Thursday, October 25, 2018

Coffa Cuppee

            People reading the four coffee-themed poems below might think they are dealing with an addict. They would be right. But just because I’m an addict does not mean that I have a problem.

            These poems are about ten years old. Kim was making an artistic book about coffee while I was a Starbucks barista, and she needed some verbal content to go with all that she was doing visually. (There’s only one copy of the book, so I can’t share it with you here.)

            As I read these over now, fueled by coffee for the unpacking part of our move, I notice that I have plagiarized from myself a couple of times. So, what?

Coffa Cuppee

When I drink my coffa cuppee
sleep awakens, down is uppee.

Cowboy coffee leaves some grit
to tongue long after drinking it.

Irish coffee – there’s a drink
to liberate creative think.

Even de-caf when the doc
wants to slow my tick and tock.

Zapped, identified as “pseudu,”
still works arabica voodoo.

Black, espresso, cappuccino,
drip or percolated – we know

Coffa cuppee – make it two!
Down is uppee – magic brew!

Coffee Breaks

Sometimes java jazz
makes synapses crackle
and brain cells dance
until I can do anything

and everything    pages
flash through my brain
love is quick and stylish
or young and languid

your hair the brown
of fresh coffee the way
god made it    warm
fragrant     bittersweet

Sometimes we share
Sumatra in silence
or idle chatter across
the expanse of our table

and it’s here we are
again you and me
and the coffee in jadeite
or white ceramic    the two

of us plus birds beyond
the window     words
about our families     these
and the shared flavor

And sometimes it’s Starbucks
or Sweetwaters     a pause
on our errands to infuse
ambiance and a mug

surrounded by earthy
colors and artwork
inviting us to linger
where a guy leans over

his laptop or two young women
shake their heads at the folly
and this middle-aged couple
shares coffee and their day

Relax Attacks

Havva cuppa     tall or grande
cappuccino     latte    hand me
coffee     black or room for cow
couldn’t really care less how
mug or to-go     demi-    maxi-
caf or de-     relax attacks me
off the lid to waft aroma
synapses crackle     I’m at home a-
way from any where I sip
or gulp or idly get a grip
by car     or sofa    buzzing fast
or slow     prolong my coffee blast
where black is brown and white is tan
baristas percolate élan
I roast my beans     French or Italian
then dance Sumatran     Guatamalan
Kona     Java    Costa Rica
jungle jingles     magnifique
espresso single double cap
fuels this caffeinated rap

House Blend

We pause, a middle-aged
couple, to share coffee
and perhaps a mid-
afternoon treat.
emerge from your art
room, I from my study,
and we re-heat what’s
left from the morning
          We face eath other.
We read the mail. Talk
about kids and grandkids.
Sip. Plan tomorrow.
rinse our cups and return
to whatever we were doing.

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