Coffee

Frost

Folder: 
Just For Fun

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.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Yes, it's early, but I was thinking of frost and it popped into my mind in a flash. 

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A smell in mind

 
   

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!

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This short prose poem talks about my teacher and the memories I have of her and her coffee.

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Coffee Talk

Coffee Talk

you don't have to say you love me...
as a bug snuggled in a rug,
aroma...basking in the aroma
a time well spent in thought

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

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tags:

Brash

Folder: 
Personal

"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."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Home, closed down... I'll be wandering around town on a longboard for awhile. Two books written here at Brash Coffee, the local coffee shop I walked in the first hour of being in Chattanooga.

 

Cheers, Brash.

Headquarters

Folder: 
Personal

"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."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Always good to see an old friend you rarely talk to, but as soon as you're together you're as close as ever.

Clumsy

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts

"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." 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

When someone gets more excited about you're work than you do, you should:

- keep writing

- get more excited about your own writing

- question why you're not already.

 

Don't be scared to be hyped about your own art!

Passionate Soul

On a hot sunny day,

Sipping a Starbucks drink;

You have clouded my mind

With thoughts I have yet to consider.

 

On a cold winter night,

Warming up in front of the fireplace,

Your silhouette shines beneath the moon

Wondering how time flies so quick.

 

There are times when we feel lonely,

Emptiness seep through the veins.

A black canvass is all we need

To gain color in our lives.



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In a coffee at 2 a.m

In a coffee,

At 2 a.m.
One coffee it's not enough to drown the pain.
So she asks two.
She was never into drinking alcohol,
And it was not a simple rejection that was going to make her stop following her own values.
But that was not a simple rejection.
And she wasn't in a coffee at 2 a.m by coincidence.
She wanted to take away that pain in her heart.
But it seemed,
That not even two coffees can treat a broken heart with a mixture of tears.
Not even being in a establishment that supposedly should be closed at 2 a.m.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

English version 

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I lived and smelled the.....

Crack…..

Branch breaks on the tree

As the cold wind howls

Takes me back

Where no bird song was heard

No need to dive down….

This time..

Feet wet but warm

No brown peat water

Dissolving my toes

Unlike….

My young feet back then

When youthfulness protected

To the summit I walk

Leisurely stroll

Through Wordsworths beauty

At the top I sit……

Reflect of a time long gone

As clear as yesterday’s quick kiss

No bullets to load….

Grenades to ready….

Just a flask of hot coffee

Wake up and smell it….

A hint of whisky

For the Glorious dead.

 

© Tony McNally

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