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Caramel Macchiato

There is longing arising in my throat
Like a song floating on a flat-bottomed boat
Curving along the canals of Vienna

Princess Xanat, reclines like white orchids
In her lover’s sweet embrace,
melting away in velvet darkness

To the reddish gold and caramel
Overtones of sunrise and sunset
Love lift our cups to be filled

We share in the dark vigor of coffee
Cherries pressed against lips
Somewhere in Asia, Africa, Arabia careful

Hands choose the espresso that marks
More than the barren lands
Where love buried her treasure

And bid it grow, climb like a vine
Towards the heavenly sky
Where mortals become fine

My tongue with pleasure
In rivulet steams
With molten gold, I become the bee

Mesmerized by the purple tones of
The jacaranda flower
Flowing inside her.

The basket weave of caramel
Is full of promise
my thirsting lips

open with desire.

© Anushka Anastasia Solomon originally from Malaysia, is a certified barista and Evergreen poet. She is author of “Please, God, Don’t Let Me Write Like A Woman,” Finishing Line Press,2007. Website:http://www.atthewindow.us/

---

The Call of 1530

(*written for the purpose of calling people out for a habitual coffee break at 3:30pm - at the national institute of computer science in france*)

Wafting in the air
the draw of caffeine
calling out from your vein

eyelids are heavy
brains are saturated
segmentation faults accumulated

Allez allez!!
Leave that desk
tear yourselves away
no matter how you weigh
get off that posterior
and trace the caffenated way

we await you
fellow believers
in the way of the coffee
to answer the call of fifteen thirty

-- Denny Oetomo

21st Century Rodin

The upper right-hand
corner of my desk blotter;
a fresh, stark canvas
this morning, now a sepia
montage of concentric
accomplishments.
I sip,
I Think.
I sip,
I think.
I sip…
I think.
Sip.
Think.
Sip.
Think.
Sip
Big sip
sip sip sip
sip sip sippppp.
Ahhhhhhh.
Final sip, cup down.
A caffeine-laced
still life of a Slinky.
Boy-oh-boy-oh-boy-oh-man
was-I-ever productive
today!

-Mark L. Lucker

Stopped for a cup in the French Quarter

The ceiling fan above me twirls languidly, dangling…
swaying from the embossed tin ceiling from a century ago
loping shadows cut the muted fluorescence from twelve feet

The resulting flickering makes the scene into a silent movie
piped-in, ancient, scratchy, re-mastered piano jazz heightens
the noirish ease of an afternoon latte, a cloudy, dreary
day in the old part of the old town; caffeinated history
real and imagined, sip after black and white sip

Rain begins to pelt the arching, aching windows as I reach the
bottom of my cup and a dreamer, coffee drinker’s dilemma;
sit for another cup, watching the time and life brew, or
head on out into the rain with a self-promise to return

Unlike the movies, such an answer is not black and white,
simply a compromised black; a cup of French Roast – to go.
And go I do, stepping onto the cobblestoned street, right hand
warmed by the cup, left hand in my pocket, rain dribbling off
the flattened out brim of my hat, I take a steamy sip, and smile.

- Mark Lucker

(Mark is a writer, employment counsleor and coffee junkie!)

Bean Peace
A poem by Drew K.

A mystery wrapped in brown,
A fragile enigma,
Enveloping the senses,
With the earthy steam
Of a bean.

The mind wrapped in warmth,
The essence of dark roast,
Heating from within,
The senses thrill,
With every lingering
Sniff of the aroma
In the mug

IRISH COFFEE
By Allen L. Johnson -
My caffeinated riff on a favorite poem:
"William Butler Yeat's Lake Isle of Innisfree"

I will arise and go now, to sip my morning coffee
And read the morning paper--sports, politics, and trade.
Nine flavors will they blend me there, of roasted araby,
Ground finely by the bean-loud blade.

I might take some tea later, when tea comes dripping slow,
Dripping Jasimine, mint, ginseng, from silver rings.
The afternoons are quiet there, sometimes even slow,
And evenings people study things.

I will arise and go now, and start my busy day,
But after hitting Starbucks, not before,
And while I'm stuck in traffic, out on the pavement grey,
I'll savor the last drops and yearn for more.

(C) 1998 by Allen L. Johnson, Portland, Oregon

HONK-HONK
By Galeigh
Read other poems by Galeigh at Allpoetry.com

WHAT THE HELL YA HONKIN AT?
ARE YOU TRYIN TO WAKE ME UP?
“ CAN’T YOU SEE I’M DRINKIN COFFEE
FROM MY STARBUCK’S COFFEE CUP?”

I GOT SOMETHIN ELSE THAT’S IN MY LAP..
(OF WHICH YOU’D BE AMAZED)
“ A FREE GIFT I GOT WITH A COUPON”
A DONUT, (THAT’S ALL CHOCOLATE GLAZED)

IN MY REAR VIEW MIRROR I SEE YOU-
SHAKIN YOUR HEAD, AND MAKING A FIST-
HEY! DON’T GIVE ME THOSE HAND GESTURES
“ I DONT CARE HOW YOU INSIST”

THE LIGHT JUST TURNED GREEN-
( IT’S BEEN A SECOND OR SO)
“ KEEP HONKIN THAT HORN” “I AIN’T GONNA GO”
“ TIL I’M DARN GOOD AND READY”
“ SO JUST LET ER BLOW!”

I HOPE YOU UNDERSTAND
SIGN LANGUAGE, OF THE HAND
“ THEN YOU CAN SEE, WHAT I’M GOING TO SAY”

WHOOPS!! “I HIT MY LEFT TURN”
NOW (YOU’RE STARTIN TO BURN)
GEE... “I BET THAT MADE YOUR DAY!”

SO WHEN YOU GET BEHIND-- (A CAFFEINE DRIVEN MIND)
WHO’S TRYING TO START THEIR DAY RIGHT
“ DON’T GIVE ME THE TOOT” (“YOU ORNERY OLD COOT”)
(I DRINK COFFEE) “ALL DAY AND ALL NIGHT”

BYE BYE - BEEP BEEP

she knows
by Karen Suriano

her hands
cool silk
cupping his warmest thoughts
in their deepest recesses.
gone now
by decades,
but those cool hands
part time
sink inside
the folds of his mind.
a silver spoon
stirring the moon
into his coffee,
lifting velvet kisses
to his lips.

she knows
he thinks of her
even now.
wraps her
cool silk hands
around a
warm china cup,
purses velvet lips
gently blows
steam from her coffee.
she smiles as
vaporous lovers
swirl and dance.
she knows
and drinks him in.

Copyright © 2006 Karen Suriano

The Need (Haiku)
by Karen Suriano

desperate people
comprise lengthy lines, not for
food. their need: starbucks

Coffee, My Old Friend
By Karie Lesly
An aroma that fills the room with warmth brewing gently, steady and
calm.
Two friends together in stolen moments sharing soul, heart, life.
Weaving through the years
like a fine delicate lace.
The design unravels details,
simplicity, sometimes flaws.
And even still, meshing together
bonded by each cup.
The tenderness of solitude
occassionally with a good book.
As I take the first sip
of the first cup
I realize again that I am blessed.
To share this cup with such a friend,
sometimes it being only me.
So much more than flavor, roast or blend...
A way of life.

Wishing You Were Here . . .
by Karen Suriano

Last night was wonderful making love to you
My fingers instinctively knew just what to do
If I could play piano like my hands played you
I’d be a hit anywhere, in any venue
Absolutely fabulous making love to you
Maybe next time you could be there too
But alone with the sunrise, I'll fire up the brew
God knows I need my coffee more than I need you

11/3/05
Copyright © 2005 Karen Suriano

Realignment
by Karen Suriano

the spying eyes of sunrise find
me stumbling bumbling to the kitchen blind
coherent thought is undermined
sleep slugs, grey matter intertwined
lurch on undaunted, the freezer is mined
of roasted nirvana for electric grind
scoop and measure the unrefined
then water, heat and bean combined
hiss and gurgleshout most unkind
but aroma kisses with peace of mind
before first sip, much was maligned
but after, my outlook is realigned

11/08/2005
Copyright © 2005 Karen Suriano

I taste on my lips, in the soft pink caverns
of my mouth, the black essence of Ethiopia.
Daily, even our sun kissed heads evaporate
down south. I see each morning bring
like a cup to my lips, the lessons, Abbaba.
between each sip, each burst of taste, my
eyes take in the beauty of the vast places
where God in His innocence began to grow

the devil’s fruit. Now like women, a commodity,
second only to oil. Then the Arabs guard their
coffee, like their oil and our women, jealously
but these dark lips escape the portentous hands
of the Devil; shrug carelessly off ,the skin, touching
even the lips of Pope Vincent 111 with God’s
Innocence. In the resonance of our fervently uttered
Prayers, even infidels are taken into our hearts.

I taste on my lips, in the soft pink caverns
of my mouth, the black essence of Ethiopia.
Ababba, even as you brew in a kitchen in America
the perfect cup of coffee, using the silk of your hair
I know that there is in you none of the bitterness
That comes from over brewing the issues.
Honest madam, you have much in common with
the German house frau, Mellita Bentz, when you

Labor on the free, foreign soil of America, I think
Of you- as I sit in Starbucks, sipping my mocha.
Like Omar, I know that my own survival shall
Come to pass as a sign for the multitude- and I raise
the cup to my lips as my eyes take in the beauty
of the vast places where God in His innocence began
to grow the Devil’s Fruit. Now I know the lock of
our lips can be bitter or sweet, I have chosen to live.

©2005 Anushka Anastasia Solomon.
Anushka Anastasia Solomon is a Colorado poet, and coffee lover, originally from Malaysia. Her other work can be viewed at www.atthewindow.us.

Java Dreams - By Karen Suriano

Morning Specter
By Jari Thymian

These coffee beans,
crushed to small flecks,

forgot their former shape and texture,
but rise at daybreak to the glass observatory

seeing flashes of light
in geysers of hot water,

percolating, rising lively,
saying, "Wait, wait," wanting

to float in the spectrum,
stretch the wavelengths

before sinking, pulled by undertows,
to the filter for rejuvenation,

where color and character
sweep through porous membrane,

flavoring the warm ocean,
where they willingly surrender
to new vessels.

This poem previously appeared in Buckle & magazine. Jari Thymian’s poetry has appeared in Open Windows 2005, Buckle &, The Christian Science Monitor, Ekphrasis, Wild Plum, The Pedestal Magazine, and in various anthologies. Poems are forthcoming in The Progenitor and Poetry Motel. She is a life coach and teacher in Aurora, CO.

Black coffee
Bitter, rich, warm.
The dark liquid reflects you
to me.

-- Christy Boggs © 2003 - "So much of my interaction with dear friends takes place in a coffee shop over a cup o' joe...so I wrote this."

"In Café Veritas"
By S.D.Charlton
About coffee, without which much writing would not exist, and craving.
This poem is housed at writing.com, so this link will take you offsite. Comments and critiques are welcomed by the author. Linked here by permission.

APPROACH AT OWN RISK
By Ted Helt Jr.

A cup of coffee to start the day,
More civil and reserved.
A cup of coffee to face the race,
My sanity preserved.
My day begins quite early,
Much earlier than most.
Without my morning coffee,
I’d not make it to my post.
If you should chance upon me,
Before I’ve had my brew.
Don’t be alarmed if I should bite,
Upon your backside chew.
Tread softly should there be no Joe,
For my A.M. caffeine Fix.
I rely on it to calm my nerves,
And make me fit to mix.
You wouldn’t invade a Grizzly’s lair,
A wide berth he’d gain, from fear.
So please show me the same regard,
Until the coffee cart’s been here.

Ode to the pot which holds the coffee
my friend of friends
when no one else will bend

no matter the flavor
gourmet or store brand
I pay my respects

ever keeping my pace
drink up
and share the strange prose
coming from too often too much
caffienated slurp of clarity

the great black warrior
defending drooping eyes

By M.G.

COFFEE POETRY - PAGE TWO

Coffee Poetry Index:

Coffee Poetry
Various Authors

Discordant Symphony
By Michael Dunn

8 Minutes
By Karen Suriano

Java Dreams
By Karen Suriano

Coffee Anybody?
By Julian Bravo

My Demon in the Steamer
By Karen Suriano

cabernet, coffee grounds and the in between
By Karen Suriano

Kevin Zepper's Works