24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Not Tea
I’m English, we solve everything with a cup of tea,
I joke with a smirk as I pick up my drink.
I breathe it in, and then frown a little,
For this drink is not my tea.
Darker, stronger, but just as hot,
Pungent smell and aftertaste.
This I have tasted before –
But this is not my tea.
Another breakfast drink,
Not English by a long shot.
Full of flavour, energising for the day,
But not always my cup of tea.
The Gods of love decided upon a blend
Its pleasures were never to end
So they brought together some cocoa
And poured on the magic flow
Its texture was that of sugar and diamonds
And all shades of espresso sent in their funds
Some browns and blacks would mate
And I would brew it at nights late
Ah! The aroma, how to explain?
The blessed earth in a deluge of rain
A dark, mystical, invigorating fragrance
A little unruly and rustic
Diligently mystic
And the taste of a warm, passionate affair
To say just bittersweet is hardly fair
For it is a fountain hot and bursting
The flavor in your mouth, slowly rusting
Each drop compassionately burning
Savor it; it is discovery and learning
With a good book, a tale or two
By the window, your drink and you
I hate blank pieces of paper
Demanding to be filled
Glaring at me
Screw it
I hate cell phones
Ringing buzzing singing
day and nite
Toss it
I hate traffic
Slow moving
go no where
Someone cutting you off
Jerks
I hate long summer nights
No breeze, no sleep
Just hot sweat
Yuck
I hate long work hours
When you imagine all the fun things
You could do
Nope
I hate political coversations
Of ignorance, calamity
Conspiracy, intolerence
Hatred
I hate blank pieces of paper
Blank computer screens
Blank minds, blank points
Need sleep!
This steamy beverage keeps me conscious.
It is a little cup of comfort
On a cold, early autumn English night-
Reminiscent of baristas in sunnier climes.
I see them now. It must be daylight there,
And they are outside the cafes taking orders from tables
of tourists, or of locals who enjoy a pace of life that permits them such luxuries.
I cradle it in my hands as though holding onto a dream;
I pluck a cocktail stick and craft my own heart in the frothy topping.
I hear him roar
in the skies outside,
the rain dances a beat
and I know this is it.
In the skies outside
the lightening lights up,
and I know this it,
this is where it ends.
The lightening lights up
the darkened skies.
This is where it ends,
With the trumpets blaring.
The darkened skies
Awaken the slumber
with the trumpets blaring
and with a swirling of winds.
“Awaken the slumber!”
I hear him roar.
And with a swirling of winds,
the reign dances a beat.
Elixir of awakening, water of life
Smokey essence of synaptic ecstasy.
The scent of the grind, the sound of perculative bliss
Oh, how I love your chemistry.
To wrap my hands on ceramic clad heat,
The scented steam tickles olfactory
And the quaff of velvet smoothness
Engenders alert faculty.
Good morning!
© 2014 D. Edward Croy
The Fountain- Poem #8 by Ingrid Exner- Half Marathon
The fountain in the park holds memories.
Dressed ornately in black,
This dark statue of hope
Brings comfort to many.
Laughing children run circles around its base
As the adults lean closer to the cooling mist
Of its waters.
Spilling over in delight
Excitement uncontained,
A timeless treasure of days
Gone by.
Hour 9 – 2:00 PM
Spiritual work takes me high.
Afloat and lifted,
starring the Devil in his eye.
As confident as I am.
I know he is a lie.
How can there be a place worse than this.
An earth so corrupt; Hell in disguise.
Many are blind to see..
He’s manipulated a place where all beauty seems to cease.
– J.C. ©
I was set on fire once and I
never
stopped
burning
there is nothing that I
fear and crave with
quite the same brutality
than the days in between
my highs
unable to call them lows
they’re emulating car crashes
I’m eating survivor’s guilt
and whip lash
it’s nights that follow days
without the sun
sweating somehow against nothing,
maybe high beams
I grew irrelevent to celestial objects
I disowned astrology
in my highness I ask for water
and sympathy
I did not ask for this to be beautiful
they hear me cough
and give me oxygen donations
the flame grows
and fits me like a hand-me-down
so if anyone asks
it’s not mine
I just live in the corner
of the body that grew it
waiting for the rest of me
to find a reason to visit.
__ar.
(this is part of a series I am going to do on Addiction. this one is from the perception of the Addict. also, my recitation of it)
My morning dates with you
Sometimes last all day long;
As I smell your tasty aroma
I can’t help but burst out in song.
Please don’t ever leave me!
I need you by my side;
You’re there when I am tired
You’re there when I write.
I love you, my friend
And as I start another poem;
I can’t help but be reminded
To make sure your power’s on.