He stood fifty times his height,
his palms pressed against the glass
separating him from the road in their glamour;
blurred images of car in their splendor –
and there isn’t the
familiar scent of coffee –
I call this pandemonium.

Nothing beats a day in a café
redolent of the finest Arabica,
he’d inhale deeply and recall :
unroasted gives the sweetest scents
of blueberries –
roasted’s entirely different:
fruit, sugar, perfume –
They call this addiction.

Mnemonic – a wind chime
lost in the array of winds.
“You used to be my cup of tea –
I drink coffee now.”
These words slip out of his dry lips,
and a lone tear trickles down a milky cheek;

They all say if they’ve got love,
they don’t need money –

And he’d say if he’s got coffee,
he doesn’t need love –
He calls this heaven.

Raw like an unroasted duck
I've stroked my luck
Beat off on destiny
Worked for every amenity
So I can kick back
Cut myself some slack
But I can't stop
Consistent as a perpetual clock
I've crawled and had my first steps
I've walked and flexed my biceps
Never backed down from a challenge
I can never make my bed to lay in
Always come to rest on a hinge
Never ink an appointment just push pin-
It on my calendar, never promise time
When I'll stop by for a corona and lime,
On the move I whiff the roses,
Let people enjoy me in small doses;
This is me; raw as can be in motion
Never gonna get cooked; free as killer whales in the ocean...
© okpoet

coffee substitute
unroasted seeds are toxic
K.  Y.  coffee trees

When the midnight oil has waned,
and the candles waxed,
puddles of sage-scented sandalwood
pooled on oaken tableaus,
the scent of sulfur and kerosene
all that remains to show that something,
anything,
had burned here.
-
When the moon has hidden his face,
to shine upon some distant galaxy,
forgetting the steady, long-loved sun,
the tides pulled out and away,
no longer holding the sand,
leaving it to shiver in the damp of forgotten froth.
-
When the camp fire dies,
and the last of the hopeful dancing embers
shrivel,
their pirouettes curling into gray streams
of unrequited smoke,
fresh logs lay dreaming of pyres,
as orange fades to black,
marshmallows piled, unroasted,
in bags that won't be opened.
-
what is left,
once everything has died,
but... to make new light.