COFFEE RITUAL

Dawn breaks, so I must break this fast

I pour the water, clear and cool,

Inside the kettle. Fire from the stove

Brings warmth into the darkened room

Behind the pantry doors come grounds

Of coffee in a jar. I crack the seal,

Aroma of the earth and sun, perfume

That tickles nostrils sleeping still,

Comes forth, invites me with its spell.

I pour the steaming water in a cup

Of china, white as paper sheets

The morning, blank as canvas, seeks

A message, image, color, hue,

And coffee is my fuel and ink

To write the moments of the day

The coffee turns the water black

Abyssal night forms in the cup

The land of dreams I left behind

Will disappear in its due time

The cream and sugar are poured next

And color forms amid the black

A healthy brown, with bubbly foam

And steam that curls to fingertips

Enticing me to drink of it

I tip the potion bottoms up

A wince when bitter tastes emerge

A sigh when sweetness greets the tongue

It’s always bitter before sweet

A twinge of pain before the bliss

Reminding me that life is coffee cups

We take each day. Sometimes it’s sweet

And others not. Whatever taste

The day may bring, I bring my all,

Revitalized, refreshed, renewed

—-

SenriKevMeister

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ORANGE

I peel away the freckled skin

The orange blood begins to flow

I tear away a wedge of brain.

A child unborn, I spit it out,

That bitter seed within the sweet

And juicy flesh. A tasty treat.

BAD TRIP

They always call “it” a bad trip

It’s like a movie. There’s a bad clip

Of a person making sad slips

On bananas. It’s a back flip

Onto pavement. Sounds of cracked hip

Bruised lip, makes it tricky for a glad sip

Of medicine. The pain radiates like mad grips

On last bits of snack bits. I say this

‘Cause the bad trips come like a lamp lit

So bright that I can’t hit

The marks that with past wit

Were scored. But now it’s bad, kid.

That’s the fad, kid. ‘Cause God forbid we ad lib

Down the slinking spiral trash trip.

‘Cause life’s a bad trip, that’s “it”.

But I’m glad that I can live with it.

– theresurreccionofkevin

RAGE AGAINST THE (VENDING) MACHINE

I’m pounding on the glass that doesn’t give

Like on your door that never opens up

Despite the hours spent on hitting, kicking, tearing up

I feel like tearing up this wall like sheets

Of paper like the bills it took from me

Each payday paid to play and pray

With lights above my head, so thankful for the bread I eat

And money left to buy these treats denied to me

Denied, like nights I cried when you were gone

Beyond the door I passed before with you

And waiting for the turn of knobs and creaking locks

While waiting for a drop of letters, maybe notes

But now I’m waiting for the drop of candy bars

Upon the metal floor, something sweet to treat

This present hunger in my gut. But,

This hunger in my heart can wait.

SPOILED

Is there a need to knead?

To mold and shape a loaf

From lazy, loafing dough?

Like lazy layabouts

And nutty ne’er-do-wells

Perhaps too late for them

To learn to earn their bread

Instead, we bake and make

The freshest bread and cake

We kneel and knead and plead

We bleed for them to change

Their stale and half-baked ways

For spoiled and rotten bread

Gets thrown out on its head

SEASONING

The seasons pass, like seasoning

On raw and tasteless reasoning

With reason, splashes, dashes, pinch

Of dressing on a dish, a dress

Like pretty words upon a page

Or fresh plucked flowers on a face

All done in good taste. Flavor speaks

To me. Each bite I savor long

And slow. I long for bygone days

And seasons past that flavor thoughts

And memories that never die

– theresurreccionofkevin