Unconventional Breakfast Rituals (American Norms)
Coffee
that's just so freshly
brewed—
none other than
by
yourself,
once you stood up—
self-driven
American
morns—or
silver afternoons,
a nice mug for it..
(or some type of vessel)
accompanied by one's favorite 90s
music lineup & something for
the ears,
(like determining unduly cast away earworms)
during
the last week of September
and for the months after—
..could be an enjoyable sip
(farther, once more, in our roundabouts)
—could be a nice start
Coffee Lullaby
A tea drinker always. A proud tea drinker. I’m not a coffee drinker. Never understood it. It hurt my stomach to drink. It fouled my mouth. It just doesn’t taste good. Burnt and acidic. Just not my cup of tea. Until…Larry’s French Frenchy pour over made for me in a small apartment kitchen by a man that carried his coffee making equipment 4000 then another 3000 miles from the West Coast to Italy to China to finally little ole Raleigh, NC. And said, “This Larry’s Frenchy French is by far the best coffee I’ve had. You have to try it.”
“But, I don’t drink coffee.”
“Just try a sip.”
Just a sip. I drank the whole cup. He had to make more.
I so understand it now. My cup of tea still warms me in the morning, still sooths me at night, but a cup of coffee brightens the day. Ends an evening with chocolate. Conjoins a couple at brunch. It wakes me up, almost too much that I curse it at 4 am when I can’t sleep. But does that stop me from drinking it? No. Its my excuse to stop at that apartment. Its my reason to shop the fancy kitchen stores, to search for the perfect carafe, the perfect pour over and maybe a French press, for the shelf appeal.
A sip of coffee is so grown up, a mature taste like wine, or a cigar and bourbon, which I have tried. Bourbon can substitute for dessert, I’m that grown up. With a cup of coffee, of course.
So, now I have ventured into learning to make it right. A consistent measuring devise for both the coffee and the water has been my learning curve. An ancient Tupperware 1 tablespoon measuring spoon, separated over time from its fellow spoons, has beaten all the coffee scoops lauded by Amazon. A consistent swipe of the grounds after a shake back into the spoon produces the right amount for the grounds. And a gooseneck pitcher, and the right temperature. Never boiled, just up to boil. I do 195 on my electric kettle then pour the water into the pitcher then pour over the grounds and between all that, the temperature seems to work. Seems to work. I have yet to decide though on the method of the pour. Drown it or go around the perimeter, pour just in the center or chase around the coffee ground islands in the middle of your coffee filter world? This is where I continue my work on the making of a consistently good cup of coffee.
Apartment man says, “Pour it so it comes to you.”
Huh? I think I need a demonstration.
And another cup of coffee.
Nothing like that fresh brewed smell
of coffee in the morning
I suppose that you can tell
it's also very warming
Frost lies on my windowsill
From winter's frozen rain
Makes waking up now just too hard
And looking out a pain
Because inside is nice and warm
With coffee or coco
Perhaps I'll just go back to sleep
And dream about the snow.
A smell in mind
Coffee was an important part of my teacher’s day. No matter where you went, you could always see a big coffee mug with her name on it, quite literally. Be it a warm day, rainy day, a cold day or any day at all, you could always count on going to class and getting hit with the scent of coffee wafting through the room. She’d be late to classes sometimes, getting her coffee first. There needn’t be any sugar or creamer, all it took was a mug and coffee time was on. When life was tough, coffee was the one thing that kept her holding on to dear life. Through the various trips, the school visits, our concert trips to Austin and Mexico City, the coffee was there. A single coffee and breakfast was the reason why we missed our flight the first time. Even when we were at the airport, we had to had coffee. It was like a religion, drinking coffee every day. Starbucks, Dunkin’ Donuts, Krispy Kreme, Cinnabon, the brand wasn’t important, even if it was too big of a pay. A thing that made her happy was when people brought her coffee. It would instantly brighten up her day, even if they got the complete order wrong. “Coffee is coffee and my day isn’t complete without coffee,” she would say every day. Be warned, though, that the day she hadn’t had coffee, she could either love you or kill you. How can I forget about that mug in the front of the classroom, standing on a desk where she had been sitting, steaming the whole class, filling up the room with a small that will be unmistakable to me until the day I’m gone? On particularly cold days, she’d even bring a refill or send one of us to get it. The more I think about it, the less I can imagine her without a coffee mug or without drinking coffee for a full day. She used to joke about it being the center of her life, the defining factor in the day. Forget clothes, when her birthday was around, all of her students would be looking for crazy colorful mugs! How can I enter a coffee shop and not think about the strong coffee smell that had so long ago permeated my mind? Alas, I cannot drink a cup of coffee without thinking about how much she’d love to have the same type of coffee too!
put a pot on & wait
smell the variation of a dream people scream
a thought by which to ponder
a heavenly call up a yonder
let's talk about the days we used to share
thoughts of desire when we used to care
put a little Cremora in my cup
days we were lost in a purple haze
today we are just mice stuck in a maze
look outside at the trees & feel the breeze
this should knock you to your knees
we are all busy as a bee
Coffee can fill your heart with glee
a boyfriend with his girl hoping that she would marry thee
love is the essence of our meager existence
take me away to a land of make believe
Savor each taste filled with sullen brevity
this can set you free
the notion of a sip can lighten your wit
to treasure a red rose that was plucked a time before
Snap shot memories of your past
having so much fun with a hope that it would last
memories can set you free
"This is it,
the last time.
Not my last time,
for there will be many more,
but before I go,
take a second.
Or two.
As though leaving a humble abode
for the last time.
Or realistically,
one to be proud of,
one no need for humility.
A tendency to be crass,
the one-stop coffeeshop
that was the first building
foot stepped in,
the exact final destination
of a journey
across from
one Ocean to the next.
First impressions,
wild differences between
vernacular and tone,
'shaka brah',
and an immediate inquiry
as to where the hell
I come from.
Brash,
but immediately warm
the very first contact
turned out to be,
only to observe
more than a year of stumbles,
pieces scribbled,
baristas in and out,
one to be a brother
calling this location
headquarters,
locomotives blaring by
in a flash of red
everyday.
Bicentennial
the count not of years,
but of poetic conveyance,
written in the soft glow
of this shop,
this shop the subject
times so often giving
detail to who,
what, where,
and how that one girl,
that one time,
smelt as she walked by.
Edited,
the time spent
since the Spring,
but some things never change,
and that's how at home
I feel in this booth.
Bottoms up,
here's to you,
one last brew,
one last time.
No more lines
to be written
here,
skate to the next place,
though it won't be the same."
"The coffee shop,
where in the middle of the block,
it had started;
where they met.
Their headquarters,
where they rested
over iced drinks
after a long skate.
Old friends,
young men,
two, not the same blood
or kin
shake hands
and embrace the others grin,
a tight squeeze
given to each.
Brothers,
such a tight bond
with so little time,
sealed the deal
of interlocking
storylines,
adventures and shared
scrapes.
Escaping near death,
falling off boards onto wrists,
downhill descent
screaming past parked cars,
wherein that itself
is a rare occurance
when once was daily.
Temperature varied,
as did the places they'd
hunker down,
sweating,
stopping to have a drink.
Seperated by little,
attached at the hip,
it seemed. Until
life happened,
having sent the older
away for summmer,
the younger away for the rest,
testing himself and his brain.
Drumming away,
marching on by,
the two had lives
blur on by,
spiraling in different directions,
story arcs and sidequests,
conquests coloring the night,
but by and by,
when guest apperances
would transpire,
everything dropped
to meet one another,
the bond was made stronger
with the short time
it had to cure.
Not to say
neither were lost,
but both stepped in confidence.
Always looking ahead,
but once they were together,
unspoken,
to each love was gave.
Brotherly love,
concrete waves."
"A visit at my table,
a very welcome visitor,
has a cup of coffee
set down,
but not before
the friend has seated herself
does the surface
of the brew spill over,
splashing quietly
as as she bumps the table with her knee.
Such a detail,
the dark, dark liquid
spread across the light brown
wood of where I write,
threatening to soil
the art being drawn.
The spillings
of the latest happenings,
the earnest devouring
of each others stories
lead to reading,
of depicting the next best thing
in lives still be finished,
download in progress.
A spiral
from one image to the next
from the warm-lit coffee shop
to digital acquisition.
Like this poem,
the conversation goes,
topics spiraling.
Not out of control,
but wildly different
in varient,
from the new job
made of dreams
to the steaming progress
of artwork creativity.
Reading,
the visitor stirring
with silent smiles
and sparkling eyes,
asking how and why
my poetry winds
into art so quickly,
but my answer is clumsy,
the failing of conveying
a real reason
for words written.
Awkward in handling it,
and unable still
to write out the soul
in one sentence,
stanza,
poem,
book, even.
So let's write three,
I tell her,
and glee is sounded,
rounding back to her departure,
bumping coffee again.
But it's wiped away,
no evidence
of the one who sat across.
Nothing lost.
Meaning, rather.
No theme,
but a underlying feeling."