Famous Short Coffee Poems
Famous Short Coffee Poems. Short Coffee Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best Coffee short poems
by
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
One grand boulevard with trees
with one grand cafe in sun
with strong black coffee in very small cups.
One not necessarily very beautiful
man or woman who loves you.
One fine day.
by
Gary Snyder
There are those who love to get dirty
and fix things.
They drink coffee at dawn,
beer after work,
And those who stay clean,
just appreciate things,
At breakfast they have milk
and juice at night.
There are those who do both,
they drink tea.
by
Julie Hill Alger
At least I've learned this much:
Life doesn't have to be
all poetry and roses.
Life
can be bus rides, gritty sidewalks,
electric bills, dishwashing,
chapped lips, dull stubby pencils
with the erasers chewed off,
cheap radios played too loud,
the rank smell of stale coffee
yet still glow
with the inner fire of an opal,
still taste like honey.
-Julie Alger
by
William Stafford
I glanced at her and took my glasses
off--they were still singing.
They buzzed
like a locust on the coffee table and then
ceased.
Her voice belled forth, and the
sunlight bent.
I felt the ceiling arch, and
knew that nails up there took a new grip
on whatever they touched.
"I am your own
way of looking at things," she said.
"When
you allow me to live with you, every
glance at the world around you will be
a sort of salvation.
" And I took her hand.
by
James Tate
Jesus got up one day a little later than usual.
He had been dream-
ing so deep there was nothing left in his head.
What was it?
A nightmare, dead bodies walking all around him, eyes rolled
back, skin falling off.
But he wasn't afraid of that.
It was a beau-
tiful day.
How 'bout some coffee? Don't mind if I do.
Take a little
ride on my donkey, I love that donkey.
Hell, I love everybody.
by
Donald Hall
It has happened suddenly,
by surprise, in an arbor,
or while drinking good coffee,
after speaking, or before,
that I dumbly inhabit
a density; in language,
there is nothing to stop it,
for nothing retains an edge.
Simple ignorance presents,
later, words for a function,
but it is common pretense
of speech, by a convention,
and there is nothing at all
but inner silence, nothing
to relieve on principle
now this intense thickening.
by
Edward Taylor
Jesus got up one day a little later than usual.
He had been dream-
ing so deep there was nothing left in his head.
What was it?
A nightmare, dead bodies walking all around him, eyes rolled
back, skin falling off.
But he wasn't afraid of that.
It was a beau-
tiful day.
How 'bout some coffee? Don't mind if I do.
Take a little
ride on my donkey, I love that donkey.
Hell, I love everybody.
by
Richard Jones
Swimming the English Channel,
struggling to make it to Calais,
I swam into Laura halfway across.
My body oiled for warmth,
black rubber cap on my head,
eyes hidden behind goggles,
I was exhausted, ready to drown,
when I saw her coming toward me,
bobbing up and down between waves,
effortlessly doing a breaststroke,
heading for Dover.
Treading water
I asked in French if she spoke English,
and she said, "Yes, I'm an American.
"
I said, "Hey, me too," then asked her out for coffee.
by
Carl Sandburg
ON Forty First Street
near Eighth Avenue
a frame house wobbles.
If houses went on crutches
this house would be
one of the cripples.
A sign on the house:
Church of the Living God
And Rescue Home for Orphan Children.
From a Greek coffee house
Across the street
A cabalistic jargon
Jabbers back.
And men at tables
Spill Peloponnesian syllables
And speak of shovels for street work.
And the new embankments of the Erie Railroad
At Painted Post, Horse’s Head, Salamanca.
by
Carl Sandburg
IN a Yiddish eating place on Rivington Street … faces … coffee spots … children kicking at the night stars with bare toes from bare buttocks.
They know it is September on Rivington when the red tomaytoes cram the pushcarts,
Here the children snozzle at milk bottles, children who have never seen a cow.
Here the stranger wonders how so many people remember where they keep home fires.
by
Mother Goose
Molly, my sister and I fell out,
And what do you think it was all about?
She loved coffee and I loved tea,
And that was the reason we couldn't agree.
by
William Carlos (WCW) Williams
Upon the table in their bowl
in violent disarray
of yellow sprays, green spikes
of leaves, red pointed petals
and curled heads of blue
and white among the litter
of the forks and crumbs and plates
the flowers remain composed.
Coolly their colloquy continues
above the coffee and loud talk
grown frail as vaudeville.
by
Russell Edson
A man is fighting with a cup of coffee.
The rules: he must not
break the cup nor spill its coffee; nor must the cup break the
man's bones or spill his blood.
The man said, oh the hell with it, as he swept the cup to
the floor.
The cup did not break but its coffee poured out
of its open self.
The cup cried, don't hurt me, please don't hurt me; I am
without mobility, I have no defense save my utility; use
me to hold your coffee.
by
Dimitris P Kraniotis
Smokes
of cigarettes
and mugs
full of coffee,
next
to the fictitious line
where the eddy
of words
leans against
and nods,
wounded,
to my silence.
by
Emily Dickinson
Is it true, dear Sue?
Are there two?
I shouldn't like to come
For fear of joggling Him!
If I could shut him up
In a Coffee Cup,
Or tie him to a pin
Till I got in --
Or make him fast
To "Toby's" fist --
Hist! Whist! I'd come!