The County Jail
Men late at night cook coffee in rusty cans,
just like in the hills, like in their childhoods,
without rules or guidance or authority, their fathers
dead or wild as gypsies,
their mothers going down for five dollars.
These are the men who surface at night,
The sons of faceless parents,
the sons of brutal days dripping blood,
the men whose faces emerge from shadows,
from bars,
and they join in circles and squat on haunches,
share smokes, and talk of who knows who,
what towns they passed through;
while flames jump under the coffee can,
you see new faces and old ones,
the young eyes scared and the old eyes
tarnished like peeling boat hulls,
like wild creatures they meet,
with a sixth sense inside of them, to tell them
who’s real and who’s the game;
and their thoughts are hard as wisdom teeth,
biting into each new eye,
that shows itself around the fire.
The coffee is poured steaming hot into cups,
and the men slowly sip.
Shower stalls drip bleakly in the dark,
and the smell of dumb metal is inflamed
with the acrid silence, and once in a while,
a cab horn will sound from outside the windows,
and the man with only a cheek illuminated by the fire,
the rest of his face drenched in shadows,
will get up and leave the circle,
return to his bunk.
poem by Jimmy Santiago Baca
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Coffee!
Coffee beans all ground up,
Coffee in my favourite cup,
Coffee black, coffee white,
Coffee dark, coffee light,
Coffee right, to start the day,
Coffee at work, coffee at play,
Coffee midday, coffee at night,
Coffee to sober, coffee to excite,
Coffee weak, coffee strong,
But maybe instead some Lapsang Souchong! ! ! !
TEA! ! ! ! !
poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Shearer's Cook
Now, shearers' cooks, as shearers know,
Are very seldom wont to blow;
But when I took to dabbing tar
And "picking-up" on Blaringar,
The cook, when "barbers" came at morn
To get a snack, would say, with scorn:
"Tea on the left,
Coffee on the right,
Brownie on the bunk, and blast yez!"
The "bunk" or slab was in the hut,
And on it "brownie" ready cut;
Two buckets o'er the fire would be -
One filled with coffee, one with tea;
And when the chaps came filing in
The cook would say, with mirthless grin:
"Tea on the left,
Coffee on the right,
Brownie on the bunk, and blast yez!"
Peculiar man, this shearers' cook,
And had a very ugly look.
To me - a new-chum rouseabout,
Said he, one day when all were out:
"There's nothing in this world, my lad,
That's worth your worry, good or bad;
Grief on the left,
Sorrow on the right,
Trouble on the bunk, but blast it!"
poem by William Thomas Goodge
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Fire On Fire
Teddy gentry/ronnie rogers/greg fowler, 4:27
He was a stranger in a little town
She was sittin alone in a crowd
Listening to the old jukebox playin a song
From the moment we walked through the diner door
She felt something like never before
A feelin so strong right from the start
It wouldnt stop - it was more than a spark
Chorus:
Fire on fire they were burnin up
Over a coffee cup, under the table they touched
Fire on fire, in each others eyes they just had to try
cause fire on fire just wont die
It was gettin late but they had all night
They sat there talkin bout their lives
He was sellin, she uas gettin ready to buy
That ole neon light was glowin dim
But he could see by the way she was lookin at him
Tonight would be different, somethin had changed
His lonely heart was feelin a flame
Repeat chorus
Bridge
She needed him, he needed her
And they both knew, without a word
There was no question, there was no doubt
There was no way they could put it out
Fire on fire they were burnin up
Over a coffee cup, under the table they touched
Fire on fire, in each others eyes they just had to try
cause fire on fire, fire on fire
Fire on fire just wont die
Tag
Fire on fire
Just wont die
Fire on fire
(c) maypop music (a division of wildcountry, inc.) (bmi) used by pemission. all rights reserved.
song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ah! You Didn't Know?
In an evening of events,
He and I met together
In the City-Coffee House
And broke the silence of a millennium
Over a steaming-cup of coffee.
He spoke and I listened.
Slowly I discovered
The iron-gates of the castle-in-ruins
Opened up with a crackle before my eyes
And the rusty past shed its darkness
To a shining glory.
He identified the strange and precious gems
Stored in the womb of the ruins
And I, on my part, recognised them
In their antique glory.
Encouraged by his profound knowledge
And sense of beauty I thought;
I could at least show him
The mundane vapours
Flying from the hot cup of coffee.
He observed them,
And admonishing me for
My idiocy, said:
“You thought they’re ordinary vapours,
Nay, they are ephemeral curls of steam
Heading upwards
Like benign souls! ”
And further added
“These curls of steam are cycles
Of birth and death,
You didn’t know”?
I said, “No, I didn’t know,
Now that you said,
I know.”
Is it Tea or Coffee?
Is it Tea or Coffee?
Tell me!
My instant early morning dream
I like it black, white with sugar or cream!
The choice is free
Yet the mind cannot agree
With Tea is a Yippee!
With Coffee it is a Whoopee!
The thought of a little caffeine
The smell of fresh roasted beans
Will once again set off my adrenalin
While my exhausted brain is waiting
That stirring cup of sizzling black
Put on the kettle; spill the beans out of the sack
I will pay the fee; I will pay the levee
I will beg on one knee for a little bit of Coffee
Take a sip of the early morning coffee
Close your eyes and try to see
As you smell the airy aroma like a bee
Tea or Coffee! Perhaps you now understand me
Those swarms of dark brown seeds
They feed my vicious needs indeed
I don’t care how much I pee or how much I wee
For that sparking liquid of hot black called coffee
Copyright 2008 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Mothers Always Want Theirs Sons To Be Happy
mothers always want their sons to be happy
and so even if they marry someone
whom their fathers dislike
it is always them who settle for a compromise
and tell fathers to be flexible sometimes
not to hurt the hearts of sons
but sometimes when sons want something else
that only mothers understand
something that fathers cannot really compromise
mothers still compromise
and walk a mile farther
just to make their sons happy
and their sons leave them
to places that only mothers
by their loving hearts
know.
only mothers, yes only mothers,
and no one else.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Middle Man
I was sitting in a diner
With a girl named flo
She wouldnt say yes
But she couldnt say no
She said darling, can I get a middle man?
She was engaged to a fellow
On the lay a way plan
But she carried all her money
In a coffee can
She said darling, can I get a middle man?
The cook looked over
With a short order face
Dropped a fork
And he saw flos legs
Straightened his apron
And burnt my eggs
I got competition
Everywhere I go
These days
She was leaning on the juke box
And was lookin real good
Like natalie wood
On a pontiac hood
I said darling, I think I need a little hand
Ya see, Ive seen my downs
Ive seen my ups
I seen miniature dogs
In coffee cups
But darling I aint never seen a middle man
Flo talked slow
Like real wet paint
She said
A middle mans there
When the other ones aint
Hes got a left handed manner
That leans to the right
Sleeps all day
And keeps it up all night ...
... I got an aunt in ohio
And a boat that wont row
Some veterans insurance
And nowhere to go
Darling, can I be your middle man?
(spoken)
If I could get the money in that coffee can
I could open me up a lemonade stand
Send all the kids off to pakistan
Make flo happy
If I can
Jerry mahoney and johnny b. goode
Are gonna buy me a house in hollywood
Darling I think I got the perfect plan
Were gonna save half a dollars
And sell em to france
Buy us a record
And learn how to dance
And darling Ill always be your middle
Darling go buy a griddle
Darling I wanna be your middle man
song performed by by John Prine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fear
Shadows in the dark
Keep me up awake
So i sleep with the light on
Lock the door behind you
Bolt the windows tight
Silence can be deadly
Especially at night
You scare me half to death
Bolting down the stairs
I'm so scared
But no one even cares
Noises stir at night
I jump right out of bed
Running down the stairs
Everyone is dead
I wake up from this nightmare
Drenched in cold sweat
Fearing you and everything
Is my one and only regret
poem by Tiana Webb
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Sons Of The Silent Age
Sons of the silent age
Stand on platforms blank looks and note books
Sit in back rows of city limits
Lay in bed coming and going on easy terms
Sons of the silent age
Pace their rooms like a cells dimensions
Rise for a year or two then make war
Search through their one inch thoughts
Then decide it couldnt be done
Baby, Ill never let you go
All I see is all I know
Lets take another way down (sons of sound and sons of sound)
Baby, baby, Ill never let you down
I cant stand another sound
Lets find another way (sons of sound and sons of sound)
Sons of the silent age
Listen to tracks by sam therapy and king dice
Sons of the silent age
Pick up in bars and cry only once
Sons of the silent age
Make love only once but dream and dream
Dont walk, they just glide in and out of life
They never die, they just go to sleep one day
Baby, I wont ever let you go
All I see is all I know
Lets take another way down (sons of sound and sons of sound)
Oh baby, baby, baby, I wont ever let you down
I cant stand another sound
Lets take another way in (sons of sound and sons of sound)
(sons of sound and sons of sound)
Baby, baby, baby, fire away!
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An October Morning
Here, in October, scores of dragonflies
Fly about like miniature airplanes
Speckled butterflies collide with them
Floating in the air like catamarans
The morning slowly dries wet clothes,
Dripping, they smell of blue detergent
The house there wakes up bleary-eyed
Hesitating shadows emerge from the walls
A varnished gate, the midget of a woman
On the concrete bench, in the garden
Measuring the length of her shadow
A riot of bougainvillea bursts on the rock
Like a Chinese vase with fresh geraniums
Fresh coffee drip-drops in the percolator
Filling the air with delicious aroma
Amid all the blood and gore of newsprint
Soon you drift into a crimson forgetfulness.
poem by Jagannath rao Adukuri
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Old Fires
The fire burns low
Where it has burned ages ago,
Sinks and sighs
As it has done to a hundred eyes
Staring, staring
At the last cold smokeless glow.
Here men sat
Lonely and watched the golden grate
Turn at length black;
Heard the cooling iron crack:
Shadows, shadows,
Watching the shadows come and go.
And still the hiss
I hear, the soft fire's sob and kiss,
And still it burns
And the bright gold to crimson turns,
Sinking, sinking,
And the fire shadows larger grow.
O dark-cheeked fire,
Wasting like spent heart's desire,
You that were gold,
And now crimson will soon be cold--
Cold, cold,
Like moon-shadows on new snow.
Shadows all,
They that watched your shadows fall.
But now they come
Rising around me, grave and dumb....
Shadows, shadows,
Come as the fire-shadows go.
And stay, stay,
Though all the fire sink cold as clay,
Whispering still,
Ancestral wise Familiars--till,
Staring, staring,
Dawn's wild fires through the casement glow.
poem by John Freeman
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A Cup of Coffee
I start my day with coffee as my friend
The beans so fresh, as it blends
Giving out an aroma, that wakes me up
I stumble to the kitchen and look for the cup
I pour some black liquid and sip right away
I just want coffee, to start my day
Then on the road I'm on my way
Coffee is my friend to make my day
Stuck in traffic, I loose my mind
I then sip my coffee and just rewind
I get to work with a cup in hand
Juggling with papers I can't withstand
The coffee at work tastes bitter and cheap
But it's better than getting caught counting sheep
All day long, I make pot after pot
Of black steaming mugs of liquid gut-rot
Tanked up on coffee, I face the day
Taking anything that comes my way.
poem by Meena Mustafa
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Turning Thighs to Diamonds - Alchemical Passes For Father and Son
.
Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9
*
No blame shall stain us now, father.
The heavy ball you hit to me is never caught.
A floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.
Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.
Each base of cardboard weighted with stone is still our house.
A bat, a ball, a mitt, hard rules of the game,
undo all lust for dark heaven shunning shining girls.
**
A lavender boy early
befriended by crows.
A softball between
the eyes guides.
Diamond thighs
everywhere waiting.
***
Before you, head down,
focused on 'Lion's Teeth'**,
I am a hard mystery,
and soft, not so fast for I
am fat and cannot round
the bases quick.
I, your inherited meek,
am a burden to shake,
a sliding man
furious for home.
*****
I pluck wild strawberries,
You, all authority and
accidental grace, reveal too much,
dew wet, still sticky to the touch.
Opening sourness deserves a frown.
Sweetness slowly yields
surprise for what always
unites father/son -
untended desire
gone to wildness
brought low
beneath branches,
slow embrace of
cradle-gentle boughs
entangling legs and
light between the
greater shadows.
And shadows shall win the day.
******
Planets arc
and comets rare
trail lovers.
Meteors are
not appointed
permanent stars
allowed to some
men's hands,
and never to the fallen
caught for mostly
wasted days.
*******
That wild sweetness is a stolen base.
That the tongue is an untended garden.
That there is a burning soft hands can know.
********
Finally runs something headlong
sliding for home
inheriting circles latter-day.
Glad sons (are)
berries from
shadows gathered.
**Dandelion
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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11. Coffee & Dolls
It was a storefront for a small-time numbers runner,
pretending to be some sort of grocery. Coffeemakers
and Bustello cans populated the shelves, sparsely.
Who was fooled. The boxes bleached in the sun,
the old guys sat inside on summer lawn chairs,
watching tv. The applause from the talk shows and game shows
washed out the propped-open door like distant rain.
It closed for a few months. The slick sedan disappeared.
One spring day, it reopened, and this time a sign
decorated the window: COFFEE & DOLLS.
Yarn-haired, gingham-dressed floppy dolls
lolled among the coffee cans. A mastiff puppy,
the size and shape of a tipped-over fire hydrant,
guarded as the sedan and the old guys returned.
I don't know about you, but I've been looking
for a narrative in which suffering makes sense.
I mean, the high wail of the woman holding her dead child,
the wail that filled the street. I mean the sudden
fatal blooms on golden skin. I mean the crack deaths,
I mean the ice-cream truck that cruised the alphabets
and sold crack to the same deedle-dee-dee tune as fudgsicles.
I mean the raw scabs of the beaten mastiff, and many other
things.
poem by April Bernard
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Coffee & Dolls
It was a storefront for a small-time numbers runner,
pretending to be some sort of grocery. Coffeemakers
and Bustello cans populated the shelves, sparsely.
Who was fooled. The boxes bleached in the sun,
the old guys sat inside on summer lawn chairs,
watching tv. The applause from the talk shows and game shows
washed out the propped-open door like distant rain.
It closed for a few months. The slick sedan disappeared.
One spring day, it reopened, this time a sign
decorated the window: COFFEE & DOLLS.
Yarn-haired, gingham-dressed floppy dolls
lolled among the coffee cans. A mastiff puppy,
the size and shape of a tipped-over fire hydrant,
guarded as the sedan and the old guys returned.
I don't know about you, but I've been looking
for a narrative in which suffering makes sense.
I mean, the high wail of the woman holding her dead child,
the wail that filled the street. I mean the sudden
fatal blooms on golden skin. I mean the crack deaths,
I mean the ice-cream truck that cruised the alphabets
and sold crack to the same deedle-dee-dee tune as fudgesicles.
I mean the raw scabs of the beaten mastiff, and many other things.
poem by April Bernard
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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From A Dead Beat To An Old Greaser
From a dead beat to an old greaser, heres thinking of you.
You wont remember the long nights; coffee bars;
Black tights and white thighs in shop windows where blonde assistants fully-fashioned a world made of dummies (with no mummies or daddies to reject them).
When bombs were banned every sunday and the shadows played f.b.i. and tired young sax-players sold their instruments of torture --- sat in the station sharing wet dreams of charlie parker, jack
Ac, ren\e magritte, to name a few of the heroes who were too wise for their own good --- left the young brood to go on living without them. old queers with young faces --- who remember your nam
Ough youre a dead beat with tired feet; two ends that dont meet. to a dead beat from an old greaser. think you must have me all wrong. I didnt care, friend. I wasnt there, friend, if its th
Ce of pint that you need, ask me again.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eyes Of Fire
Hungry and wild she was born to the night
A demon, a daughter or madness
One look from her eyes could burn you alive...
Drown you in oceans of sadness
Oh - even the deadly shades of night
Wont let me hide...from her eyes of fire
Face in the mirror we meet eye to eye
Passions of eternal fire
Desperately wanting and out of control
Dancing on winds of desire
Oh - even the deadly shades of night
Wont let me hide...from her eyes of fire
Curtain of darkness, screams of delight
Taunts me with her sirens calling...
I got to be strong but I cant hang on
Into the flames I am falling...
Oh - even the deadly shades of night
Wont let me hide (no, no, no, no)
From her eyes of fire...
She keeps burning...
She keeps burning me, burning me, burning me, burning me down
Eyes of fire
song performed by by Rainbow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Brazilian Cafe
Grey Hospital and a Brazilian Café.
The hotel where I stayed served lousy coffee, insipid and milky.
I knew there was a Brazilian café nearby, on my way there walked
past the closed down city hospital. Grey walls dripping of uncured
diseases, graffiti and dead windows. Convert it into an office block,
but who wants to work there, a place haunted by cynical doctors and
indifferent nurses who stalk the halls at night waiting for their shift
to end so they can get out from this place of horror, and patients
they have lost interest in and can do nothing for. Tear it down and
throw the debris down a gully. At the Brazilian café the coffee was
strong and healthy; the staff, young, moved as dancers to the music
in the background. There is much of Africa in the Brazilian soul,
passionate, courageous; yet, sometimes, viciously moody.
The girl who served me coffee, smiled with lips and eyes, her skin
dark, glowing… fit. And the sad hospital faded into oblivion.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Ballad Maker
ONCE I loved a maiden fair,
Over the hills and jar away,
Lands she had and lovers to spare,
Over the hills and far away.
And I was stooped and troubled sore,
And my face was pale, and the coat I wore
Was thin as my supper the night before
Over the hills and far away.
Once I passed in the Autumn late,
Over the hills and jar away,
Her bawn and barn and painted gate,
Over the hills and jar away.
She was leaning there in the twilight space,
Sweet sorrow was on her fair young face,
And her wistful eyes were away from the place,
Over the hills and jar away.
Maybe she thought as she watched me come,
Over the hills and jar away,
With my awkward stride and my face so glum,
Over the hills and jar away.
Spite of his stoop, he still is young,
They say he goes the Shee among,
Ballads he makes; I've heard them sung
Over the hills and jar away.
She gave me good-night in gentle wise,
Over the hills and jar away,
Shyly lifting to mine, dark eyes,
Over the hills and jar away.
What could I do but stop and speak,
And she no longer proud, but meek?
She plucked me a rose like her wild-rose cheek-
Over the hills and jar away.
To-morrow Mavourneen a sleeveen weds,
Over the hills and jar away,
With corn in haggard and cattle in sheds,
Over the hills and jar away.
And I who have lost her, the dear, the rare-
Well, I got me this ballad to sing at the fair,
Twill bring enough money to drown my care,
Over the hills and jar away.
poem by Padraic Colum
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One More Cup Of Coffee
Your breath is sweet
Your eyes are like two jewels in the sky.
Your back is straight, your hair is smooth
On the pillow where you lie.
But i don't sense affection
No gratitude or love
Your loyalty is not to me
But to the stars above.
One more cup of coffee for the road,
One more cup of coffee 'fore i go
To the valley below.
Your daddy he's an outlaw
And a wanderer by trade
He'll teach you how to pick and choose
And how to throw the blade.
He oversees his kingdom
So no stranger does intrude
His voice it trembles as he calls out
For another plate of food.
One more cup of coffee for the road,
One more cup of coffee 'fore i go
To the valley below.
Your sister sees the future
Like your mama and yourself.
You've never learned to read or write
There's no books upon your shelf.
And your pleasure knows no limits
Your voice is like a meadowlark
But your heart is like an ocean
Mysterious and dark.
One more cup of coffee for the road,
One more cup of coffee 'fore i go
To the valley below.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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