"stein" poems
Put out a cigarette.
Lite a new one.
Take a shower.
Drink some coffee.
Quick brush of the teeth.
This is how John Carpenter starts his day.
Start the truck.
Lite a cigarette.
Drive.
Drive.
Lite a new cigarette.
Drive.
This is how John Carpenter goes to work.
Check in with the boss.
Sit down at typewriter.
Lite a cigarette.
Think.
Type.
Type.
Lite a cigarette.
Type.
Type.
Lite a cigarette.
Type.
Type.
Type.
Think.
Stretch.
Lite a cigarette.
Type.
This is how John Carpenter spend the first hour at work.
Repeat seven times.
Check out with boss.
Start the truck.
Lite a cigarette.
Drive.
Drive.
Lite another cigarette.
Drive.
This is how John Carpenter drives home.
Take off his coat.
Lite a cigarette.
Feed the dog.
Cook a steak.
Drink a beer.
Eat the steak.
Drink another beer.
Lite a cigarette.
Watch the ballgame.
Lite another cigarette.
Lite four or five more throughout the game.
Quick brush of the teeth.
Lite a cigarette.
Read.
Read.
Read.
Lite another.
Read.
Read.
Drink some brandy.
Fall asleep.
This is how John Carpenter spends his evening.
Repeat all of this 7,304 times.
This is how John Carpenter spends his life.
And when he has smoked enough cigarettes for a lifetime
and read enough for a life time
and eaten enough steak
and drank enough brandy and beer
and written enough novels
for a lifetime
he will die.
And only Mary Stein will miss him.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
You'll come around,
soon, realize
This is not pain you are getting
for refusing me pleasure
This a pleasure I am giving,
so you don't refuse MY pain.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 11:27 PM UTC
I'm a bit like Brett I like my beer, Senator Feinstein,
Ha. Your name has stein in it,
thats like a beer mug, i dont have blackouts from beer drinking.
It's the lack of that makes me forget.
I don't remember much of this morning.
Went to work got some **** done, I
Don't think I molested any women,
But it's all foggy. I remember going into DG after work. They got 15 packs for 6.95.
Cept I vaguely recall creeping out. They were
Out. Until i found three of them white boxes with red and blue lettering an A
With wings insignia I'd tucked in
A corner of the store behind cases of
Heinekens, out of my league drink,
For just this situation.
******* patriotic
Almost. I think it's doing my part to support this free-market capitalistic
Economy. Like paying taxes.
Better than voting.
So you all can impune Kavanaughs
Character all you want.
I like beer so do he. So.
Back to me.
I couldn't wait for one.
I'd put six in the freezer.
And it had been ten minutes.
I drank it lukewarm.
And my memory came back.
The fog cleared. Oh yeah, his problem
Isn't that he loves beer
Like I do, it's that he was a punk upper class white dude who
Pushed around young girls, laughed while he felt them up,
Thought he was entitled to.
That's over the line, even for Republicans.
You are not like my justice.
I am a justice of peace and integrity.
Go drink beer,
BRETT, JUST NOT ON THE SUPREME COURT.
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 6:20 PM UTC
Symphony No.9 in d – minor, opus 125
Allegro ma non troppo
The silence gives way gently
to quiet tremolos rustling
beneath the beckoning
call of distant horns.
A melodic cell, nascent in violins,
spirals down to the somber depths
of cello and contrabass.
A sudden cataclysm
shakes the hall like thunder
heralding our universal birth.
Gales of sonic force
splashed like turbulent waves
against the rocky shores.
Drifting sans glass or sextant
on a sea of expanding mystery,
we gaze to the heavens
in hopes for a glimpse
of our father’s aetherial dwelling.
Molto vivace
With hands intertwined,
we dance in a ring
to the capricious airs
of the laughing gods
with Zeus himself on timpani.
So pass the wine and kiss your neighbor
and fill your glass to the brim!
For today is yesterday’s morrow
and tomorrow’s history.
Adagio molto e cantabile
There is no greater and more healing light
than the candles that shine
in the eyes of a friend
or loving spouse -
tenderly lighting our paths
through the storms and fogs
that cloud our lives.
Peace abides in a friend's embrace.
An die Freude
Against raging storms of
strife and sorrow.
we hear a healing voice
A calm cello hymn -
that migrates up to higher cords
of violas and violins -
breaking into joyous song
sung by trumpets, winds and drums.
Casting all shrillness of discord aside,
a baritone lines out Schiller’s ode -
and sings of Elysium’s daughter.
Quartet and chorus enter in
proclaiming hope for the human family,
A tenor raises a stein to valor
in the company of his friends.
The quiet pulsing of horns and winds
ushers in torrents of ecstasy.
Arms clasped in communal embrace,
we gaze to heaven on bended knees
then rise with a majestic fugue
that illuminates our souls
like a blazing Alpine dawn.
In a cyclone of passion,
Schiller's words and Beethoven's notes
entreat us to restore
what custom has rent apart
that each of us may live our lives
as brothers in heavenly sanctuary.
May 25, 2007
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
Carrying your name forward
on a silver stein raft
with the wreckage of me
I long to crave,
mouth agape, eyes watering proof
I long to crave,
my deciduous vulnerability flashed wide upon when you’re there
I long to crave,
your sweet nectar lips dipped in honey;
have a taste of your
white chocolate
lava cake
I long to crave,
to stare into the openness of your porcelaina doll face
I long to crave,
look through the window to your soul through
your nebulaic eyes.
I long to crave,
Suggestively suggestive advice from you to me to you
I long to crave,
My lover dreamer’s dream
I long to crave,
My tinder streak
keeping me warm
I long to crave,
the shoulder to lean on
in my darkest hours
I long to crave,
The person I want to be beside
When I’m at my most beautiful.
I long to crave,
Oh, how I long to crave ?
My undying longing to crave.
You.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 8:43 AM UTC
a duet
Palestine and Israel
To the tune of Home, Home on the Range
(Palestine)
***Oh, give me a land where no Hebrews stand
where Palestine could live and shine
where seldom is seen a Rabbi or ‘stein
and Jerusalem could be all mine***
(chorus)
***Land, land without Jews
where Palestine could live and shine
where seldom is seen a Rabbi or ‘stein
and Jerusalem could be all mine***
(Israel)
***You don’t understand, God gave us this land
where Palestine would hate and whine
where seldom it seems, peace is a dream
and Jerusalem should be all mine***
(chorus)
***Land, land of the Jews
where Palestine still hates and whines
where seldom it seems, peace is a dream
and Jerusalem shall be all mine***
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 9:38 AM UTC
Dear ****** you have took so much from me.
You took my will to live.
You took my pride.
You took my faith in humanity.
You took my virginity at the age of 13.
You took my innocences.
You took my safty.
Dear ****** you have destroyed me.
You destroyed my life.
You ruined who I was then.
Dear ****** you have made me live in fear.
I suffer from PTSD because of you.
I suffer from depression.
I suffer from anxiety.
Dear ****** I trusted you and you used that against me.
Goodbye my ****** I hope you enjoy rotting in that cell for what you have done to me.
By: Ash Von Stein
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 6:23 PM UTC
I imagine you a bloodcurdling scene,
with your
avant-garde of conscious stream
slaying syntax
smearing words
like the battered wife
whose entity shadows identity.
and your rose is a rose is a rose is a rose
revolves a continuous, endless carousal
repeating controversies
without just end,
just being
oh, You voodoo Queen of rare success
how does this convince the modernist?
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 12:05 PM UTC
Cheers to sharing bottles of wine,
fifths of whiskey, and beers by the stein
To plugging yourself into that amplifier
and playing your song with the volume higher
Others join, you're a band pumping great sound
we'll have what we're having, 'nother round!
Honest fellowship is here
Spirits rise with bubbles in the beer
Cares are gone as soon as you begin
to feel the warmth start from within
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC
My dearest Sammy,
The Mix Master came
Easter, Sunday
And we have not had time
To more than read
The literature
Put it together
And gloat
Oh
So beautiful
Is the Mix Master
So beautiful
We are very happy
To have it here
Bless you Sammy
Madame Roux said
oui
Il est si gentil
Et en effet
He is dear little
Sammy
Easter morning
What a spring
Lovely
as I have never seen anything
Lovely
Alice is all
Smiles
and murmurs in her dreams
‘Mix Master’
X
Gertrude
Sep 7, 2021
Sep 7, 2021 at 12:24 PM UTC
WHITE DOWN
White down
so high
and yet so lowly, soft,
your flecks of light
where brown turf darkens
damp,
so innocently growing
'spite the weather;
torn clouds,
against the blue or grey,
beside you green of moss
stone, heather,
grasses, hay,
Not lauded,
given honours like the rose
but there the mountain knows
your sweet repose.
M. A. Waddicor
10th sept 2011.
Translated into Norwegian...
MYRULL
Kvite dun
så høgt på strå
og likevel så kravlaus, mjuk.
Lysa dine logar
der torva mørknar
fuktig, brun.
Du veks uskuldig, rein
trass uvêr,
rivne skyer
mot det blå og grå.
Ved sida di er grøne mosen,
stein, lyng,
gras og vier.
Ikkje lovprisa
eller gjeve heidersteikn, som rosa bar;
men fjellet kjenner til
din vakre kvilestad.
M. A. Waddicor/ Gjendikting ved Åse Lilleskare Faugstad
COTTON GRASS YOU WAVE
Waving at the sky,
you tufts of downy white,
your presence in the marsh,
or standing on the cracked dry earth,
the bottom of a bog.
So delicate you are,
in such a place,
where winter blizzards blow,
and icy waters, snow,
cover your bed.
Yet there you always are,
a faithful friend to travellers,
a light where grey skies dull,
a flag to show where not to go
in rain.
As pretty as a poem tossed
on hardy stems
not pictured in a painting
yet as dainty, beautiful
and free,
as any bloom can be.
M. Ann Waddicor
10th September 2011.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 7:47 AM UTC
Eleven dead; six injured.
How does a person try to explain
The enormity of such a crime--
The inexplicable loss, the pain?
All were shot at a place of worship--
At a synagogue in Pittsburgh, P-A,
On what began as a peaceful morning
On a late October Sabbath day.
Early that morning no one could have
Imagined the horror the day would bring,
Even though we live in a time
When hatred seems to be in full swing.
It takes only ONE hater
To change the course of many lives
In a country where underneath
The peaceful appearance, violence thrives.
The president says that armed guards
Are what we need and not tougher laws.
He bows before the gun lobby,
Addressing the symptoms, but not the cause.
Helping refugees get settled:
For that the synagogue is known.
That was an issue that irked the killer,
Who was from here. Yes, homegrown!
Do we ignore red flag warnings
And turn our heads when someone spews
Hatred of groups such as Muslims,
Asylum seekers, gays, or Jews?
Do we ignore the poisonous words
That constantly drip down from the top?
At what point do the majority
Of people say: This must stop!
Give praise to those who strive for positive
Change with every heartfelt endeavor.
And hold in your heart the many people
Whose lives have now been changed forever.
_____________________
May the victims' lives inspire us all by showing us the power of love,
and may they rest in peace.
Joyce Fienberg
Richard Gottfried
Rose Mallinger
Jerry Rabinowitz
Cecil Rosenthal
David Rosenthal
Bernice Simon
Sylvan Simon
Daniel Stein
Melvin Wax
Irving Younger
And may thoughts of love and healing embrace the injured.
-by Bob B (10-28-18)
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC
Introducing Picasso and Nunez aka ANu Picasso a pair of L.A. poets and painters coming to a gallery near you.
Our first big gig will be at the Nuetra Gallery and Museum on Glendale Blvd. in Silver Lake coming up in September.
Come check out East and West Balanced, it will surely be an art show you'll always remember.
Curated and coordinated by the one and only, Dulce Stein, Dulcepalloza 2018 guarantees a good time.
Just another ditty on who we are, this is a poem my partner Picasso put out:
BALANCED
He is the torch
I am the white
He is the dark
I am the light
We don't impress
to be blessed.
We're blessed
to impress
Hate us or love us
But don't love to hate us
We're the Ying and
the Yang of this Earth
Both with the
same day of birth
He is the east
and I am the west
But together we're
simply the best.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 2:16 AM UTC
Chance Operations are methods of generating poetry independent of the author’s will. A chance operation can be almost anything from throwing darts and rolling dice, to the ancient Chinese divination method, I-Ching, and even sophisticated computer programs. Most poems created by chance operations use some original text as their source, be it the newspaper, an encyclopedia, or a famous work of literature. The purpose of such a practice is to play against the poet’s intentions and ego, while creating unusual syntax and images. The resulting poems allow the reader to take part in producing meaning from the work.
The roots of using chance operations to generate poetry are generally traced to the Dada movement in Western Europe in the early and mid-twentieth-century, involving writers such as André Breton, Louis Aragon, Tristan Tzara, Philippe Soupault, and Paul Éluard. The Dadaists were deeply interested in the subconscious, and they believed that the mind would create associations and meaning from any text, including those generated through random selections. In one section of Tzara’s “Dada Manifesto on Feeble & Bitter Love," he offers the following instructions to make a Dadaist poem, here translated from the original French by Barbara Wright:
“Take a newspaper.
Take some scissors.
Choose from this paper an article the length you want to make your poem.
Cut out the article.
Next carefully cut out each of the words that make up this article and put them all in a bag.
Shake gently.
Next take out each cutting one after the other.
Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag.
The poem will resemble you.
And there you are--an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the ****** herd.”
The use of chance operations in contemporary poetry has been used most famously by the international avant-garde group Fluxus, poet Jackson Mac Low, and the poet and composer John Cage. A good example of a poem that was written using chance operations is Jackson Mac Low’s “Stein 100: A Feather Likeness of the Justice Chair," which also includes Mac Low’s explanation of the methods he used to compose the poem.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
Walking down main street, not worried about the rain, was John Carpenter.
Sure, he had on his hat and coat, but he had not remembered to grab his umbrella.
Luckily his sister had not been with him or else she would have had a fit. She was always talking about how he needed to bundle up more, he only got pneumonia twice year, and seemed to always have a cold.
He didn't mind though. More often then not, a nice hot cup of coco, or brandy would clear his sinuses and he'd be fine.
Today he did not have a cold and today he was walking down mainstream, letting the rain fall gently upon his face and shoulders. He passed the bar he so often frequented in his younger years, and saw a familiar face across the not so busy main street. He stopped then, rather suddenly, and slumped agaisnt the wall.
My, it had been years since he had seen her. Years since he had talked to her. Looking across the street, through light traffic and light rains he remembered the other times he had looked upon her face.
He remembered the last time he had done so while seeing her. They had woken up in bed, him before her as was usual. They had woken up to kisses and squeezes and the smell of cigarettes and brandy and parchment.
Looking across the street he remembered everything about her, The Girl With Flowers In Her Hair.
He remembered the way she squeezed him tight, tighter than any other girl.
He remembered the way she laughed after they kissed
and he remembered how it had ended.
A shameful night in March, two years ago.
Drunkingly, he laid his hand upon her. Not in the nice way, but in the way his step father used to unto him. He did it because she would not go to the store to pick up more brandy.
That is why he hit her.
It was not the first time, though.
The first time he had been drunk as well and it had been because she talked back to him, the way he would to his step father. Now, you must understand, she gave him a second chance. She swore that if he were to every lay a hand on her ever again she would be gone. He swore to her that he would never again do so. He would lay off the brandy and he would be the man he should be. The man his real father was, before he died. He would be a husband and a lover and a healer and a man. He promised these things.
Then, two months later, he hit her again.
This was the last time.
She followed through on her promise and he did not see her until that moment, right then, as he looked across the street. He thought he should go over to her and say hello.
He though maybe he should cry at her knees, God knows he wanted to.
He thought he should beg for her back.
No, he had not gotten off the brandy, but that's only because she left.
He would though.
Oh God, he would.
Just as John Carpenter had worked up enough courage to cross the street and talk to Mary Stein, The Girl With Flowers In Her Hair, a man emerged from the building and grasped her arm. And she huddled close to him and looked up at him in a trusting, loving way. The way she used to him. Not the way John's mother did his stepfather. Not the way Mary did the last time she looked at him.
The strode, Mary and the Man,
arm in arm up the sidewalk.
Into a taxi, that sped away, up the street and away from John.
Oh God, how he would quit the brandy.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC
Sah ein Mädchen ein Röslein stehen
Blühte dort in lichten Höhen
Sprach sie ihren Liebsten an
ob er es ihr steigen kann
Sie will es und so ist es fein
So war es und so wird es immer sein
Sie will es und so ist es Brauch
Was sie will bekommt sie auch
Tiefe Brunnen muss man graben
wenn man klares Wasser will
Rosenrot oh Rosenrot
Tiefe Wasser sind nicht still
Der Jüngling steigt den Berg mit Qual
Die Aussicht ist ihm sehr egal
Hat das Röslein nur im Sinn
Bringt es seiner Liebsten hin
Sie will es und so ist es fein
So war es und so wird es immer sein
Sie will es und so ist es Brauch
Was sie will bekommt sie auch
Tiefe Brunnen muss man graben
wenn man klares Wasser will
Rosenrot oh Rosenrot
Tiefe Wasser sind nicht still
An seinen Stiefeln bricht ein Stein
Will nicht mehr am Felsen sein
Und ein Schrei tut jedem kund
Beide fallen in den Grund
Sie will es und so ist es fein
So war es und so wird es immer sein
Sie will es und so ist es Brauch
Was sie will bekommt sie auch
Tiefe Brunnen muss man graben
wenn man klares Wasser will
Rosenrot oh Rosenrot
Tiefe Wasser sind nicht still
--
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
chalk candies
all printed thereon
different names for the same thing:
a cry for help.
all different colors,
different lies,
but all leave that
disgusting aftertaste you get from candy hearts,
which is precisely why they're not a staple of my diet.
they're good for throwing away in puddles.
there goes one for emily stein.
there goes one for denira queen.
there goes one for jilian quandison.
one by one, letting go of memories.
there goes one for spirit newberry.
there goes one for krystin bullard.
there goes one for tandra wood.
one by one, loosing old ties.
there goes lucy, and grace, and sarah,
long gone.
the box is almost empty.
here's one for kimberly rhodes,
the one i should have held on to.
here's a deformed one for nicole watson,
and a few for the rest of my detritivores.
here's one for anne folderol,
truly folderol,
and a few for the others i could save from low grade lowlifes.
here's one for lisa noble,
two years older.
and at last, one for candice coyle,
out of reach.
i'll keep the box.
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 12:20 PM UTC
For Gertrude Stein
that vast land
a wanderer's dream
to wonder
to ponder
in awe
a~mazed
like spiderwebs
lineages of pearls
falling
cascading
a land of invisble boundries
boudaries unlimited
ideas limitless
exploring
branching
like a woman's thoughts
tree branches
no time no space
the melting of Dali's clocks
a land of no beginnings
no middle
endless
images endless
like the vortex
spiraling inward
downward
voidless
Apr 25, 2010
Apr 25, 2010 at 1:49 PM UTC
Searching
I always thought the iPhone
the most human of devices.
I named mine George.
Like an overeager child
George buzzes when engaged.
Spent, he recharges
to the sixty second cycle
of a resting heart.
Last night in a hotel bar,
an accidental altercation
with a roughhousing stein of Great Lakes Lager,
ruined the inner George.
Now, when shaken, George rattles.
No longer able to connect,
the heart-rending message “searching,”
parades across his shattered screen.
How human that yearning
for connectedness?
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 1:55 PM UTC
She was always the other woman, flowers in her hair, cascading down her back
freckles covering, porcelain skin, cupids bow, painted dark red, hair strawberry blonde
vintage fashion of Henry a la Pensée, envelope chemise, peignoir, blue iris mink fur
shoulders forward, rain splintering, bare legs, André Perugia shoe, one lost amidst the cobbles
favourite novel in arm, to read, as she contemplates her choice, Gertrude Stein; Fernhurst
oh how can one author write ones heart so articulately she thought so pensively, the other women
spring blossom blown away as a puff of pink smoke, a thief in the night, racing past the library
the winding stair case, the oh so fabulous and opulent parties, laughter and cocktails
the tower in sight, a beating of an empty heart, lovers lost, a baby once nurtured
taken, those back street black market abortion clinics, she'd never recovered
she shivered, the time was now, black streaks of mascara, tragedy, loss, pain
the tower was in reach, she gazed upwards, it was near to midnight,
perfect, she thought, the exact time she lost her sister off this same tower,
both plunging to their deaths, love broken, hearts kidnapped nowhere in sight
the game was about to begin, her happiness quashed, every hour, the motions run
dreaming of the afterlife, sedated by drink, she waited it out, effortlessly thinking,
what now,
with a kick of the last shoe, a stumble to the edge, she fell, like a graced angel in flight
devoured by the night.
© Sia Jane
--
“I too am convinced that life is dark, and at the same time I love life.”
Simone de Beauvoir
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
Surprisingly enough,
this little vile of some
horrible stuff
called "Pink-Pink"
is actually rather
musky.
And to think,
after three months
and then two more,
I would get six checks.
Micky Mantle captivated
the nation,
and Lars Montannaro
is captivating
this town.
All the while
Michael Moore is killing God
and God is killing us.
One must ask oneself,
did God create me,
or did I create God?
Is God within me,
or am I God myself?
Throughout John Carpenter's life
many questions plagued him,
most remained unanswered,
few allowed him to live
and one killed him.
He lies dying,
gasping for air,
with nothing but
Steinbeck and brandy
to bid him farewell.
On a bed without sheets,
in a motel without a kitchen,
in a town without a theater,
in a state without a king,
in a land without hope,
God lays dying.
With nothing but the prayers of
Mary Stein to bid him goodnight,
he prays himself.
Every man is a believer in the foxhole,
just as he is a saint.
Praying and praying,
the fire rallies
around a man,
his emancipated guts
lay spewing blood in the dirt.
Without a clear objective man is nothing.
Nothing is everything,
and everything is unexplainable
just as nothing can be explained.
The Dark sings a song it believes to be beautiful,
and the Light finds it discouraging to it's attempts
of what it believes to be beautiful.
So the Light chases away the Dark
and the Wanderers wonder where it went.
Wandering this world,
they try
and try
and try
to find it.
They are looking in the wrong world.
The man with a gun
runs to the store and back
and back
and back again.
The willows whisper a tune for their god
that the oaks find blasphemous.
The oaks chant louder and louder
so as to please their god.
Life goes on
and life goes on
and life goes on
and then it doesn't.
Then suddenly it begins
in a thousand more forms
and in a thousand more lungs
it breathes.
Life will continue to exalt God
and God will continue allowing life to breathe.
For as long as there is air,
breathes shall be taken.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 12:33 AM UTC
When I close my eyes,
I can picture myself being ****
I wrote down my ideas on my naked body
not the perfect curves, for an outstanding silhouette?
but my body, my canvas,
I created this literary masterpiece:
a little something for you and a little something for me,
I scribble a stanza or two on my chest,
and I watch as my body heat melt the words away
without allowing a poem to be created
My ****** tattoos open up like rose from the poem
Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose one from Gertrude Stein famous line.
Outline my words with admiration,
until my mind accept the connection
My body, my canvas, my visionary centerpiece, my satisfaction,
Like sand through an hour glass,
I have created this body of poetry.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 5:58 PM UTC
Yesterday, a professor
With his tie tied too tight,
Said that Stein has eclipsed
Pound, Eliot, Stevens and Williams
As the greatest poet in the 20th Century
and my head nearly imploded.
Feb 18, 2010
Feb 18, 2010 at 8:42 AM UTC
*It's 7:00 in the morning and the breeze is cold.
I let my feet walk into my little kitchens abode.
To boil some water from my cute little pan,
for my small kettle was broken and no more fun.
Prepping my stein for my early morning grind,
I call it coffbit's (Hobbit's Coffee) time in my old but cozy and lovely shire.
Some like it with sugar, toffee, mocha or milk,
but still I'd prefer it brewed cause it's classic and pretty bare.
Sipping it while sitting in front of my fireplace,
to start my day with full of goodness grace.
Coffbit seems a little bit odd and prime,
but I wouldn't call it a day without my hobbit's time.*
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC