"mocha" poems
I almost forgot about you today. A sizable
spill of coffee shot me to my feet, holding
up my mocha-soaked notebook like an
unclaimed child. A dozen eyes found
me at once---a security measure meant
to bring shame to a klutz breaking his
social contract. Attention for **** living.
When the pain receded I stood in place
and imagined you brushing your teeth.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 11:50 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
The earth in which tired
city feet desire to rest on.
Plushly thick forests,
be lost and never found,
coating yourself in saturated
autumn leaves that
reflect the pulsing warmth
in the golden sun.
Your sticky honey,
rich and sweet pools in mason jars,
tempting to silver spoon scoop and
spur morning teas.
Or the mocha
in newly brewed coffee,
the bold and the cream
swirling inside your crystal *****
Jul 3, 2020
Jul 3, 2020 at 1:32 PM UTC
I swirled in a ocean of brown.
Venting in steam.
My drown overlapped by current
On top of current.
I swirled around and around,
swimming in sugary spec.
I once dreamed of dry land.
Loosing my footing on the edge of a spoon.
The top of a pink packet torn off.
Sprinkled on my head.
There was no sense in fighting.
One single serving brewed.
It was exciting to feel myself swirl,
All I'd ever know.
around and around.
All I'd ever know.
The more I drunk the more evident it became.
The here after in addiction.
Sweet in taste.
My skin dipped in heart of something so delicious.
I swirled around in an ocean of brown.
Her eyes.
Never once did it occur that I couldn't gulp them.
I still tried.
Lost forever in Mocha flavored aroma
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 2:43 PM UTC
Slumming.
Slumming around downtown.
Slumming around downtown St. Paul.
A broke high school student.
A broke student with perpetual down time.
A broken down senior student letting go of time.
Slumming.
Slumming down to Raspberry.
Slumming down to Raspberry Island.
Walking across the Mississippi River.
The bridge had been raided.
Marching.
Marching down teal and raspberry stairs.
Icycle nose hairs.
Seeing my breath as my chest shivers.
I found my heart trapped under the solid river.
Teenagers ******** about freshmen that got the bridge raided,
Teenagers ******** about artists they've always hated
and artists ******** about things they've created.
Underagers slowly letting out smoke.
Underagers letting out what keeps their lungs beating.
Underagers slowly letting out steam, cheating.
Me.
letting out smoke that came from the ice.
Smoke of below zero temperature, freezing my insides.
Mindless.
Mindlessly walking.
Mindlessly walking through endless skyways.
Mindless.
Mindlessly talking.
Mindlessly talking about things I don't remember.
Until we've arrived at We-Be-Smokin'.
Huddling.
Huddling in a group.
Admiring the art that claimed the spot before we did.
Scuttling.
Feet scuttling.
Feet scuttling in place to outrun the cold.
Reminiscing of months before when I was sitting alone in Starbucks with my
venti white chocolate mocha listening to crazy George yell at his imaginary
wife. Not being bothered. Not being cold.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 12:06 AM UTC
Let me tell you about highschool
Let me tell you about the girls with hair higher then they can reach
The boys with the careless hair
The love intre-
No
Let me tell you about MY highschool
With the nerd shirts and phrases that most don’t understand
With the football games and the blue and white face paint
The girls talking to me with another pair of lips rather than the ones plastered on their face
No
Let me tell you about life
About the dew drops in the morning
The smile hidden in a stranger as he orders his double mocha triple shot dosage of love
Injected
No
Let me tell you about me
Let me tell you about my mom and her thin lips that orchestrate fat lies
Let me tell you about my dad who treats the bottle like the daughter he never wanted
Let me tell you about my school life and the way I get treated
No
Let me tell you a story
A story about ups and downs
Pills and coke and *****
With books and love interests
I cant fit my life into a poem
I can tell you my love life in a poem
My scars in a poem
My hate in a poem
My fears in a poem
I can’t tell you my life
I can tell you about my surroundings
How I always try to be strong
But you can only stick your head near ***** for so long
Before you start smelling what they're saying.
I can tell you about homophobia
About the men who flinch at the very word ******
Or the girls who are so uncomfortable with themselves they starve
I can tell you about the parents childless because of bullying
So tell me
What do you want to hear today?
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
The question has to be asked, “How hard can it be,
for a man to get a decent cup of tea”?
How can people get something so simple so wrong?
A question that has vexed me for ever so long.
Let me be clear, lest there be any confusion
I’m not into tea leaves or these fancy new infusions
Nor herbal or green, earl grey or the rest
A good plain cup of tea is simply the best!
I wonder why it is that people bother to ask
When they will not put any real effort into the task
Yes they are careful to ask how you take your tea
But what you get is something different, entirely
If there is one thing that really gets to me
It is being made a half cup of tea
I always opt for a mug because there’s never enough in a cup
But for some reason they seem incapable of filling it up!
After just two mouthfuls, Surprise! It is all gone!
I hate always having to ask for another one
All the effort they made has gone to waste
The whole experience leaving a very bad taste.
Making tea is a formula, very hard to get wrong
why so often served weak when I always ask for strong?
A small drop of milk please, how hard can it be?
But I often get tea in my milk, not milk in my tea
I do like my sugar and to tell the truth
I do possess an awfully sweet tooth
“three and a bit” I say when they ask
But is stirring it such an impossible task?
How easy can it be? Just move the ****** spoon
You were just standing there, what else were you doing?
And to see all that sugar sitting there at the end
Would drive the most sane person round the bend
Another thing I get really mad about
Is when people do not take the teabag out
And though the cup appears to be full to the top
You take the bag out and watch the level drop
You might think it’s funny but it’s certainly not
What to do with a teabag that is dripping hot?
A cup of tea is supposed to help you relax
Not be the cause of minor heart attacks
And the biggest evil, by far the worst
Is those who serve tea, knowing the teabag has burst
At the end you get a mouthful of leaves and grit
I do love my tea but wonder if it is worth it.
It got to the stage where I considered drinking coffee
But I was bamboozled by the variety available to me
Mocha or latte, perhaps a frappuccino,
Or maybe an espresso or a cappuccino
No, the idea of drinking coffee just left me cold
all I really wanted was a cup of tea truth be told,
Though I have been accused of taking this issue too seriously
There is nothing in the world quite like…. a decent cup of Tea!
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 4:11 AM UTC
bindi's grace the top of her mocha forehead.
wrist draped with bangles. African soul.
style so Afrocentric
afro so black panther
fist high in the air she is black pride. she embraces the motherland with open arms and is proud of her heritage. music notes hidden in the blacks of her eye. she is music. hiphop and r&b.;
tupac's lyrics ingraved on her tongue. words of left eye instilled in her brain.
music gives her life.
voice of an angel yet she stays mute. black ink at her fingertips and a notebook always at her side. she is a lyrisit. she is sassy. press the wrong button and she's gone for a moment but will soon comeback to earth. a beautiful quiet vibrant soul she is indeed. stubborn and mean at times but still as sweet as the refreshing taste of lemonade on a hot summers day.
she is Africa. she is India. she is Haiti. she is black pride. she is music. she is poetry. she is wonderful. she is comical. she is lovely. she is classy.
she is my big sister. O.Rob.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
Your warmth slid through my body,
energizing every cell,
a tingling sensation.
You started at my lips and worked your way
down
through my throat
down my spine
past my stomach
around my legs
to my toes.
Part of me wanted to pull away
but I couldn't leave from your
mocha taste and firm grip-
my addiction.
I've never loved a sensation like this,
but I can't bring myself to tear away
from the caffiene that is your touch.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 8:19 PM UTC
i long for the mornings i stir and hear those even breaths rolling over soft lips,
when we are lazily tangled up in one another
where i brush the hairs away from your eyes, though closed,
and count the faint freckles dotting your nose
for the moments of intimacy,
like the first few mornings that i whispered i love you,
countless times before i ever really told you i loved you
where i stare at those mocha eyes opening when you wake,
only for you to smile warmly and pull me closer
the intimacy of the sun peeking through the window,
and the security of your arms holding me tightly
you are my morning cup of coffee
you are just what i need to make it through the day
a week from now i’ll be by your side once more
i will trace your jawline as though i am preparing my mug,
wrap you in sheets of memory
drink in the sight of you in morning light
and take you for all that you offer
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 7:07 AM UTC
Fiery light from a dying star
Cools against your mocha thigh.
Desire formed like fingers
Rustles your hair’s dark light.
Body to body and breath to breath,
We are here and nowhere else.
Unposted selves,
Love without likes,
Hands without keyboards,
Voices in air,
The absence of absence.
Aug 8, 2021
Aug 8, 2021 at 12:48 PM UTC
I am a white, Jewish girl from Florida.
Hit me.
Hit me with your white girl jokes,
Your Jewish American Princess stereotypes.
I will giggle and squeal right along with you.
Because yeah,
I do order white chocolate mocha frappuchinos from Starbucks,
I Instagram pictures of my nails,
I take selfies, whiten my teeth, straighten my hair,
Shop at Forever21 and drink Naked Juice like it is my job.
Yeah, my daddy buys me things,
I don’t pay for my data plan,
There’s no way in hell I would drive a sedan,
I wear Nike shorts and avoid any nearby cameraman,
And let me tell you, I love jamming out to old school Britney Spears.
Hit me one more time, because none of that means I am any less intelligent,
Any less diligent,
Any less likely to face judgment
Than any other slice of diversity around me –
I am a white, Jewish girl
My nose is not its own cartoon,
I eat bagels (but I absolutely hate lox),
I’m not tan or even the least bit tinted,
And god knows I don’t wear Uggs.
Tell me I need to get married young,
Major in business,
Wear clothes that leave me airless,
Get some of that European gracefulness,
But don’t tell me I’m dumb.
Don’t tell me I’m not thoughtful.
I’m a white girl.
Take a glance at my resourcefulness,
Understand my goals of being ambitious,
Get rid of your own stereotype-inducing cockiness,
And notice me in all of my flawlessness.
Because I am a white girl,
And I am unique, strong, inventive,
Empowered, passionate, adventurous,
Indomitable, unbeatable.
I am an individual –
Not part of some whole that you put me in to stabilize your mold,
Not the example of a societally scatterbrained ***** meant to be your centerfold,
Not a previously worn-out piece of clothing thrown to the gutter unsold,
Rather a human being of my own rules and my own morals
A human being with ideas and intelligence and power,
A white, Jewish girl,
A person.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
voices blend, a buzzing murmur
steam swirls, mocha wafts
caffeinated atmosphere
java fog looms above
steam swirls, mocha wafts
music caresses lightly the ambience
caffeinated atmosphere
lively line of addicts
music caresses lightly the ambience
softly, I fall into clouded thought
lively line of addicts
contrast my peaceful bliss
softly, I fall into clouded thought
pen the pensive rumination
contrast my peaceful bliss
busy baristas hollering orders
pen the pensive rumination
inspiration in café population
busy baristas hollering orders
while I ponder life's purpose
inspiration in café population
doodle, draw, and dream
while I ponder life's purpose
I sigh, my mind screams
doodle, draw, and dream
let it out, let me be
I sigh, my mind screams
voices blend, a buzzing murmur
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
It’s always been just coffee kisses,
they’re all I have left to bring.
Overflowing mugs of latte love to spill on your hands, your lips, your heart,
Caffe mocha affection
laced with cappuccino hugs.
Iced or steaming, you decide.
Hazelnut, peppermint, French vanilla
(dulce de leche piquitos para ti)
warm espresso admiration,
americano dreams,
sugared and creamy to sweeten your tongue
served up with a coffee house smile—
bitterness hides in a candied disguise
but not today.
No sugar in the raw, no milk, no cream,
no sweet sticky flavors to trick your lovesick mind,
no fancy names to make you think it’s worth the cost.
Just pure, dark caffeine,
ground up this morning,
rich and smooth, but bitter and dry—
brewed with intention.
Just one coffee kiss, for you.
One plain black coffee kiss.
Take it or leave it.
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 11:09 PM UTC
Bold and blunt;
soft, and we romanticize the taste.
Tracing the curves -
valleys among mocha plains -
and passion reverberates
deep within the shade.
Innocence is corrupted
(we've all reached for forbidden fruit)
and it tastes as sweet as
You pass yourself off to be.
The draw of your baby blue eyes and
the pink of your naked lips
offer a look into what you used to be
or might have been.
But I suppose some sort of
saint
or
sin
came around and darkened the tint;
seductive and sultry,
and everybody wants a chance...
And I bet You know it.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
****** Colombiana
Dressed in red
Her name was Ana
Leaned in close
She named her price
Expensive taste
Aim to entice
Desperado, El Caballero
Like Cisco Kid
The hall was narrow
Was on her knees
Always prayed
In his pocket
Underpaid
En Colombia la vida loca
Slowly reached
Her skin like mocha
A forty-five
To Ana’s head
Mucho dinero
****** dead
Mar 2, 2010
Mar 2, 2010 at 6:54 PM UTC
I like the way your last night skin
Burns the iciness,
When the first reddish ray of sun
Penetrates each pore of your bare back.
And every time I touch
The mocha colour of your skin,
Fragrance of caffeine
Seeps in through my nerves
To make me intoxicated.
Now, there is no doubt left, that
My morning is going be good.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 9:23 AM UTC
Apeneck Sweeney spreads his knees
Letting his arms hang down to laugh,
The zebra stripes along his jaw
Swelling to maculate giraffe.
The circles of the stormy moon
Slide westward toward the River Plate,
Death and the Raven drift above
And Sweeney guards the hornèd gate.
Gloomy Orion and the Dog
Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas;
The person in the Spanish cape
Tries to sit on Sweeney’s knees
Slips and pulls the table cloth
Overturns a coffee-cup,
Reorganised upon the floor
She yawns and draws a stocking up;
The silent man in mocha brown
Sprawls at the window-sill and gapes;
The waiter brings in oranges
Bananas figs and hothouse grapes;
The silent vertebrate in brown
Contracts and concentrates, withdraws;
Rachel née Rabinovitch
Tears at the grapes with murderous paws;
She and the lady in the cape
Are suspect, thought to be in league;
Therefore the man with heavy eyes
Declines the gambit, shows fatigue,
Leaves the room and reappears
Outside the window, leaning in,
Branches of wistaria
Circumscribe a golden grin;
The host with someone indistinct
Converses at the door apart,
The nightingales are singing near
The Convent of the Sacred Heart,
And sang within the ****** wood
When Agamemnon cried aloud,
And let their liquid siftings fall
To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud.
3k
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
i’m typing this
as i’m waiting for you to get back
from the bathroom.
in the starbucks
cozy acoustic music is playing
and your mocha frappucino
half empty
is on the table in front of me.
your lips have touched the lid
and i don’t want to be
that person
but i wonder.
i wonder how it feels
does it know that it’s lucky.
can it tell me its secrets
how does it do that?
get you to open up
and let inside the warmth?
i’m not jealous.
just curious.
you should be back any second now.
you might walk out
back to our cliche little table
and ask me
what i’m doing
what i’m typing so furiously
what i’m so passionate about.
i will want to say you.
i love you
right here right now right time right place
i won’t though
maybe i’ll say
“i forgot to finish this paper
that’s due at 11:59 tonight”
or maybe i’ll say
“i just got an urgent email
about my political science class tomorrow”
or maybe i’ll say
“an old elementary school friend
just sent me a Facebook message
and i need to reply”
or.
or maybe i’ll say
“nothing.
nothing more important than our coffee.”
maybe i’ll just close my laptop
mid-sentence
because it’s true.
nothing is more importa
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 11:13 PM UTC
(fictional tale of real beverages)
he sat at table number 9
she chose 10
their eyes never met
but only through the wall wide gilded mirror across the room
he thought her name was Faith
she guessed his was Luke
he took a sip from his mocha massimo every 41 secs
she guessed he was 41, slowly stirring her white-no-sugar earl grey
she wondered if the girl on page three of his 'Sun' was a blond, a brunette or a red head
he wondered what principle she's at in 'Why men love bitches'
they ate lemon and poppy seed muffins with small bites
his lips were firm
hers unable to hold on to the cheery blush lipstick any longer
he thought she was single and had a RSPCA rescued cat called Biscuit
she guessed he was married with three children and a wife called Porscha
she must be driving a Ka
he must be driving a Jag
she waters her plants every Tuesday, goes to pilates classes on Thursday and on Sundays she watches Terms of Endearment in her pink jumper with her friend Chris and a box of tissues
he walks his dog at 7, plays rugby for Long Lane on Saturdays and on Fridays goes for a pint of Guiness with his friend, Joe
he snores/ she sings in the shower
he's a catholic/ she never quite liked Jesus
he hates his wife/ she loves her cookies
they laugh at the old woman shouting at a bus driver in the street and hate gyms, cyclists in Lycra and anything to do with politics
they secretly read Keats, eat onion bagels and tomato soup and listen to Gershwin
*
they never spoke
they never will
because if they would
Faith would never be able to watch Star Wars again and Luke -
Luke would lose his faith in
love at first sight
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 9:52 AM UTC
Pure cane sugartar that sits on teeth,
sits on a canine porch swing
and swings too far, kicking the enamel
siding, wood knots, and greying-thin
windows. More exposed than Brad
Pitt's marriage or JonBenét Ramsay
on the cover of Old World News Daily
in the dentist's office. And there we
are. We're bleached white and burning
beneath paparazzi bulbs and a
a ****** case. Brief case money/
two thousand fourteen and it's still
relevant, still useful blood money.
Novocain lightning flash; burn a tree.
Cali home tucked behind parsley
palms. Fortune teller, baby, O.J. didn't
do it. Not The Juice, not him.
The gloves. The gloves. The gloves.
Comfort of picket fence rainbrushed
paint stripping. Raymour retail
of a mocha-cushion couch half-off
'cause the back's spattered with
toothpaste and taxpayer juice
like Grandma's cancer handbag.
Put your feet up, stay a while.
Don't leave.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
I yearn for the smell of your bare skin,
Salted sweat drips forth from mocha pores,
Touching silk of no other than human,
That feel makes the soul fly and soar.
His strength envelops my very being,
A man with power in formed structure,
He bids me to fall at his own will,
A look to feel its way and puncture.
Warm bodies clasped together in lust,
Kisses electric on lips of pure wetness,
Face to face of no apparent battle,
Not forcing but dealt of our kindness.
Entered minds and men abound forever,
I moan in hands that lay on solid pecks,
Sensual learning is always with practise,
The heavenly traits of ****** gay ***
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 2:50 PM UTC
Why do you think society expects you to
1. Dress the same
2. Talk the same
3. Have the same problems
4. Laugh at the same thing
5. Look your best at all times
Because you let it.
We’re tired of seeing the exact same photo of you with the exact same people in a different bathroom mirror every Friday night.
Why can’t you hangout with other people?
Will it ruin your “rep” that much?
Is it really necessary to get hammered every weekend?
Why are we the ones who have to sit in one spot while you rotate around the room telling the same story to every one of your “friends”
Are you sure they’re your friends?
Because they talk behind your back
Why do you stay with that *******
You know he’s hitting on twenty other girls, including your “best friend”
You spend money to look like you work for ***** Wonka.
Can anyone say Oompa Loompa?
How come we can’t make it through Instagram without knowing your order for Starbucks?
One grande non-fat white soy peppermint mocha at exactly 120 degrees with an extra shot of syrup extra whip and sprinkles put in the cup before anything else. Please?
We can’t afford to buy gas masks just to walk by your locker.
Spraying that much perfume is deadly.
We can never tell if you’re trying to smell nice or trying to start chemical warfare.
Is that makeup or a mask?
Your bra makes you a C-cup but you’re really only an A-cup.
Shhh, we won’t tell the boys.
Is it necessary to stop in the middle of the hallway to talk to your friends?
No, get out of the way please.
We know you have a car
You don’t have to walk around holding your keys all day.
Why do you spend so long trying to perfect the “messy bun” look?
Boys aren’t looking at your hair.
People don’t see you,
they just see your persona.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
Staring in her eyes,
I'm more then hypnotized
I feel that I'm drowning.....
Not in any ocean of water
But a sea of sand.
Deep down in the brown
For the blue is cold
And her eyes are warm.
Mocha is her color
From her eyes to her hips.
In love with her brew
And her aroma.
A coffee that needs no cream
All I need is a sip
And maybe a lick of her cup
Bcuz she taste like hazelnut
Tho I think I've said enough
Bcuz I love it too much.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 5:21 PM UTC