Archival Review

[Angeline]

One thing this thread proves: poets love their coffee! And neonurotic is the king of coffee writing: I count seven poems (just going by title) and two stories posted here on the subject. He's a Cafe au Lait Casanova. (I'm thinking he was Juan Valdez in a past life. )

 

[RhymeFairy]

One thing this thread proves: poets love their coffee! And neonurotic is the king of coffee writing: I count seven poems (just going by title) and two stories posted here on the subject. He's a Cafe au Lait Casanova. (I'm thinking he was Juan Valdez in a past life. )

I soooo agree ~~

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

If the caffeine jitters haven't yet done you in, here's another cup to help you move on this evening.


Coffee Shop
by Irish_Steve©


Here's where it stops.
For a little while
To catch a nicotine breath
To exchange a smile
And to wet ones lips
On chipped mugs
Hiss spit of coffee machine
Warble of radio and the murmur
Of hushed conversation.
Solo acts stare out windows or
Into their tea cup mirrors
First dates wait
Sitting in corners until their
Time's up.

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

One thing this thread proves: poets love their coffee! And neonurotic is the king of coffee writing: I count seven poems (just going by title) and two stories posted here on the subject. He's a Cafe au Lait Casanova. (I'm thinking he was Juan Valdez in a past life. )

Ange ~ So many thanks for that link to yet another coffee poem. However, in recognition of my laziness when confronted by links and footnotes, here's the real thing in all its glory.


Café au lait Casanova
by neonurotic©

Late night, 1 AM, refueling my red-eye writer's insomnia,
with venti vanilla lattés at the corner coffee house.
Sated in caffeine, now cruising for my other fix,
playing it smooth, leaning back with boot heels
rudely, crudely kicked up on the table.
It's all right they know me,
I'm a permanent fixture here,
much like the fake ficus trees,
over sized china mugs,
clichéd café French art—
yes, of course, it's always
Monet's Water Lilies.

Ten minute's shy of a coffee induced sober up for whispering,
giggling ones that pique my ever philandering mind.
Casting a roving eye, I smirk then give them my best
'fuck me' grin, as they are my favorite flavor,
snobby rich girls that have forgotten their
practiced, bored, 'I'm-too-good-for-you looks',
vapid, haute monde attitudes,
flirt and make eyes at me with
primped up, caked on face paint,
wearing slinky designer clothes—
yes, the very best that
daddy's money can buy.

Wantonly wicked smiles elicit me to meander over,
sipping, my now lukewarm java as they size me up,
silently deciding which one's coming home with me.
Maybe the frosted blonde with silicone lips;
or the overly perfumed raven-haired beauty
hiding the stink of an unknowing, fool of a fiancé.
soon enough, the nocturnal nookie is revealed
with wandering hands and an up close rub,
scenting my crotch with her eau de cologne.
Flirting with me is something risqué—
yes, a definite naughty
thrill for her night.

Relaxed lasciviousness has another under my eroto-charm,
back at my place, on her knees; without a single stitch
on her perfectly insipid, plastic surgery body,
where I find she sucks and swallows
expertly, cock sucks me dry;
satisfying that perverted,
horny, satyric lech that breathes,
lives, and incites me,
giving me motivation
for tomorrow's naughty write—
yes, my artful muses are
sex and lattés.​

.
.
.
.

 

[Angeline]

Ange ~ So many thanks for that link to yet another coffee poem. However, in recognition of my laziness when confronted by links and footnotes, here's the real thing in all its glory.

<snip>

And note how he made the strophes look like coffee cups. He's a sick, sick man.

 

[Guest]

..........

 

[Angeline]

But of course they are coffee cups!

Yes, I just wanted you to know I got the full effect of the poem.

And what's with that eyepatch? Are you a pirate poet? A poet pirate?

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Yes, I just wanted you to know I got the full effect of the poem.

And what's with that eyepatch? Are you a pirate poet? A poet pirate?

Whatever he is, he's a bit unstable. I've seen him prone and even on his head, eye patch and hair immaculate.


Hmmmm..........pirate poetry..................

 

[Guest]

.........

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Okay people, how about some alliteration and let's just chill.....


Cold Comfort
by tungtied2u©


Storm stalled mind
numb, chill
blizzard blind
no tip of nose
eyelash end

Frenzied flurry flash
dizzy, dancing
detours thought
crystal ice
distortion

Blanket biting sting
avalanche isolation
enforced torpor
flaked out
and under

Cloud white cocoon
catacomb quiet
cold comfort
quilts
consciousness

Awareness’ opposite
icicle suspension
imagination
drip drip
dripping

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Here's a little piece from the Winter that refuses to die with that imagery of footsteps lost in the crowd, almost like being stalked by yourself.


Cold Footsteps
by Goldie Munro©


Cold Footsteps

The cold wind whirls around me,
Hood up, head down, I concentrate on
The footsteps I must take. The snow
Is falling softly. The path I walk on is white
And black. Footprints have crushed
The virgin snow into dark exotic patterns.
The patterns of people.

Large, long strided steps have trod here,
Leaving their Doc Martin imprints; they look purposeful,
Penetrating the snow into deep crevices.
Small steps have walked here too. Their impact
Gentler, almost not there, but bold. No pattern to them but the outline.
The difference is stark, bald, shocking.
I see these people walking
In the opposite direction to me.

My footprints are behind me. I know
That I too will leave my imprint in the snow
For all to see. At the end of the path I look back,
Trying to get a glimpse of my tracks and

My footsteps are there but I do not recognise or understand them;
They are conjoined with the patterns of others
And the still, soft falling snow.
But I go on,
My cold footsteps following.

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Here's a poem not so much cold as overwhelmingly sad. Each time I read it I felt the sadness being brought into greater stark relief. Try it a few times yourself and see how it feels.


Cold Hands
by Angeline©


An hour here, an hour
there. The pennies ebb
like tides, but someone pays
or no one rides for free.
It doesn't matter anymore,
this pride of win or place
is all a show, all the depth
of void if you ask me.

Feel free,
I'm not annoyed.

No more of that. I'm only tired
of the silent spaces whispered
in between the beat of busy days
when I remember laughing years
and masks of smiles that covered
tears for what we knew was real,
but gave no voice.

So fine, I made my choice,
and I know yours. You'd
watch me fall, you
wouldn't lift me up.

It's comfortable in your big house.
My jewels tarnish in your account.
What did 30 years amount to anyway?

The other best friend cleans the rooms
while you assume that all is right:
your sins dance on a pinpoint,
mine fill hell.

I wonder if you ever feel
the winter swell inside
your busy, empty palms.

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

With this long season finally coming to a close, I can still feel its presence through these words. Multiple reads and the imagery just grows more pronounced.


Cold Nights
by smithpeter©


On this cold night, no anything
Just the flow of wonder,
What is flowing outside
No matter
Wonder is not anything

Zero wonder is the same
As wonder twenty fold
It unfolds in quiet,
No matter
Again closes, opens again

Not noticed it skirts
Flirts, trims and envelops
To the elbows of the aware
And unaware
No matter, no substance
In matter

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

The innocent implication, from the title and its familiar usage, is of the difficulties in quitting smoking. I've always found that it wasn't the nicotine so much as the oral stimulation that smoking brought. Consider all who quit and immediately gain weight. Why not get your spouse {or boy/girlfriend} to provide you with a no-cal substitute oral stimulant. Sure'd make quitting more interesting.


Cold Turkey
by Belegon©


every breath seems ragged,
dragged into my body,
my throat constricts
to block the pain of living from my lungs...

vision a constant blur,
faces inconsistent,
colors run together,
as I try to stare through unshed tears…

words trip and fall,
diving to the floor,
half-completed thoughts,
and silence punctuated with a sigh…

the momentary struggles,
forcing each heartbeat,
aware of the involuntary,
of the agony of rushing blood…

until the second passes,
I look away,
gather my strength,
and manage another breath.

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Here we go ~ a piece of erotica that's better than the average fare usually attempted {and I do mean attempted} here at Lit. Come to think of it, given the choice between this and breakfast, I'll skip the meal.


No Time for Breakfast
by daughter ©

bones squared, firmly pressed,
arched hips give,
sweat, feel.
upturned palms reach,
stretch, seek
destiny no concern.
heat filled walls swelter,
swollen womb heaves,
sweet breath mixes,
hushed sighs coo.
lyrics float,
wordless notes permeate
sleepy night's light blue hue.
covered heads blanket bound
reel, swirl and buck.
palms tightly grip,
release then grip.
mounting frenzy, panic,
cruel ticking minutes
racing.
spine arches, screams escape,
incoherent thoughts rush,
fumble
grab
panties warm
sticky fit.
morning's wake-up call,
bliss.

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

A cold body is easily warmed but a cold soul? That takes some serious help.


Coldness Within
by joeys-game©


The cold comes
from within, inside ,
that part of our oneness
that manifests our fears.
Fear for ourselves, fear for
one another.

It is not a coldness
that can be warmed
by the rays of the sun
or by the scalding water
of a hot shower.

Only the removal
of that fear, the comfort
of having your mind
at ease, your senses strong
and unafraid that can
warm your frozen body.


j.b

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

This is a most unusual poem. As you read it, it feels as though Ange is speaking directly to your mind and it becomes not just a poem, but a poem in which you are featured. Read it more than once and revel in its feel.


Collectively
by Angeline©


Elliot called it "The Collective I,"
meaning you understand that if I
say "rosebush by the garden fence,"

you feel mulch under your shoes.
A thorny stem inclines toward you,
and the sun, which casts slats of shadow

onto the lawn, is warm on your cheek
even as you know you're reading my poem
because you're cerebral. Being human,

you have higher-order thinking skills,
so if I say it's the beginning of summer,
it rained last night and this morning

the grass is damp, if I say a few drops
have slipped from oak leaves to your hair,
aren't you there? Morning feels fresh,

you shake your head "Yes," and another
drop falls from you to one rose petal
just starting to bloom, It's still my poem,

but aren't you there? Faintly glowing
with the blush of some memory close
enough to mine to be your hair, your oak,

your rose? You can bend to touch it
if you want. It's our experience now,
even if it never happened anywhere

but here. It's a poem, but listen
in whatever part of your imagination
links my words to your heart. Hear

the screen door slam? Look up. Your father
is smiling at you and the garden and morning.
When he lifts you up and sings your name,

you will still be reading this poem,
but you will have become a moment
in my life, and I will know yours.

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Reminds me of Boo's poem, an eye blink love. Go ahead and compare the two.


color mirrored on your eyes
by cerulean_ink©


Light strikes your eyes;
I see our future,
white picket fences and
dogs that get
the paper
in the morning.

Light from our eyes;
We see their future,
first day of school and
reading books
until early
in the morning.

Light from their eyes;
They see their future,
high school romances and
parties that
last till four
in the morning.

Light from our eyes;
We see the past,
childhood milestones and
memories that
make me cry
in the morning.

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Brief as it is in these cold north woods, it'll soon be time to live warm summer dreams, once we get through this teaser of a spring.


Color My Beach
by sandspike©


high tide low tide
my butt outside
under an umbrella
reflecting a rainbow

my pot of gold filled with ice
chilling the amber and green
longneck queens opened and enjoyed
with great anticipation
and loads of appreciation...

for kaleidoscope golden girls
highlighting a brilliant day

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Here's a love poem that's not quite what you'd have expected.


Color of Language
by she_is_my_addiction©


every word wants to
pour forth like a revelation,
exultation of your soul.
but this pen,
this paper
knows me like i
know the back of your hand,
and i can't control
the cliches that drip from
my fingertips
onto this projected page.
if my skin was darker,
if my complexion held
the secrets of
complexity,
i might be a better woman
in those mochahazelbluegreen
eyes of yours,
more worthy to receive
the gift of...the gift of
your language

.
.
.
.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Communing with the universe through a passionate dance as nature looks on in wonder. Feel the rhythm of the beach driving the dance to higher levels of passion while the beat never ebbs.


Communion at Goat Rock Beach
by Syndra Lynn©


I stood
at the verge, arms lifted
in invocation.
Waves rocked the beach, jolting
esoteric memories,
spun deep
inside my nucleotides

I danced
a benediction,
shrouded
in late winter fog.
The only sound
was percussion
of shoreline and heart.

Out beyond the breakers,
a sea lion keenly watched.
He marveled at my movement,
remembered my archaic thoughts.
I honored his majesty
with flowing oblation.

I danced
pouring over shores
of primordial seas,
where we were one,
and life was young
lost in memories not my own,
traversing cosmos, time,
ancestral blood.

Spinning dunes in and out
of spirals, crossing shifting lines
of foam and brine,
impressions in the sand
and mind
pulsing rhythm,
heartbeat surf

I danced
into ebbing waves
of breathlessness,
pulse racing,
thoughts retracing
ancient paths.
The shining lion slipped
beneath the sea,
as an ancient cosmic thread
unwound.

I spun
down
reconciled,
the universe having danced
its prayer through me.

.
.
.
.

 

[Angeline]

.
.
.

Communing with the universe through a passionate dance as nature looks on in wonder. Feel the rhythm of the beach driving the dance to higher levels of passion while the beat never ebbs.


Communion at Goat Rock Beach
by Syndra Lynn©

One of my favorite poems by Syndra and here at Lit, actually. Thanks for drawing my attention to it again.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Ange, glad to see you like Syndra's beach poem; should have her wine poem up in a couple days. Now here's a little poem about creativity's rebelliousness. It's one of those poems that's got it right — it's tight in its wording and I found I would have liked it to keep going.


Coloring as Fast as I Can
by sandspike©


I have trouble.....
......staying in the lines.
The grass ain't always green,
and that ain't Dick and Jane.

What color is love?
Hate really a darker shade?
A whole box of emotions,
Crayola never made.

I have palettes plenty
my canvas where I've been.
Don't paint me in a corner
that's where the lines begin.

.
.
.
.

 

[RhymeFairy]

.
.
.

This is a most unusual poem. As you read it, it feels as though Ange is speaking directly to your mind and it becomes not just a poem, but a poem in which you are featured. Read it more than once and revel in its feel.


Collectively
by Angeline©


Elliot called it "The Collective I,"
meaning you understand that if I
say "rosebush by the garden fence,"

you feel mulch under your shoes.
A thorny stem inclines toward you,
and the sun, which casts slats of shadow

onto the lawn, is warm on your cheek
even as you know you're reading my poem
because you're cerebral. Being human,

you have higher-order thinking skills,
so if I say it's the beginning of summer,
it rained last night and this morning

the grass is damp, if I say a few drops
have slipped from oak leaves to your hair,
aren't you there? Morning feels fresh,

you shake your head "Yes," and another
drop falls from you to one rose petal
just starting to bloom, It's still my poem,

but aren't you there? Faintly glowing
with the blush of some memory close
enough to mine to be your hair, your oak,

your rose? You can bend to touch it
if you want. It's our experience now,
even if it never happened anywhere

but here. It's a poem, but listen
in whatever part of your imagination
links my words to your heart. Hear

the screen door slam? Look up. Your father
is smiling at you and the garden and morning.
When he lifts you up and sings your name,

you will still be reading this poem,
but you will have become a moment
in my life, and I will know yours.

.
.
.
.

I agree with you on this one Leon. This poem speaks, paints and draws us into the rose garden with papa, daughter and all the lovely dew drops awaiting the fall. I'm putting this one on my Fav's list, most def. a keeper ~!!

Beautifully written Ange .... did I ever telll ya I wanna be you when I grow up?

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Here's another way of saying, "You complete me." Now all you need do is find that missing part of you.


Come To Me
by irishcatsmeow©


COME TO ME



I search for you with longing,

Unrecognizable by sight, but not to my soul.

Wanting you to appear before me instantly,

So this endless waiting is over soon.



My heart will know your essence,

My soul will recognize your being,

My mind will read your thoughts,

And my body will feel your chemistry.



How will you come to me?

Will it be through a friend?

Will it be unexpectedly, as a bump in the night?

Or will it be a methodical process of discovery?





How you come to me is not important.

Just get here as quickly as you can.

As my soul, heart and body yearn for your presence;

To know you, discover you, to explore you totally.



I know our time will come one day,

Though I do not know when or even who you will be.

I am preparing for you, as I wait.

Becoming the piece of the puzzle you are missing.


.
.
.
.