Coffee And Curiosity

"There's a quiet spirit in this space, where words - wrought into an ethereal cadence, depicts the scale of tenderness and turmoil that dwells in the beauty of self expression."

Cafe Piazza

I watch heedfully, perched here by the window
smoking cigarettes and wielding pen like a sword,
these words on my little canvas emboldened by lack of thought.
(Not my prerogative, I must add! This is a delicate novelty for me).

Calls to mind dark chocolate and
pipe tobacco, that charred scent
of roasted coffee bean and freshly baked bread,
tangible from the outset
Ushers gently, like childhood calling.

Distilled purpose in imaginary concept, I contemplate, as these
cloaked bodies follow feet ambitiously, their senses
a roadmap to hot cocoa and buttered bun
there within warmth and welcome.

I could write a novel

I could write a novel.

O, how sweet t’would be;
a tale of enigma veils,
and curiosity.
Wielding word, sharp as tongue,
Wistful as rain's descent, lulling
down winter-kissed windowpane.
Charming abstracts of poetry, Michelangelo and philosophy
underneath numerals prompting rest of peaceful reverie,
‘fore following forth,into
tender arms of unreality.


He enveloped the contents of my being,
and penetrated the periphery as it were
to render the little girl who never loved,
and wouldn’t stand for being loved in return.

He knelt o’er me then, with something
that only my intuition could surmise
before he planted a kiss upon the doubt (and that I do despise),
was depicted as a frown upon my lips he kissed and kissed,
before his tongue took a plunge for my gut, as the question he asked was this:

“Why did you make me fall in love with you?”
I thought to myself, I could ask you just the same.
I’m not sure how it happened, but I sure won’t take the blame.
I grabbed him even harder then, and forged them to be sure -
them words he had caressed me with,
and left them lingering in the air.

So long, late memoirs

**I thought I would share a poem I found that I actually wrote sometime during my early teens!**


So long, late memoirs
You were once so kind to me
In the moment the beauty hides,
And only once the spirit dies
Do we see that we were happy

And only do the smiling faces,
Crinkled noses and scenic places --
Only do the smiling faces
Make up for what was lost.