on yourself. Adopt a cat. But most of all, remember this:
You can only love one person. Choose yourself
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 2:43 PM UTC
I.
Sunday mornings in Vancouver
even pigeons sleep in till 10 A.M.
Undaunted, I walk down Granville shortly before 8
seeking lox bagels with capers, red onions and cream cheese,
two breve lattes, and a newspaper. In truth,
panhandlers on the corner of Robson
have far greater chance of scoring.
An unexpectedly sunny February morn
suffices to spur me on. I am attuned to all vibration.
Breath of the awakening city
exhales manna upon the shop awnings.
Bagels rendered superfluous,
I scarf images instead ---
trolley buses, an umbrella shop, falafel stands ---
delicious Canadian visual cuisine.
II.
Vancouver is a nymph. Of that I'm sure.
I hear flirtatious giggles trill
from darkened alleys between hotels.
Spotted her once across the street on Dunsmuir,
seated on a walk bench reading a Margaret Atwood novel.
Bus passed between us and she vanished.
Caught a later glimpse through the window
of a walk-up dim sum restaurant in Chinatown.
Flew the stairs, only to find an empty table and
discarded napkin smudged with candy pink lipstick.
She watches me.
III.
Turns out there are no Sunday morning papers in Vancouver,
but I locate the bagels and espresso backtracking on Helmcken.
The barista smiles as I approach, sets down her Atwood novel.
I leave a Toonie in gratuity.
B.C. wind pushes hard on my turned back,
as I rush our breakfast back to the Executive.
A nymph goes roller-blading by toward False Creek.
The Gastown Steam Clock whistles that it's 10 A.M.
A flock of pigeons lifts in flight.
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 2:04 PM UTC
All the pretty birds
perched on leafy branches
chirp to the waking morning,
“I am here. Where are you?
I am here. Where are you?
I am here. Where are you?
I am here. Where are you?”
And the puppy dogs
all starve for something
While the cats of fortune
laze about the alleyways.
But the pretty birds
all the morning long,
“I am here. Where are you?”
The tardy businessmen
and their non-fat lattes
squirm in BMWs,
Honking at traffic
with the most colorful swears,
“I am here! I am here!
I am here! I am mad! I am here!”
High-octane housewives
power walk the parks,
Gabbing. And the old folks
tossing breadcrumbs to the ducks,
Mumble to long gone loved ones,
“Where are you? Where are you?
Where am I? Where are you?”
But those ****** birds-
Those pretty, ****** little birds-
They have it figured out.
They know the secrets
to Happiness:
‘I am here.
Where are you?’
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 4:27 AM UTC
i. no absolute rest
"yes, time
never did stop
for anyone."
but I add...
ii. no absolute motion
"even time itself
is an
illusion."
because
yours and mine
...dissent.
iii. backwards
maybe yesterday,
we could still
work things out.
--softer,
than lightly (3.0 x 10^8 m/s)
iv. implausibility
our foreheads wear
the cracks of our heart.
you lost your zeal,
I lost my saviour,
we lost each other,
but left
with osmium-clad
backpacks,
and collapsed
patellas.
E = mc^2.
v. our end
fact:
tomorrow
is inevitable.
fact:
screeching alarms
and lopsided bed-hair,
and chugging caramel lattes,
with precisely two tablespoons
of raw sugar--
fact:
forget among the clamour,
the shadow of your figure--
fact:
you are an
unearthed blackhole,
under the facade
of a supernova.
(your mass = 2.5(+) x greater than the sun)
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 11:01 AM UTC
I gave you my summer;
Sea salt stung my aching knuckles
And the salt from your skin burned the cracks in my lips.
I gave you tea candle nights;
Firefly and Arnold Palmer
Topped with bug spray and dusted with chlorine
Rolling over and over until I felt sick
With your taste in my mouth and your heartbeat in my head.
I gave you my will to breathe that night
And with every shot I took, you took more.
I gave you the days of cold breezes and warm afternoons;
When the sunset burned like fire
And I needed your hands to keep mine warm.
Pumpkin on my tongue
Lattes and ale
And a long drive to the apple trees
Where we got lost for hours, you and me.
I gave you my shoulder and my shade
I gave you my light heart and carried your weight.
I gave you the light I needed to see
And for those next few months, I was blind.
I gave you my stumbling legs and frozen fingers
Wrapped in a down blanket on a queen size bed
I gave you every inch of my skin and touched every inch of yours,
All alone here on the floor
but still, I was empty.
With no blood in my veins
and no heart in my chest.
Vacated and lost
A beggar girl whose lost eyes you despise
Whose heart is wilting beside yours
Who calls for nameless people in the middle of the night,
While you lay beside her losing sleep.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
you make my legs
fill with lust
and some sundance
chemical I cannot
explain. you make
me feel like your
pupils are the sun
and the sun has
little in respect
to you aside from
attribution to the
very existence of
the girl I love.
you make me feel
like free chai tea
lattes, even if this
analogy was used by
an ex of mine to
describe how she
felt about me I
feel it's still
valid in context.
you make me dance
like thunder in a
snowstorm and link
arms with my lack
of a bedside table
and ring as true as
my ears to the ashen
corner-lounge love-drug-all-this-please.
I love you,
I love you,
I love you,
I love you.
holy sweet good *********
you sweet,
sweet soul,
not even
novels
could properly explain
how my universe swells into serotonin heartbeats
whenever
you're
wherever
with
me.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
A drink that I remember
On a cold wintry night
By the steamy fireplace
We shared hot chocolate lattes
Cozy in each other arms
Her reflection by the candlelight
Seem warmth,but beautiful
A beverage in one hand
Our hearts in another
Comforting to a sudden twist
I relish those days of loneliness
Now that a unity is formed
As doves nesting in love
Can this night last a little longer
Until the dawn breaks us
Slumbering
In dreams of sweetness
While the lattes remain cold
As darkness overrides me
I push away
Causing this dream to face
A reality that is mine
But only a fool's rekindle
Dec 2, 2009
Dec 2, 2009 at 6:36 AM UTC
“There's loads of boring stuff. Like Sundays and Tuesdays and Thursday afternoons. But now and then there are Saturdays.” ~ ‘Doctor Who’
People think that Tuesday afternoons are boring. These are the type of people who get up at three-pee-em on a Saturday afternoon then pa-a-a-arty all that night.
I don’t get on with these people.
No, for me, Tuesdays are glorious. Tuesdays are ‘me’ time.
Tuesdays are full of art, like French and English and cinnamon lattes in Costa as I read a book.
Or I write.
I create some poetry or prose – nothing spectacular but something that means I’ve said something about the world.
Then, sometimes, the afternoon is empty.
I don’t have a tutorial, I don’t have work and I don’t have people. I can just bake and dance and sing without having to pretend.
I love Tuesday afternoons.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
If I had a dime, for every time I've been down.
I'd trade these beggar's rags, for a solid silver crown.
Cursed by loneliness, but blessed by freedom to roam.
To wander these back alleys, where I call my home.
All I have to my name, is an old glass pipe and my shoes.
Sold my soul to fill a hole, not filled with women or *****
Please don't pity me old glory, not you old fools on the hill.
Just give me your spare change, I'm only in it for the thrill.
Ignorant drink their lattes, and the pious drink their wine.
You know every ****** like a setting sun does shine.
Sep 24, 2011
Sep 24, 2011 at 5:00 PM UTC
No latte
no "three men walked into a bar ..."
no sun salutation
can give me that reinvigorating boost
no melody
(and for that matter no harmony)
no pedicure
no crisp fall walk
can ease my anxious state
I am unsettled, trying to find a surface to settle on
so I settle down to the lowest parts of Maslow's mountain
searching for comfort in edible bites and physical bits,
deep in the valley where I should not be
"How ya doin'?"
"OhI'mgood!"
Ain't got time for the real answer
Ain't got time
Ain't got time
cause I won't give it to myself
I was never good at prioritizing
Cause if I knew my priorites
I would remember what a priority it is
to bend to my knees
sink into the ground
and reverently gaze UP
I have not imagined the answers and peace I have recieved
You have to open your mind to see His work
He is visible
in earth and sky
Sometimes He has to remind me
but when He does ...
well, I can enjoy the melodies
and lattes
and jokes again
P.W.C.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 5:56 PM UTC
My Astrologer, *** and Love’ horoscope, for Halloween, is grim and on-trend for me.
(Libra) “Get ready to take some chill-time - give yourself the space to recover. People pleasing is out, boundaries are in!” Yeah, I’m like Texas, I have unsecure boundaries.
Sure, I KNOW horoscopes are horoscopes but while other signs get unicorns & puppies:
Aries: “Use your deepest desires to please yourself, step into your power.”
Gemini: “Your curious and bubbly nature shines, shoot your shot for that special someone!”
Cancer: “Be at home in your feels, your needs & emotional expressions are valued, go deeper.”
I’m getting **** it up buttercup,” thanks universe - what did I ever do to you?
We’ve been scanning the teen magazine fall looks, “We’re living in a bold era, a time of expression!” They declare, which means dramatic-metallic eyeliners, goth grunge, bold reds and Beyoncé’s “Renaissance silvers.” Luckily, Yale’s pretty low fashion environment, because seasonal changes are a lot to keep up with.
I love Autumn, with its colorful leaves, pumpkin lattes and colder nights, but coming from the south (in ‘21), I had no idea how badly heated air could dry out my skin and hair (freshie year, my thumb literally started to crack, like a plastic Barbie). In the spirit of fall fashion and maintenance, my entire crew made an Ulta store run this morning for hair masks, detox tonics and skin moisturizers - we’re ready, bring on the cold.
The best smelling places on earth are Ulta and Yankee Candle stores. In my religion, heaven smells like Starbucks in the morning, Chick-fil-A around noon and Ulta stores as the sun goes down and things turn dreamy and romantic.
Nov 8, 2023
Nov 8, 2023 at 8:32 AM UTC
It all started with an urge to go to the movie theater
PTA's "The Master"
It was a 35 minute walk to the nearest cinema in Brooklyn
Nighthawks is what it was called
1:10pm, 4:10pm, 6:10pm, 10:10pm, the show times
Since I woke up at 12:45am, 1:10pm was out of the question
4:10pm seemed plausible but when the clock rolled around I was still puttering around the house
I could putter no more by 6:00pm and flew the cooped up den
The air, brisk and crisp
Time fell back
Women's heels clap the sidewalk in applause
All for the autumn on a Sunday frozen in time
I arrive, show sold out
I walk across the Williamsburg bridge, why not?
First theater in Manhattan I see turned out to be live art
So I turned out and left
Manhattans alive while Brooklyn slumbers
I dart down Clinton St toward the old Avenues
November, I could go without the cold weather, but I love the seasons
Pumpkin lattes **** my wallet dry like lesions
Soon I'm walking down 2nd Av, feeling familiar with my surroundings
Funny, feeling familiar, in a city I thought I'd never know, (you'll never know if you don't go)
Got some dollar pizza on St Marks
Followed by a dollar falafel, which tasted awful, (now I know why it was a dollar)
I walked in circles around Union Square, in union with everyone there
Happy that my feet were to the street, where they belong
Freezing, frozen, frigid, shakin' in my britches
Wrapped around my neck a borrowed scarf
Bumping into people, "I'd like to get by now", like Garth
(keep moving, you'll find what you want to find)
In big bright neon light at Village Cinema
"The Master"
(In 70mm)
Huh, 70mm, "Cool", I thought
The theater, empty as a loners funeral
I was the only one there, red velvet lined seats
I missed Halloween
Maybe this is my treat
The world is beautiful
This city is mine,
All I had to do
Was leave my old one behind
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 2:40 PM UTC
She's lost
I grieve
I'm a ghost
In her shadow
I sip cold coffee
And wait impatiently
For a glimpse
Of recognition
And daydream of
Days we shared
Lattes gossiping
In companionship
Dearest mom
Our coffee is cold
This drink is bitter
I'm lost
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC