| Summer 2018 - Coffee, Tea & Other Beverages |
Highland Park Poetry asked poets to write about the liquids that get us through each day. Many poets observed the rituals of waking up with a cup of coffee, or a pot of tea in the afternoon. Some poets explored a variety of other libations that trigger intense memories or that offer temporary solace or oblivion to life’s hardships. In some instances, the drink is a metaphor for something else. Together this collection of poetry is worth sipping slowly to fully enjoy the many flavors from a broad sampling of talented writers.
Many thanks to all of the poets and artists who shared their work with us.
Enjoy and drink up!
Jennifer Dotson, Editor
P.S. A special shout out of appreciation to the many artists contributing photography, painting, drawings to this Muses Gallery: Emma Alexandra, Mary Beth Bretzlauf, Peter Brinckerhoff, Lorraine Brown, George Carrigues, Daniel Cleary, Gail Denham, Jennifer Dotson, Sumner Garte, Joe Glaser, Marne Glaser, Gert Knop, Terry Loncaric, Jean Jung McBride, Wilda W. Morris, Lakshmy Menon Nair, Ghida Neukirch, Jenene Ravesloot, Marie Samuel, Henry Torres, Valerie Wallace, Lynn West, Alan Wolsky, and Ed Zifkin.
P.P.S. Brief bios including their favorite beverages for all poets selected in this Summer's Muses Gallery are posted at the top of the Participating Poets Page.
|
 |
| Wilda W. Morris, Photographer |
|
|
CJ Wilkens
Mundelein, Illinois
A Little Ode to Coffee
Whither thou brewest I shall follow
Sweet coffee the spring in my step
And the chemical addiction of choice
Thou art fairer than thy sister
The cup of English tea
For thy potent caffeine is
Like an adrenaline rush of serenity
| Cynthia T. Hahn
Libertyville, Illinois
Lingering Winter’s Cup
I put on my coat of coffee
from the inside-out.
Morning pours its cream through my veins,
while dark beans flutter about like bats.
The aroma is warm and just bitter enough:
a lingering winter, my hands on the cup.
|
Nancy La Chance
Lebanon, Missouri
Previously published in Grist Anthology, 2011
Looking at Coffee
Cup of Joe, a Java jolt
morning seems so much sharper
once that hot liquid hits the throat
Little black beans
from Columbian hills
ground, then brewed;
mild or robust,
a great wake up beverage
--drink of the gods!
| Mary Beth Bretzlauf
Waukegan, Illinois
O Elixir of Life!
I cannot start the day
Without the dark brew
My dreams dissipate
Like wisps of steam in my mug
First sip is heaven
Aroma wakes my other half
His coffee light and sweet
Brains sputter to accept
The morning news –
Or repeat last night’s
Empty cups in the sink
Dressing for the day
Thermoses in our hands -
One more for the road
|
 |
| Peter Brinckerhoff, Artist Na'Pali Coast, Hawaii |
|
|
Judith MK Kaufman
Highland Park, Illinois
Coffee is the Color of My Kitchen
Creamy mocha java
like the beans
that are ground
and freshly brewed
each morning by the
pre-programmed percolator
dripping delicious drops into
the squat pot that feeds
café-au-lait cups
waiting
joyously to feed
impatient man
who believes
none is better
than the coffee
made by me.
|
Business trips
are bad,
without his wife
he’s sad,
but what
he misses most
is the
satisfying savor
and intense
tasting flavor
of the steamy
mocha java
he’s served
each day
at seven
by the woman
that he wed
thirty-fiveyears ago.
|
When he thinks
about my coffee
he inhales a
mellow
memory,
strong-tasting
scent of heaven,
sweet and bitter
all at once,
the mere
suggestion
sending
urgent
yearning
to be home.
Coffee is the color of my kitchen.
|
 |
| Photos from collection of Harry Clark Bell taken during WWII |
|
|
Andrew Antonio Allen
Chicago, Illinois
Soldiers Must Have Their Coffee
Soldiers must have their coffee
Before the bullets fly and the bombs burst
Soldiers must have their coffee
They drink it black the strong ones
While the air has the aroma of death
Breakfast is cold as the sight of bodies
Strewn across the battlefield
Yet I am the cook serving hot coffee because
Soldiers must have their coffee
| J. H. Cooper
Vernon Hills, Illinois
Joe
A mink-hued stallion,
Snorts, stomps, spurts.
His sweet-earthy scent
engulfs me, caresses me, seduces me.
I swoon.
The barista calls my name.
He is mine.
|
Joseph Kuhn Carey
Glencoe, Illinois
The Smell of Coffee
The smell of coffee
draws you in
makes you think
of morning, waking,
baking, shaking
a leg into pants
and opening curtains
to let in fresh light on the day
and spot-check the sunrise
to make sure it’s still in place
painting the early sky
with soft red streaks and curves,
memories sift in
of cappuccino machines hissing gloriously
in hectic Italian train stations
and thick Grecian coffee sipped slowly
near the Acropolis in Athens,
and the extra-long wooden sticks holding
newspapers in Viennese coffee shops
while a pigeon floats, lands and
walks in an open door and chases bits
of food on the floor beneath the tables,
but the aroma of coffee holds you fast
around the world, hoists the sails,
shakes off the early morning rust and dust,
and makes you long for all of the
puzzle pieces to fit into place for a more
peaceful pondering poetic world.
| Joe Glaser
Chicago, Illinois
Sirens
Tie me to the mast already,
for they lurk on every course I travel.
The sirens of Starbucks pipe magical music into my brain,
rousing deep cravings in me — but not for sex, oh no —
only for exotic coffees and their accomplices.
Succumbing,
I eagerly order
a luscious
double-shotvanilla-lacedmocha latte ...
... and back comes
a melodic “Anything else?”
wrapped in a slyly collusive smile
that makes pastries plead to be eaten.
OK, OK,
I'll take that
Icing oozing
sweetly grooving
yummy yellow pound cake.
"A perfect pairing — $10 please."
|
 |
| Ed Zifkin, Photographer |
|
|
Madeline Canmann & Ed Zifkin
Highland Park, Illinois
Jack, Neal, Allen and William
shared memories of events that never occurred
in the miasma of smoke and scents
with Stabat Mater in the background
while steam rose from the inferno
and expelled the sacred crema.
The ‘50s in the ‘70s
intellectuals, downwardly mobile boomers, ex-hippies,
old Beats, off-duty waiters and waitresses
sip from the steaming cups
while the soul of an earlier generation
suffused this refuge with the zeitgeist of another time.
Hot water, under pressure filled
the demitasses with the bitter elixir
as important topics were debated
and sophistry filled the air.
Nestled within a bombed-out neighborhood
attainable through a Puerto Rican gang on one side
and a Mexican one on the other.
Walking through either gauntlet
brings the regulars to this beatnik haven
where the arabicas are transformed from roast
to nectar savored by only a self-selected crew.
Predating the first mate of the Pequod’s
popularizing the potent brew with frou frou
Caffè Pergolesi lives on in the minds of precious few.
[1] Stabat Mater is the title of the most famous work of the eighteenth century Italian composer, Giovanni Batista Pergolesi.
| Judith Bernstein
Highland Park, Illinois
Ode to Coffee
If I go to sleep now,
I will wake up in the morning
And it will be time
To drink coffee.
Coffee, delicious coffee.
Let us pause while
I refill my cup.
I sometimes think
The only exercise I get
Is the march from the
Sofa to the pot.
Let the hot liquid
Slide down my throat,
Warming my insides
And stimulating my brain.
Bring me more coffee
And more and more.
Until four PM,
If I don’t stop then
I won’t be able to sleep
Then wake up
To drink my
Morning coffee.
|
Terry Loncaric
Palatine, Illinois
Coffee Wake-Up
A hiss and a whistle,
flying brown beans,
morning coma dissipates,
eyes pry open,
nostrils flare,
a warm surge
awakens my brain,
flows inside my veins,
the steam of this cup,
the tangy whiff of fresh coffee --
splatters its vibrant petals,
washes away the dingy grays
of yesterday's dismal worries,
just let me have
my coffee injection
NOW!
| Dorothy Marie Rice
Richmond, Virginia
Ritual
In those mornings the aroma of coffee,
the sound of percolation nudged us out of bed.
Daddy‘s biological clock woke him up at 5:00 a.m.
every morning; he bathed, shaved,
made his way downstairs, rubbed the tip of his Bic or Ronson lighter,
lit a Winston tastes good like a cigarette should,
scooped a cup of Chock-full of Nuts is that Heavenly Coffee
into a metal coffee shiny pot with a glass lobe at the top
placed the pot on a red hot coiled electric burner.
Coffee percolating, cigarette dangling, ashes falling,
he busies himself with polishing shoes, floor waxing,
or in winter, starting the cars.
Mommy rose about an hour later, farting loudly.
After washing up, and donning her white uniform,
she joins Daddy at the table in our knotty-pine walled kitchen.
He sweetens her coffee with sugar, drizzles Carnation Evaporated Milk.
His coffee black with 3 or 4 spoons of sugar.
We strain our ears to listen as they sit at the table,
Tell and interpret dreams, look up the 3-digits numbers in the Dream Book
to determine what numbers they “like” and will play later in the day.
He refills their cups.
Finally, we sisters amble downstairs as our parents leave for work.
It is 7:30 a.m.
Even though we know “Coffee will stunt your growth,”
We pick up their cups and drink what coffee, grinds, and sugar remain.
|
 |
| Ghida Neukirch, Photographer |
|
|
Dominique Galiano
Highland Park, Illinois
Good Afternoon
Touch my mouth warm sweetness
relieve my angst with satisfaction
pleasure my tongue
my afternoon chocolate kiss of joy
Fortified, enriched
luscious low carb bronze elixir
meld and merged whole
with Kona arabica
as half and half creamy essence fuse
harmonic symphony
rescue me
Your three p.m. dedication
comforts my dreariness
inside me your mocha swells
satisfies and soothes me
clarifies my day that I may carry on
| Idella Pearl Edwards
Marion, Illinois
A Love Affair
I love my coffee!
Yes, I do! Velvety black and hot.
My habitual early morning ritual
Always hits the spot.
I prefer my coffee stronger than
A teenage attitude,
And as soon as I’ve had my very first sip,
I’m filled with gratitude.
When coffee’s not available,
There’s always coffee candy.
Coffee yogurt is also a treat,
And I keep coffee ice-cream handy.
But none can compare with that hot cup of java
First thing in the morning.
Let NO ONE stand between me and my coffee!
Let this be a fair warning!
|
 |
| Gail Denham, Photographer |
|
|
Dan Fitzgerald
Pontiac, Illinois
First published in Poetry Super Highway 2011
Coffee Lady
Hey, coffee lady,
remember me?
I was here last week
and the week before.
I remember you-
blue-grey eyes
pulled back hair, reddish probably added in
but, it looks good on you.
You remind me of an actress in
one of my favorite movies.
I can’t remember which movie it was,
but you were really good.
I wanted to say I love
the sound of your laugh,
the wave of your water rough hands,
the not so perfect, perfect smile.
I wanted to say all those things,
but said
small-regular-coffee,
to go
because if I stayed to drink it there
I would tell you all those things.
Then I would be afraid of
what you would say
when I finally paid,
leaving my heart for a tip.
| Albert DeGenova
Elmwood Park, Illinois
Coffee and Old Songs
I like coffee, I like tea
I like the java jive
and it likes me –
a cup a cup a cup a cup a cup
after cup of coffee
as if to make this night this day never ending
never sleeping
again
make this endless day endless night
tonight
the hours seem like minutes tonight there is no you
no me, only clowns
send in the clowns, don’t we love farce
our farce
so lets keep dancing we’ll break out the booze
and have a ball if that’s all there is to a fire or a circus
or love or life
I’m losing my faith in fairy tales tonight
the coffee tonight is bitter
it’s the bottom of the pot
been cookin’, been workin’
too long black
coffee so long
been workin’ on a chain gang
but I still got some time to go
got
to go
back to my little grass shack
on a clear day you can see forever and ever
a cup a cup a cupa cup a cup
|
 |
| Jenene Ravesloot, Photographer |
|
|
Robert West
Starkville, Mississippi
Coffee
Bleary-eyed
morning
blinks in
disbelief
but soon
swills
courage to
climb
the steep
path
to panoramic
noon
| David Jibson
Ann Arbor, Michigan
Past Life
What must this old restaurant coffee mug
think of its new home in the cupboard
over my kitchen sink?
Brought home for a quarter from a Salvation Army Store,
did it survive some greasy spoon that closed
on a desolate street after it was marooned
between a tattoo shop and an adult bookstore?
Was it repeatedly filled from a round pot
by a heavy waitress with swollen ankles
and a shadow of mustache on her sweaty upper lip,
while electricians and plumbers
ate their breakfasts of hash browns,
eggs, sausages and rye toast,
never tipping her what she was worth?
Did it warm the hands of a down-on-his-luck
writer who’d never published anything
except for one short story in an obscure magazine?
What break-ups and get-back-togethers
might it have overheard? How many
meat-loaf specials and hot pork sandwiches?
How many late-night insomniacs drank from it?
How did it feel about lip-stick stains
on its rim, butts of cigarettes dropped
into its dregs, unwashed hands around
its throat? Did it cry with old men
who ate alone in corner booths?
Does it miss its past life so full
of Maxwell House and misery?
|
 |
| Lakshmy Nair, photographer |
|
|
Lakshmy Menon Nair
Vernon Hills, Illinois
First published in A Lament, collection by the author.
Addiction
Your perfume is my alarm
waking me up in the morning
gliding me by your silhouette
your somber glow and tantalizing body
leading me the way to heaven
my half opened eyes aching to see you
to hold you and feel your warmth
my lips rushing to lock into yours
our breath colliding each other
I will quench my thirst one sip at a time!
Yes, my morning friend,
I submit myself to your feet
I know, I am addicted to you
you, my own morning cup of joe!
| Michael Escoubas
Bloomington, Illinois
The Day Begins
A fragrance permeates the air.
My slow uncurl begins as the Keurig
gurgles the last drop of water
through the Mountain Green K-Kup.
Legs swing out as if on hinges,
feet slide into tattered slippers.
My well-worn robe opens to my arms,
loosely wrapped and hanging down.
Clown-like, I traipse gingerly around
the night-stand, as a friendly vapor,
beckons from the kitchen, like a waiting
lover—irresistible aroma and that first sip.
|
 |
| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
|
|
Caroline Johnson
Willow Springs, Illinois
Awarded 1st place on Wilda Morris’ Poetry Challenge Blog (February 2015)
Barista
Henry says the Lakota called it black medicine.
I can imagine Black Elk drinking from a gourd,
huddling around a teepee with a peace pipe
sometime in July when the cherries are ripe.
Henry looks at each customer with green eyes
full of gourmet hot chocolate and caramel mochas.
He moves his arms across the espresso machine,
steaming milk, whirling words with a smile.
His eyes sail through you like a windjammer,
as if you’ve been caught by a cool island breeze.
He hums as he scrubs stubborn stains off of soup
kettles, stocks the pantry, or pours steamed milk.
He shakes his head and his braids rustle round him.
I work the register, exchanging money for drinks.
The smell of French Roast perfumes the air.
You can hear the crackle of beans as they grind.
The line is long: a mother with a stroller, a boy
in a wheelchair, two ladies with Gucci bags.
Two wealthy ladies talk of sconces in their new
living rooms, a young couple orders hot chocolate,
and a lone man with dark black hair stands at the back
of the café wearing a T-shirt, his arms exposed to reveal
a green tattoo: “I-R-A-Q” neatly printed across his skin.
Henry talks to them all as they huddle around, waiting
for their black medicine. Henry makes everything look easy.
He can do three things at once. Yet Henry’s not easy.
He’s just trying to figure life out before it passes him by.
| Marne Glaser
Chicago, Illinois
Saturdays at Sundoes
Sixteen folks, each solo
at a table meant for two—
One chair for your knapsack,
the other one for you.
Idle cups of coffee,
as eyes stare into space.
Then back to the computers
that populate the place.
Loud the conversations
between the counter girls,
But not a sound among the ones
within the table world.
Once coffee shops were spots to meet,
and laugh and chat and all,
But Saturdays at Sundoe’s now
feel more like study hall.
|
 |
| Marne Glaser, Photographer |
|
|
William Carey
Glencoe, Illinois
Caffe’ in the Cinque Terre
Caffé Americano?
Latte Monterosso?
Macchiato? Cappuccino?
Possibile decaffeinato?
Oh, oh, the coffee dilemma (Italiano).
Not a problem for the caffeinated native,
ordering like his Ligurian grandpa,
sipping at the tiny table, contemplative.
But the Chicagoan, truly foreign,
fumbling his euros like florins,
gesturing, grinning, per favoring,
wanting only decaf for ailments boring,
cannot convey the essence of the question,
and here’s why:
For all her caffe’ history
decaf is a mystery that Mia in her caffé bella
doesn’t care a prayer about,
hoping for intelligenza from this agitated tourist,
this single-lingo singularly non-Italian fella.
| David Subacchi
Wales, United Kingdom
Americano
A shot of espresso
With hot water,
That’s Americano,
So much larger
If you want to linger,
To take it all in.
The cup like a soup bowl,
Saucer like a plate,
Steam rising before me,
Strong aroma
Of roasted coffee beans,
A soothing blackness.
O Americano
How I love you,
How I long to feel your heat
And your bitterness,
Caressing me slowly
Deep inside.
|
 |
| Terry Loncaric, Photographer |
|
|
Lennart Lundh
Orland Hills, Illinois
First published in Pictures of an Other Day
Off-campus Café, 9 A.M.
Caroline sits at a corner table,
muffin crumbs and coffee among her papers.
Last night she traded her virginity
for something she thinks important.
This morning, studying for a history exam,
she reads of ancient expectations turned dust with time.
| Annie Jenkin
Plymouth, England
Coffee Karma of Illinois
In the land of Lincoln,
Grant, Reagan and Obama,
people are immersed
in the city culture
absorbing the sanctuary
of a cup of coffee.
This simple pleasure
the morning tradition
perhaps an Americano,
to enjoy the luxury of living
watching people go by
over a Cappuccino.
Renewing the taste at midday
with the roasted bean nectar,
nibbling on a horseshoe
eyeing up an Ipsento
or Military latte,
listening to Indie jam.
Maybe Edgar Lee Masters
penned poetry with a coffee.
Artists, thinkers and scientists
conversing over an Expresso
on journeys of self-discovery.
In Illinois, people live by their coffee.
|
 |
| Emma Alexandra, Photographer |
|
|
Trudy Kleckner
Lake Barrington, Illinois
Say Anything
I needed a friend
you reached out your freckled hand
offered me a cup of coffee
endless cups of coffee
countless glasses of white wine and amber scotch
in a cigarette smoke cloud endless cups of coffee
wild talk say anything
plan to transform church
country world self
endless cups of coffee
and children growing up around us
at the pool the zoo the woods
camping trips shopping trips
divorce careers moves
losses large and small
pour the coffee and say anything
coffee and at least ten thousand cookies
baked amidst children husbands
laughter arguments conversations
say anything
say thank you
say I love you
say goodbye
| Emily R. Mace
Highland Park, Illinois
Love Like a Latte
I wanted to write a poem about lattes,
and how when you swirl steamed milk
into dark espresso,it’s like how love
lightens the darkness
in our lives, deftly turning it
this way and that, until together
they form something like a pattern,
a heart, a mosaic, a flower.
Beauty reveals itself
when light meets with dark:
when we sip, taste, and remember
that lattes have coffee’s bitter acid.
Then the metaphor breaks down,
the pattern falls apart
in our mouths, kisses giving way
to something more complex.
To notes of berries, caramel, nuts,
we add cocoa, spices, sweetener:
anything to remind ourselves
that love is also the flavor
we bring to the darkness,
and to the light.
|
John Grey
Johnston, Rhode Island
I'm In The Diner, 5.00 A.M.
One guy is raking through
the sugar bowl for FBI microphones.
Some tattooed bikers spontaneously arm-wrestle,
their elbows in their eggs.
I sip my coffee slowly, half-asleep.
I am still waking.
For all I know of any of these others
could be what I am becoming…
the loud-mouthed truckers,
the grizzled white-haired man
in his one suit, the petals of a dead rose
peering out of its coat pocket.
The waitress's voice chimes in my ear
like a sour clock.
The cook's basso rumbles up from
his steaming volcano of a grill.
The caffeine is working.
It's beginning to separate me
from the others in this diner.
The mirror behind the counter helps.
The way I spin this hard stool does too.
Sip after sip. Coffee drags me back
to who I was yesterday.
I'm back in skin reserved for just this moment.
| Beth Staas
Oak Brook, Illinois
Friday Night at the Coffee House
Pillows strewn about for hugs or leaning,
the mis-matched lamps on dimmers.
Scattered books ratify the clutter,
their titles earnest and deep
to effect a cozy hideaway.
A carousel cordons the donut display
sugared into various hues,
a safe distance from their bagel cousins.
Silvery urns line up behind,
emitting sounds, smells and expectations.
Ah, coffee! The banner display,
twice the size of Paul Bunyan in his prime:
latte, espresso, cappuccino, mocha
and flavors for every mood.
A barista has found his rhythm,
moving from grinder to cup,
calculating price, making change,
nudging the tip jar, a side order of guilt.
The mic and speaker set-up
block ready access to the bathroom door.
Poets cluster nearby, reviewing notes
while two guitarists pick at a tune.
Ethiopian farmers would have been enchanted,
their coffee transported by Arabs to Mecca,
enjoyed by Pope Clement III and J.S. Bach,
made patriotic by the Boston Tea Party
and hip by wannabees along a trendy street.
|
 |
| Marne Glaser, Photographer |
|
|
Joseph Solberg
Hudson, Illinois
Patty’s Morning Coffee
I awaken to a familiar, soft stirring below.
As I wind my way down the stairs,
A hint of French vanilla and caffeine
Bids me good morning as
I first glimpse my wife, curled
On her wicker chair on the porch.
I don’t disturb the scene as she slowly
Leafs through the life section
Of our local paper, which should take
Mere minutes to absorb, but will keep
Her rapt attention for two smooth
Cups from the Keurig, for this
Blend is being sipped and savored by
A woman who knows her children were well-raised,
And are now busy raising their own,
Three of whom will be visiting Nana later today.
A woman who has been a wonderful daughter, nurse,
Neighbor and friend, who accepted everything life
Gave and took from her with grace and dignity,
Who sweetened the brew when it was bitter, and
Shared its richness with all she knew,
And who knows that her husband
Is looking forward to joining her momentarily.
| David Nekimken
Chicago, Illinois
Spilling the Beans of My Secret
A confession
I am not a coffee drinker
I am a coffee observer
Amused by the daily drama
The first-thing-in-the-morning cup
Decaffeinated instant Sanka or
Dark roasted Sumatra Mutu Batak
To engage in civil conversation
Amazing how one’s demeanor flips
From Darth Vader to Mary Poppins.
Another confession
The aroma of fresh ground coffee beans is intoxicating
The lingering bitter taste is deeply disappointing
Cream and sugar are of little help to disguise my distaste
(no artificial products for me)
On rare one cup occasions
I take my coffee caffeinated black.
A final confession
I am a proud lifetime teetotaler
(no milk or sugar, straight up please)
Green tea in any variety
Especially with ginger peach.
|
 |
| Marne Glaser, Photographer |
|
|
Michael P. Wright
Highwood, Illinois
Coffee Culture Awareness
A funky think tank, “The coffee shop.”
Sip, conjecture life, coffee rushes the mind
Granules stimulate endorphins, maintain a carnival of adventurous forays
Perky chemicals stimulate my writing, engrossed in my middle aged zaniness
Coffee shops, the ultimate American way of our culture
Various flavors, quite the cultural phenomenon of its time
Orange, lemon, tea, how soothing and tasty to the gills
Relax with an afternoon quencher and exotic for that moment
Zen, green tea, favorites for my melodic high;
I’ll dress up. An analyzed public enjoys the aroma of their selected coffees
Lucid, grasping, forthright knowledge of their scrumptious coffee tastes
Establish new acquaintances by coffee’s common denominator
Eye contact, chuckling, a real deal with coffee and its diversified tastes
Magical poetry is born with the rush of its taste
Coffee, tea or me, decide and decipher the lessened stress that quickly evaporates
Jaunting magic from granulated Zen, Green or an unknown aroma that captivates a feeling of ecstasy.
|
 |
| Gail Denham, Photographer |
|
|
Gay Guard Chamberlin
Chicago, Illinois
Dear Coffee
All the other times I’ve tried to leave
I’ve come crawling back to you. This time I mean it.
Our perpetual on-again/off-again
relationship is getting on my nerves,
And when I remember all the nights of anxiety,
the stomachaches you’ve given me,
My insane cravings for your strong embrace, well,
is it any wonder I want something you can’t provide?
Herbal? Tea? I can hear you snort contemptuously,
you’ll find no passion there.
Alright, maybe I do want to play it safe
but I need a lover who will treat me right,
|
Do no harm, ease me into sleep,
give me room to meditate.
Coffee, my darling, you old charmer,
I admit there is no one who smells as good as you.
First thing in the morning and
it’s true you always make my heart beat faster,
but please don’t look at me that way,
begging me – at my age! –
To stay up and dance with you until four,
no, no more.
Here’s your hat.
There’s the door.
|
Barbara Boothe Loyd
Fredericksburg, Texas
Teas
Bales of tea took up expensive space on clippers.
To make it cheaper and more compact,
molded tea bricks fashioned by shippers
sold in London’s new shops that
also stocked teapots of blue and white,
when any other kind didn’t seem right.
Chinese tea cups became apropos,
while decorated tins bore logos.
Black or white tea were first
to slake the English thirst.
Red or green brew,
to those who knew,
emulated royalty and became the reason
for tea parties in the social season.
| Bonnie Manion
Hoopeston, Illinois
Published in A Light Breakfast by Poetic License Press
Lemon
Round,
roughshod,
brightly citron,
electric like the sun,
blossom-fragrant invitation
repelling acidly at first taste,
cut edge a dripping starburst
of wet, outflung pulpy rays
punishing a tongued query,
membranous, diaphanous,
glowing, opaque, golden,
the essence of forbidden
fruit, abandoned dream
until paired in elegant
simplicity with warm
cup or cool glass
of daystopping
tea
|
 |
| Sumner Garte, Artist |
|
|
Jill Angel Langlois
Yorkville, Illinois
A Hot Cup of Tea
Settling down with a hot cup of tea
Trying to extract the memories
Fitting the stories into verse
Sometimes better, mostly worse
Letting my thoughts form into shape
Releasing the dreams in a form of escape
Emptying old horrors from my mind
Allowing the past to, again, rewind
(Maybe I can play it right this time)
Whittling the darkness into light
I swallow more tea in search of insight
A sorry attempt to heal my sorrow
I’ll boil another cup of tea tomorrow
| Wilda W. Morris
Bolingbrook, Illinois
Tea Time
I would be alone today
were it not for the geese
parading across the yard
in their grey and black uniforms.
They slake their thirst, drinking
from puddles of maple leaf tea.
Heads bobbing, they search
for snacks on the grassy lawn.
I sip my Bengal Spice tea,
beg the geese to stay
until the sky clears.
|
Cynthia Gallaher
Chicago, Illinois
This poem also appears in Drenched: Poems About Liquids, Pools, Sewers, Saunas, Waterfalls & Floods (Main Street Rag Publishing Company, Charlotte, N.C. 2018)
Green Tea’s Ceremony Within
it’s the Asian paradox,
modern, stressed Japanese
seeking refuge in old ways.
some gather in boardrooms
and sip, what millennia ago
was brewed from a handful of leaves
blown by accident
into the emperor’s
hot water kettle.
the way of tea has had its way,
amidst Coca-Cola signs, raging trucks
and the clatter of multi-million
heels hitting concrete instead
of stockinged feet shuffling
inside a garden-side teahouse.
a tea ceremony of the heart takes a deep bow
through each cup imbibed in downtown Tokyo,
to express principles of
harmony, respect, purity, tranquility,
as well as nourish with phytonutrients,
protect with antioxidants, oxidize fat.
another late night under bright lights,
but the tongue tastes tea on hillside forest
on a rainy afternoon, its own chartreuse umbrella.
later, in the mad crush of subway passengers,
the tea drinker’s still virtually seated on a tatami,
to admire a seasonal scroll, listen to the fire,
smell incense mixed with aromas
of freshly whisked matcha, live life
in spite of one’s wabi-sabi urban self.
| Kathleen Gregg
Lexington, Kentucky
Yum Cha (Drink Tea)
The tea set is from China, a gift
from my daughter-in law’s father:
light blue background, dark blue trim,
intricate flower motif vining
each piece. Tradition housed
in porcelain. My daughter-in-law
is demonstrating Cantonese
tea preparation, step by step, as if
her mother and grandmother were
watching. As she breaks up the cake
of loose leaf tea, we see modern hands
honoring an ancient custom. Our eyes
follow every movement of her long,
graceful fingers; each nail polished
a pearlescent blue and accented
by a rhinestone. With easy elegance,
she rinses the special Chinese tea
three times, steeping it on the fourth.
Her fingertips barely brace the tea pot lid
as she pours the brew into small,
handle-less cups. She serves me first,
my husband next, then my son,
and finally, herself.
We drink cupfuls, pass around
conversation. Time drifts
on curls of steam.
|
 |
| Mary Beth Bretzlauf, Artist |
|
|
Ann Lamas
Chicago, Illinois
Two Tea Triolets
Put the kettle on, Emmy Rose,
Gram's green teacups are over there.
Oolong steeping whatever throes,
put the kettle on, Emmy Rose.
Tea and talk, the darkness they chose,
upside down times without compare.
Put the kettle on, Emmy Rose,
Gram's green teacups are over there.
Where there's tea there's hope swore our Gram,
that, and a watched pot never boils.
Two sugars, milk last, and scones with jam,
where there's tea there's hope swore our Gram.
Week after week of flim-flam sham
we see red as we rant and roil.
Where there's tea there's hope swore our Gram.
That, and a watched pot never boils.
| Ellen Pickus
Baldwin, New York
First appeared in Seventh Quarry
Tea Marsala
After the spiced meal,
heat so lush I wept,
cinnamon and cardamom
to soothe the mouth.
A new taste, a new land
explored in a new
neighborhood restaurant.
I’m longing to return
to a country I’ve never seen,
only tasted.
Oh, Mother India,
your ancient languages
already enflame my tongue.
|
Jocelyn Ajami
Chicago, Illinois
Tea and Rubble
Not a wisp of green
Beams and wires crisscross the horizon like giant spiders
She gasps at the cloudless blue sky mocking her world of ashes
Tempted to wallow in the mire and surrender to the cruelty of fate,
she surveys the last vestiges of home; shards of glass, spines
of books, splinters of plaster and wood
Fouled illusions stifle her breath more than rising smoke
She rummages for a morsel of food, finding only a mangled tea bag
covered in soot
As she squats in the rubble, her tears cascade into a torrent of memories:
the laughter of cousins, her father’s cigar, grandmother brewing tea,
the bloom of roses on porcelain cups, figs and apricots
The ritual of Sunday tea with family and friends always quelled the fury
of her fears, calming her with the certainty of infinite moments
In the grip of remembrance, she retrieves the solace of those afternoon
sips, infused with the flavor of hope and the fragrance of jasmine.
|
 |
| Jean Jung McBride, Photographer |
|
|
Michelle LM Gale
Warminster, Wiltshire, UK
Quintessentially English
Quintessentially English we reason,
As we imagine tablecloths, cakes and lawn.
But we couldn’t be further away from the truth
If we stood on the Slopes of Ceylon.
Row upon row,
Line the supermarket shelf
Builder’s, Yorkshire, and Lady Grey,
Pretty packaging to disguise the unpalatable truth.
Countless years of exploitation are locked in every leaf.
Branded, by the marketing muppets
To be as English as the queen
Each box has a hidden history
They would rather go
Unseen.
An industrial industry
Lies forgotten, hidden beneath.
Consumed by the Chinese for millennia
Before the idea filtered through,
Brought to Europe by missionaries
Who could see the benefits too.
The covetous British were not content
To be drip fed from the East
They introduced monoculture to the Indian slopes
To have a table at the feast.
Enormous profits allowed for greater expansion
Colonisation and domination
The world would never be the same
Breakfast, dinner, and tea
Sweetened to alleviate the shame.
| Kerry Leaf
Highland Park, Illinois
Coffee or Tea
Hard to believe
That in the seventies
Coffee, Tea, or Me
Was accepted.
Hard to retrieve
That dissing stewardesses
With pithy words
Wasn’t rejected.
Hard not to grieve
That decades forward
We’ve come only far enough
To say Coffee, Tea, or Me Too.
|
Emma Alexandra
Highwood, Illinois
Tea Brings the World to Me
Tea leaves, dried, gunpowder rolled, glistening, black, green, oolong,
Lemon, roses, rosehips, rosewater, essence, oils, essential,
Moroccan mint tea served ceremoniously, so like in Japan, seriously
Silver tea pot held high, tea poured slowly to aerate tea imbued with
Scents of Morocco, spearmint leaves, picked fresh, dancing in the aromatic
Blend, gunpowder green tea, called pearl tea in China, North African twist.
China, Japan, India, Nepal, Sri Lanka, Taiwan, Argentina
United in tea growing passion, tchai, Arabic word for tea,
Russian word for tea, American word for commercial concoction resembling
Tea. Don’t be fooled. Make your own tchai, cardamom, cloves, cinnamon sticks
Sashaying in the rich broth of black tea generously enriched with
Ginger root grated fine, aahhhh, chai so fine.
Tea fashionista, I revere mate, chimarrão, cimarrón
Spanish, maté cocido, Portuguese, chá mate, tea gloriam nostram,
Glorious caffeine full Yerba mate in Calabaza, passed friend
To friend, each drinking a gourd full, Argentina, Paraguay, Brazil,
Sipped through a Bombilla straw, originated by the Guaraní, the Tupí,
Pre-colonial wisdom passed down. Brewed perfection, counter balancing
Oxygen sparse mountain air for hiker, biker, newbie tourist, centenarian.
Wake up to your own Andes, your own hills climb, relaxed, energized,
Yes, all that with mate, mi te, my tea, mon thé, moy chai.
In herbal tea sanctum sanctorum, sip tisane, chamomile, linden, rooibos,
Calm, heal, resolve sleeplessness, wakefulness. Rejuvenate your senses,
Incense yoga meditation under tea canopy interwoven by centuries of
Tea traditions. Full circle to Moroccan mint tea, spearmint scents,
Tea world, we’ve arrived.
|
 |
| Emma Alexandra, Photographer |
|
|
Merle Tovian
Highland Park, Illinois
Mint Tea
mint from the garden
steeped in hot water
greens my mind
| Irfanulla Shariff
South Elgin, Illinois
Sweet Basil Tea
The sweet basil leaves
Are so exquisite
Drop couple of them
In a cup
Full of boiled water
Add a green tea bag
Or a black tea bag
Whatever you prefer
And some pure honey
To this alluring steamy cup
Stir the exotic mixture
Let it stand
For few minutes
Smell it
The aroma is so charismatic
This soothing elixir
Will calm your nerves
Take you to the world of ecstasy
So drink it with passion
To melt your troubles away
|
Mary Jo Balistreri
Waukesha, Wisconsin
Originally published in A Light Breakfast (Poetic License Press, 2012)
Infusion
In a casual kitchen gathering, my husband and I are honored at Siew-Ai’s for a special breakfast. She has set the table with her best china, platters of orange slices, cantaloupe, and sprigs of red grapes. Homemade almond scones scent the room from a wicker basket. The Mouli-Hua tea from China has been tied and dried into a ball. She places it in the bottom of a glass teapot and pours hot water to the brim. We watch the quiet transformation as one petal after another slowly unfurls until a white anemone floats in the transparency.
Our friendship had opened like that—an inauspicious beginning. Now Tong Chui asks us to join hands (we the Italian contingent of their Chinese family) After the blessing, we sit back relaxed, talk our familiar talk, the tea, strong and bracing.
summer sky…
the curve and dip
of swallows
|
 |
| Valerie Wallace, Photographer |
|
|
Sylvia Cavanaugh
Cedar Grove, Wisconsin
Brisk
My mother steeped Lipton tea for me
in the tiny kitchen of our row house
the winter I turned seven. A captain
pictured on the box held a cup in warm
greeting. My spoon stirred a bit of sugar
as I learned of the Great White Whale.
Twin kittens, Ishmael and Queequeg,
wrestled on the blue-shag living room
rug as brisk flavor saturated the story.
A whale bone replaced a leg torn off.
At night, it rapped across the wooden
ship deck. Sir Thomas Lipton dreamed
in his dim Glasgow tenement. He grew
up to be a showman and proclaimed
tea should be affordable for everyone.
| Candace Kubinec
Greensburg, Pennsylvania
A Tea-Bag Kind of Day
I have been tea-bagged
Dunked in and out of hot water
Then been left to steep too long
Had every ounce of goodness
Squeezed out of me
Now you wonder why
I am just a bit bitter
If you were more observant you
Could have read the warning in the
Dregs left behind
|
 |
| Daniel CLeary, Artist |
|
|
Donna Pucciani
Wheaton, Illinois
From To Sip Darjeeling at Dawn by Donna Pucciani (Virtual Artists Collective, Chicago, 2011)
First published in Chaffin Journal
Visitation
Once in a while a frog comes to visit.
It appears at the back door
while I am having tea
and gazing at rain in the hills.
I unlatch the lock and, glancing around,
seeing no one in the rarified morning,
look down at my feet, where sits
a blob of grey-green, small enough
to fit into the palm of my hand.
I bend down, look first into one eye,
then the other. It stares back.
It tells no tales of tragic kisses
and metamorphoses. Instead,
it waits, I’m not sure for what,
throat pulsing, eyes fixed.
I envy its stillness, wordlessness,
lack of desire, and yet,
some need has brought it here
to offer mute friendship
amid dew and crickets, to watch me
sip Darjeeling at dawn.
| Hannah Radeke
Chicago, Illinois
Poems While You Wait, Poetry Fest, 04.28.2018
Habits After Waking
I’m not much of a coffee person,
but I like the smell of mornings,
the scream of a kettle on the stove.
The way tea stains your teeth,
leaves blooms of steam
on the kitchen window.
I like the music in coffeehouses
more than the drinks there,
like white tablecloths
spotted with brown.
The cooldown is its own ritual.
Mugs on sills, breathing in mist,
swirls of early thoughts
condensing in my head.
|
 |
| Lorraine Brown, Photographer |
|
|
Rie Sheridan Rose
Austin, Texas
First appeared on Songs of Eretz Poetry
Tea and Coffee
I am a tea girl…
Victorian lace and Jane Austen
You are a coffee guy…
Three piece suit and Mickey Spillane.
My romance is poetic.
Your reality is hard-nosed.
Can opposites attract
And become covalent?
Or is coffee too bitter
For a tea-drinking dame?
I’m willing to try your coffee—
Heavily sugared with lots of cream…
Will you drink my tea?
You can spike it with gin…
Can we compromise
And come together?
Or is tea too tame
For a coffee-slugging man?
| Michael H. Brownstein
Jefferson, Missouri
Tea Time
We stood up to the eye of the horse,
the front door still broken open,
a crack in the glass above the alcove,
and in the center of the room polite and pretty
a simple tea set almond white, a pot of tea
steaming, and a plate of fresh baked matzos,
stuffed grape leaves, ripe sour sop and lime,
a cup of cinnamon, fresh coconut milk,
and a box of soy with a hint of flax seed oil.
There was not a knock on the door.
Just a command: Time to come out of hiding,
the sea monster bellowed. We knew her by name.
We remained hidden and she sent in her crazies,
the steam of the tea filling our universe with clouds,
the food welcoming, the room suddenly so small
we felt helpless. They followed her lead,
gathered around the table, drank and ate,
laughed, ate and drank, and one by one
fell to the floor with cramps and nightmares.
When we stepped into their space, they were gone
so we moved them out back with the others,
cleared the table, began brewing fresh tea,
baking and cooking and getting everything ready
for the next clan. We knew the sea monster,
but not the terror of the sky, not the anger of hail,
nor the great princess of snow and frostbite
or the creature of light, but we were ready.
This is how we survived the winter of war.
|
Lois Baer Barr
Riverwoods, Illinois
Sweet Poetry
Ginger cookies, cardamon tea
two couches
Karin, Kathy, Paula, Cindy, me.
Chatter stops.
Dark woods outside
inside circles of lamplight.
Paula’s kettle simmers,
upstairs her children sleep.
Pandora, says Kathy, will
set us free
in the corner
Thelma the poodle
passes wind.
In Cindy’s red silk basket
Merwin’s morbid fables.
Salmon, trout, bear, bees
“Make them talk,” she tells us
and takes a sip of tea.
Karin’s sly ibis
devours the fox.
Recurrent fears
ribald glee
disjointed stories
dank discovery.
Salty pistachios, lemon, tea,
twin settees
Cindy, Paula, Kathy, Karin, me.
| J.H. Cooper
Vernon Hills, Illinois
Camellia
She releases her leaves.
They fall gently into the nobleman’s boiling pot
Like a handkerchief dropped from the dainty fingers of a coquette.
He drinks and falls under her spell.
Her legend grows. Her brew becomes the ambrosia of emperors.
Men transverse continents, oceans in her pursuit.
Her early lovers struggle to keep her sequestered.
They deceive, offering her beautiful sisters as decoys, only to unleash the fury of her suitors.
Many lives are lost in the ensuring battles.
They call them the Opium Wars and she, demure Camillia, does not dispute them.
Rather she flutters her fan, emits her misty floral scent and reclines warmly in her cup.
|
 |
| Jenene Ravesloot, Photographer |
|
|
Jenene Ravesloot
Chicago, Illinois
Liz Makes Me a Matcha Green Tea Latte
A teaspoon of ground organic green tea
sits on a bamboo scoop. Liz hand sifts it
into a Palermo 7-ounce porcelain cappuccino
cup, being careful not to create clumps,
then she adds 2 ounces of whole steamed
milk, stirs the tea with a small bamboo
whisk in an ‘M’ motion, gently rubbing
the whisk over the froth to rid it of bubbles.
After that, Liz adds 4 ounces of steamed milk,
lifts the pitcher up and back towards her. Glazed
foam forms a latte art ‘heart’ before she slides
the cup across the counter and says “Enjoy.”
| Gail Denham
Sunriver, Oregon
Ordinary, Invisible
The common ones, those whose pictures
are never shown in national magazines;
their names not listed even in church bulletins
as “Member of the Month”.
Common as dirt.
Everyday the same, trudge to jobs,
stand in lines, cook yet another casserole
and hope the phone and lights won’t be shut off.
We, the common, retch in solitude
when illness comes, wrap ourselves in worn quilts,
stare at bright unattainable travel ads, and nurse
tea gone cold as our lives.
|
 |
| Gert Knop, Photographer |
|
|
 |
| Marie Samuel, Artist |
|
|
William Marr
Downers Grove, Illinois
Joy
bubbles
chasing
bubbles
Coca Cola
|
 |
| Emma Alexandra, Photographer |
|
|
Julie Isaacson
Highland Park, Illinois
From Solid Roots Flow Precious Root Beer
My years of summer youth conjure A&W,
A multi-sensory explosion of sheer joy
Sticky months buzzing with mosquitoes and fireflies
Hip-hugger denim hot pants, skimpy halter tops and frosty cold mugs,
If I close my eyes, I can smell the deep sassafras aroma
And feel the frothy foam, on fingers and philtrum
Hear the carhops on skates and the
Click of clip-on trays on the crank roll-up windows
The Archies singin’ Sugar, Sugar on the radio
See the cars, where I enjoyed my passenger status:
With Gary, the first boy I ever kissed,
(The first boy a bunch of girls kissed),
in his brother’s chartreuse Opel Kadett.
The yellow ‘53 Chevy, my mom’s car when I was a baby.
She sold it to Mr. Schaider, who gave it to his granddaughter, when we
were sixteen--
Caren’s flowing, curly hair--paired with mine, long and straight--we sipped
the rich, brown glory at the drive-in.We drank in life, together. We still do.
Dear Brent, the finest guy, and a ride to match, his orange Datsun 240-Z
He always ordered me steamin’ hot fries to go with a double scoop float.
Then we’d watch the sun set over the locks and dams of the Mississippi.
I unearthed the little mugs at my childhood home in the great clean-out.
The memories housed in the heavy glass taste as sweet as the sugar that once lived there,
Oh, that sweet, robust, root beer.
|
 |
| George Carrigues, Photographer |
|
|
Mary Beth Bretzlauf
Waukegan, Illinois
Waxing Lemons
Memories of summertime
Bring back those innocent days
When lemonade could get us money
When Grandma made the sweet tart treat
All a fussed in the kitchen
Apron on in this heat
Cardboard table set up
Front lawn our domain
Sun the color of our fruit ade
Watered down
Melting ice cubes
Forgotten on the quiet street
By us - the lure of pogo sticks,
Hopscotch too much to pass up
Watery lemonade refreshing from our fun -
No money made that day
| Charlotte Digregorio
Winnetka, Illinois
First published in The Heron's Nest, Vol. XVII, No. 2, June 2015
haiku
snowed in . . .
after the piña colada
dreaming in color
|
|
 |
| Alan Wolsky, Photographer |
|
|
Marjorie Rissman
Highland Park, Illinois
Pour Me
you can keep your coffee in your mug
keep your tea in its dainty seeping pot
enjoy hot chocolate all you want
just pour me prosecco to the very top
I love the bubbles and mild taste
the ice-cold wine of the common folk
so good with chicken, beef or fish
so perfect with an Italian dish.
I feel the buzz after a glass or two
and then relax ready for a snooze
no headache comes, no stomach ache
no jitters felt in its final wake.
the perfect drink at any meal
before or after it’s a deal
just serve it cold so the bubbles last
mix with orange juice at your breakfast.
| Emma Alexandra
Highwood, Illinois
Campari and Pomegranate Essence
Sundown’s light shimmers nimbly through glass clear
Wondrous pomegranate color gifted
To crystal goblet sands of time shifted.
Life’s secrets come into view, brought near
Unobstructed as an elusive deer
Mirage and reality with dawn sifted.
Until with sunrise boldness mist is lifted
Campari and pomegranate appear.
Bitterness and sweetness blended sublime,
Lovely mixture thrilling minds with delight.
Drink of gods, Mount Olympus timeless chime.
Twists, turns notwithstanding we ride this kite
Taking sweet, bitter chances, we climb, climb
Embracing joys of momentary flight.
|
 |
| Jean Jung McBride, Photographer |
|
|
Colleen McManus Hein
Riverwoods, Illinois
haiku
Cabernet burbles
darkly from bottle to glass;
blooms red in my blood.
|
 |
| Gail Denham, Photographer |
|
|
 |
| Lynn West, Photographer |
|
|
Max Sparber
Minneapolis, Minnesota
The Cocktail
There are rumors
of a certain cocktail
made only
in back rooms
for bartenders
who have already
tasted it all
it is they say
the most bitter cocktail
yet made
its base liquor
illegal and distilled
from beetles
that eat only
poison gourds
it turns lips black
and minds
blasted
yum
| Rita M. Yager
Deerfield, Illinois
Ode to Absinthe, The Green Fairy
Oh, to have been in Paris in 1914 in that liquor saturated milieu
And be part of all the decadence and genius!
Did the Green Hour in Paris die when you were banned in 1915?
NO, and how we all would have loved to sit with Vincent, Henri, Oscar,
Edgar, Pablo and Ernest while they produced their best,
after drinking you, their Bottled Muse!
Far from a common licorice flavored drink of varying proofs
Giving hallucinations and placing minds into dream like states,
mottled colors, fogs and tortured demons followed by
Welcomed pass outs and black outs after which
Filtered genius flowed onto paper and canvas
Come, waltz with a chair, wake up naked in an unknown room!
Was Vincent mad before he cut off his ear,
Or was it after many a night of sipping you?
Did you give him the vision to paint the bars he drank in?
Why did he love green?
Was it you who inspired Degas and Manet and Picasso?
I will never know your taste or power
never take part in the ritual of watching
while you are slowly poured over a sugar cube,
that rests upon a slotted spoon,
you will never numb my tongue
I will never see your milky cloudiness once you hit the cold water
Or ever see green as intensely as you have,
but I have seen the paintings, read the plays, books,and all the poems.
|
 |
| Henry Torres, Photographer |
|
| Henry Torres
Bronx, New York
Mojito
Here’s your mojito
hope it’s fragrant & sugary
limed to icy perfection
refreshing going down
creating
mint soaked
reveries
stirred by sugarcaned blessings
of delight
like the feeling I get
when I’m slowly chillin’
with some soothing
soulful
steadfast
friends on a sultry summer night
|
Apple Rhodes Gunther
Riverwoods, Illinois
First appeared in College of Lake County Student Journal, 2015-16
French 122
I drink cognac,
I eat chocolate.
It is the chocolate
embedded with
little bits of coffee.
It is a good cognac,
je pense, from France,
Rémy Martin V.S.O.P.
This is all so nécessaire
since I am doing my
French homework. It
is a difficult task, tedious,
je suis fatiguée and I
need to feel French.
I need to connect with the
French spirit and I think
they, the French themselves,
might appreciate my efforts,
feeble as they are. Zut alors!
C’est la vie! Quelle horreur!
Or something equally French.
Sorry, my francophone friends.
I do truly love la langue de Molière
and Madame, notre professeur,
elle est extraordinaire!
|
 |
| Joe Glaser, Photographer |
|
|
R. Craig Sautter
Chicago, Illinois
First Cup
Since she didn’t actually drink
Coffee, Columbian or Kenyan,
She couldn’t write a poem
About its exotically bitter and
Bracing taste or intoxicating
Aroma rising in sensuous waves
From her first morning cup
To wake up the world,
Because in her case, the cup
Was topped off with a thick
Golden pool of 80% proof
Tennessee brewed nectar
That made sure her world
Disappeared before noon.
| Bekah Steimel
St. Louis, Missouri
First appeared in Bone Orchard Poetry, 2014
Totaled
My thirst extends past water and whiskey
and there is no calorie
to hush this hunger
everyone leaves a dent
after their collision with this world
fuck a fender bender
I want the head-on crash
you can’t overlook or undo
the flaming crater
mistaken for no other
|
 |
| Gert Knop, Artist |
|
|
Jennifer Dotson
Highland Park, Illinois
Published in After Hours (Summer 2016)
Liquid
made from mash
of malt and hops
Yeast microbes transform
base grains into bubbles
Zymurgy is the science
behind brewmasters’ bottle craft
Keep your head as you quaff your beer and
pray it’s not making love in a canoe
[1] The Etheree, a syllabic poem containing ten lines and a total of fifty-five syllables, is named in honor of Etheree Taylor Armstrong, an Arkansas poet who died in 1994.
|
 |
| Gert Knop, Photographer |
|
|
2009 Fall
Muses' Gallery Archive
|
|
|
