Coffee Cigarettes and Time
The late afternoon invites leisurely
to inactivity and rest The best time to sit back
and be waited on like a guest At the corner
coffee shop where the air is thick with smoke
People play pool in the back room placing bets
that provoke The writer who lives alone
on the thirteenth floor is relaxed He smiles
unnoticeably having a completed chapter faxed
The bartender is preparing for the night and
Happy Hour Inventing new fancy drinks
that are potent sweet or sour The old guy
sitting at the bar in no rush to get home on time
Shares opinions over strong coffee about a
forgotten war crime A woman ordered wine
getting cigarettes from the machine Slowly strolls
across the room wearing a stone of aquamarine
Late rush hour traffic encourages to hang out
for a while Two attractive men in the corner sharing
kisses really shy From the speakers on the wall we
can hear a funky jazz tune Sitting in club chairs smoking
stirring coffee with a spoon Time stands still for a
little while when it starts to rain Streaks of water
leave teardrops on the sidewalk as in pain
The streetcar stops and new people join
our convention Accompanied by laughter they
do not pay much attention Rings of smoke take off
being swallowed by the big room Some people order
appetizers but all you smell is perfume The walls
are plastered with old posters of musicians past Here
all you need is coffee cigarettes and time that lasts
poem by Kristina Louisa Carr
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Coffee
Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee
affords. I once read something about coffee. The thing said that coffee is good for you;
it stimulates all the organs.
I thought at first this was a strange way to put it, and not altogether pleasant, but
as time goes by I have found out that it makes sense in its own limited way. I'll tell you
what I mean.
Yesterday morning I went over to see a girl. I like her. Whatever we had going for us
is gone now. She does not care for me. I blew it and wish I hadn't.
I rang the door bell and waited on the stairs. I could hear her moving around upstairs.
The way she moved I could tell that she was getting up. I had awakened her.
Then she came down the stairs. I could feel her approach in my stomach. Every step she
took stirred my feelings and lead indirectly to her opening the door. She saw me and it
did not please her.
Once upon a time it pleased her very much, last week. I wonder where it went,
pretending to be naive.
"I feel strange now," she said. "I don't want to talk."
"I want a cup of coffee," I said, because it was the last thing in the world
that I wanted. I said it in such a way that it sounded as if I were reading her a telegram
from somebody else, a person who really wanted a cup of coffee, who cared about nothing
else.
"All right," she said.
I followed her up the stairs. It was ridiculous. She had just put some clothes on. They
had not quite adjusted themselves to her body. I could tell you about her ass. We went
into the kitchen.
She took a jar of instant coffee off the shelf and put it on the table. She placed a
cup next to it, and a spoon. I looked at them. She put a pan full of water on the stove
and turned the gas on under it.
All this time she did not say a word. Her clothes adjusted themselves to her body. I
won't. She left the kitchen.
Then she went down the stairs and outside to see if she had any mail. I didn't remember
seeing any. She came back up the stairs and went into another room. She closed the door
after her. I looked at the pan full of water on the stove.
I knew that it would take a year before the water started to boil. It was now October
and there was too much water in the pan. That was the problem. I threw half of the water
into the sink.
The water would boil faster now. It would take only six months. The house was quiet.
I looked out the back porch. There were sacks of garbage there. I stared at the garbage
and tried to figure out what she had been eating lately by studying the containers and
peelings and stuff. I couldn't tell a thing.
It was now March. The water started to boil. I was pleased by this.
I looked at the table. There was the jar of instant coffee, the empty cup and the spoon
all laid out like a funeral service. These are the things that you need to make a cup of
coffee.
When I left the house ten minutes later, the cup of coffee safely inside me like a
grave, I said, "Thank you for the cup of coffee."
"You're welcome," she said. Her voice came from behind a closed door. Her
voice sounded like another telegram. It was really time for me to leave.
I spent the rest of the day not making coffee. It was a comfort. And evening came, I
had dinner in a restaurant and went to a bar. I had some drinks and talked to some people.
We were bar people and said bar things. None of them remembered, and the bar closed. It
was two o'clock in the morning. I had to go outside. It was foggy and cold in San
Francisco. I wondered about the fog and felt very human and exposed.
I decided to go visit another girl. We had not been friends for over a year. Once we
were very close. I wondered what she was thinking about now.
I went to her house. She didn't have a door bell. That was a small victory. One must
keep track of all the small victories. I do, anyway.
She answered the door. She was holding a robe in front of her. She didn't believe that
she was seeing me. "What do you want?" she said, believing now that she was
seeing me. I walked right into the house.
She turned and closed the door in such a way that I could see her profile. She had not
bothered to wrap the robe completely around herself. She was just holding the robe in
front of herself.
I could see an unbroken line of body running from her head to her feet. It looked kind
of strange. Perhaps because it was so late at night.
"What do you want?" she said.
"I want a cup of coffee," I said. What a funny thing to say, to say again for
a cup of coffee was not what I really wanted.
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. She was not pleased to see me.
Let the AMA tell us that time heals. I looked at the unbroken line of her body.
"Why don't you have a cup of coffee with me?" I said. "I feel like
talking to you. We haven't talked for a long time."
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. I stared at the unbroken line of
her body. This was not good.
"It's too late," she said. "I have to get up in the morning. If you want
a cup of coffee, there's instant in the kitchen. I have to go to bed."
The kitchen light was on. I looked down the hall into the kitchen. I didn't feel like
going into the kitchen and having another cup of coffee by myself. I didn't feel like
going to anybody else's house and asking them for a cup of coffee.
I realized that the day had been committed to a very strange pilgrimage, and I had not
planned it that way. At least the jar of instant coffee was not on the table, beside an
empty white cup and a spoon.
They say in the spring a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love. Perhaps if he has
enough time left over, his fancy can even make room for a cup of coffee.
poem by Richard Brautigan from Revenge of the Lawn (1971)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Java Blues
Rick danko
I walked into a diner
And the blonde behind the counter
She asked if she could help in any way
Hell, I knew by her smile
Her number I could dial
If I was in the need of company
But as I bought some java
Instead she brought me a cup of chicory
I got those java blues
Coffees got me
Java blues
Oh coffee, coffee, coffee
Java blues
Coffees got me
Java blues
Oh coffee
You know that Ill stay high
Ill drink coffee till I die
Dont pour me water just fill up my cup
You know it takes a lot just to keep me up
Cost may be more than you care to pay
What good is money compared to fightin pain
Dont try to cheat
Its impossible to beat
The only pick me up thats here to stay
I got those java blues
Coffees got me
Java blues
Oh coffee, coffee, coffee
Java blues
Oh coffee, oh coffee
Java blues
Coffees got me
You know that Ill stay high
Ill drink coffee till I die
The taste of java is like a cocaine rush
Nobodys gonna stop me from drinkin too much
Down in bolivia the people are insane
They want as much for coffee as they do for cocaine
Dont try to cheat
Its impossible to beat
The only pick me up thats here to stay
I got those java blues
Coffees got me
Java blues
Oh coffee, coffee, coffee
Java blues
The coffees got me now..
Java blues
Oh coffee, coffee
You know that Ill stay high
Ill drink coffee till I die
I got the java blues
Oh coffee, coffee
Java blues
Oh coffee, coffee, coffee
Java blues
Oh the coffees got me
Java blues
Oh coffee, oh coffee
Java blues!
song performed by by Nazareth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The smell of coffee
The smell of coffee
that is boiling in the early morning
goes right through the room
and it reminds me of you,
that makes the most wonderful coffee.
It stands at work
and boils black in a machine
and I hear it gurgle
like a fountain
that wants to flow over.
I wonder if you
are getting coffee at that place,
or is it too healthy there
that they only stay
with fruit juice.
At times a person needs to be
silent over the things in life,
but I want to grab every day
and build a wonderful life
with you and make the very best of it.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Coffee Time
Oh, it's coffee time again
A time to talk to friends
And have a snack or two
And listen to all the goshop
It's coffee time again
A time to break your diet
A time to self-endulge
And eat the food you crarve
It's coffee time again
A time to sit and resst
And think what lies ahead
For the rest of the day
poem by Jerry Abrahamson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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So you are back reading this poem again
I see you sitting alone in a coffee shop
Two cups of coffee now, just to pass the hours away
Waiting for nobody
You pretend
Busy with your wireless laptop
Typing some words
Looking at the road beyond the glass walls
Cars keep passing by
Not one is stopping
Shall you pretend some more
That any of those cars is the inspiration
Of your write-up for today?
Okay, you are into advocacies for women
For the underprivileged
For the kids
For those who do not know how to smile
But let me suggest
As you read this poem
Back to my arms again
This time
Take more time with me
In this game
Of loneliness this passion for boredom
Have compassion to both
Of us-lonely souls searching meanings
In laptops in coffeehouses on more
Cups of coffee
I am taking the mug, it is bigger
And its holding effect is a little longer
And some cigars this time.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Meeting At Noon
They met at a coffee house
every day at noon.
They chose the same table
in the back of the room.
The aroma of the coffee
filled the air.
And while they smelled it
they continued to stare.
How was it, they wondered
that life could be
filled with remorse
that never let them be?
She, with a husband
whose mind was gone,
he, with a wife
whose body was gone,
They met each day
just to hold hands
and talk about
life's harsh demands.
They could not leave.
They were not that kind
but this meeting at noon
became the focus of their mind.
He watched her cry
and touched her face.
He knew her tears
he could not erase.
She watched him die
a little each day.
They prayed for the smell
of the coffee to stay.
and bring them peace
from these minutes at noon.
She stirred his coffee
and licked the spoon.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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A Bitter Coffee... A Sweet Coffee
The age is running and I am still drinking my bitter coffee,
To when the story of this coffee belongs? !
Coffee and chocolate are so deferent in their tastes
But in several times
It happens that they have the same color.
It seems that the similarity of them is the same of features of the fortune reader.
When she gazes the cup of the coffee
But I am not so familiar with chocolate
Even I am not familiar with the talisman countenances of the hex.
I remember that once I asked him to give me a bitter coffee
Yet he has made a permanent bitter one
Each time he brings me the same coffee in the same cup
A question c0mes to my mind and I ask it to myself:
If we do not like the coffee, why we do drink it?
Do you think it is our destiny as my birth story?
I was born without my desire
Thus with each sip of the coffee
The destiny stops me not to tear the chocolate cover
to sweeten my coffee.
poem by Chnar Namq
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rush Hour Blues
He gets up early about seven oclock,
The alarm goes off and then the house starts to rock.
In and out of the bathroom by seven-o-three,
By seven-ten hes downstairs drinking his tea.
So put a shine on your shoes,
Put on your pin-striped suit.
Cant lose those early-morning-cant-stop-yawning,
Push and shoving rush hour blues.
Wife:
Darling are you ready?
Youll be late for the bus!
Star:
Dont rush me baby
While Im using my brush.
Wife:
Get a move on darling
Youre cutting it fine.
Star:
Cool it baby
Ive got plenty of time.
So put a shine on your shoes
Put on your pin-striped suit.
Cant lose those early-morning-cant-stop-yawning
Push and shoving rush hour blues.
Soon Ill be just one of the commuters
Waiting for the subway train.
Ill be rushing up the stairs
And in the elevator.
By the time that I get there
Im gonna feel like a mole in the ground
Ill be caught in the crush
Ill be pushed and be shoved,
And Ill be trying to get the subway train.
Ill be fighting with my brief case
And my umbrella,
Every morning and every night.
Some people do it every day of their lives.
Wife:
Read the paper later
Youll be caught in the queues.
Star:
Dont rush me baby
While Im reading the news.
Wife:
Darling get a move on
Youre cutting it fine.
Star:
Cool it baby
Ive got plenty of time.
A quick cup of coffee and a slice of
Toast and the star (or should we say,
Norman? ) is off to do battle with the
Rush hour queues and traffic jams.
In the rush hour queues
No one gives a damn.
No one knows where Im going to
No one knows who I am.
Im sitting in my office
In the metropolis
Im just part of the scenery,
Im just part of the machinery.
Chained to my desk on the 22nd floor,
I cant break out through the automatic door,
Id jump out the window but I cant face the drop
Im sitting in a cage with an eye on the clock.
Im ready to start paying my dues,
Ive got to lose those early-morning-cant-stop-yawning,
Push and shoving, rush hour blues.
Well Im ready to start paying my dues,
Ive got to lose those early-morning cant-stop-yawning,
Push and shoving rush hour blues.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Coffee Dream
Although it’s only one hour till lunch -
my stomach won’t wait.
Non-stop growling for the past two hours
has gotten the best of me.
Besides, my taste buds
are ready to murder for a cup of coffee.
Should I say ‘murder’ in a courthouse?
I discovered myself in the eating lounge
with a coffee machine that still doesn’t work.
How unfair that I can’t leave the building
for a quick cup of coffee till lunch.
So, I resort to having the small salad and orange
that was to be my lunch.
Still, I want that coffee!
I’ll take it boiling hot
right out of the pot.
So now I look forward
to when then release us for lunch.
I plan to run down the street and get
a very large cup of coffee -
maybe two or three.
I desperately need my caffeine fix for today.
The Coffee Song
By colton and smith
Theres a full time reservation
Made in a bar at the railway station,
And theres a story, a kind of fable,
On a card at the corner table.
On it is a message; been there some time.
It starts off, the coffee tasted so fine...
It says, one day, this may find you,
These few words may just remind you.
We sat here together just to pass time;
You said how the coffee tasted so fine.
It goes on to say, I love you.
If you should find this I must hear from you.
It gives a number but the name has faded away.
All that is left are just the words, maybe someday...
Thats the story and the fable;
Never leave alone from a corner table.
Doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo.
Doo doo-doo doo doo-doo doo doo doo doo.
song performed by by Cream
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Coffee Song
By colton and smith
Theres a full time reservation
Made in a bar at the railway station,
And theres a story, a kind of fable,
On a card at the corner table.
On it is a message; been there some time.
It starts off, the coffee tasted so fine...
It says, one day, this may find you,
These few words may just remind you.
We sat here together just to pass time;
You said how the coffee tasted so fine.
It goes on to say, I love you.
If you should find this I must hear from you.
It gives a number but the name has faded away.
All that is left are just the words, maybe someday...
Thats the story and the fable;
Never leave alone from a corner table.
Doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo.
Doo doo-doo doo doo-doo doo doo doo doo.
song performed by by Eric Clapton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Melting Pot
Take a pinch of white man
Wrap him up in black skin
Add a touch of blue blood
And a little bitty bit of red indian boy
Oh like a curly latin kinkies
Oh lordy, lordy, mixed with yellow chinkees, yeah
You know you lump it all together
And you got a recipe for a get along scene
Oh what a beautiful dream
If it could only come true, you know, you know
What we need is a great big melting pot
Big enough enough enough to take
The world and all its got
And keep it stirring for
A hundred years or more
And turn out coffee coloured people by the score
Rabbis and the friars
Vishnus and the gurus
We got the beatles or the sun god
Well it really doesnt matter
What religion you choose
And be thankful little mrs. graceful
You know that livin could be tasteful
We should all get together in a lovin machine
I think Ill call up the queen
It s only fair that she knows, you know, you know
What we need is a great big melting pot
Big enough enough enough to take
The world and all its got
And keep it stirring for
A hundred years or more
And turn out coffee coloured people by the score
Coffee coloured people
Coffee coloured people
Coffee coloured people by the score
song performed by by Culture Club
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Her Hands Are Stronger Now
she greets you by the door. She knows you are coming.
Her heart pounds for you.
She shows the room. It looks for you for many years.
Now she brags the room is alive.
she opens the window and lets the air
and the trees know that you are here finally.
they all talk about you know.
they nod, you are no longer a dog.
Or a parakeet.
The chair opens its arms for you.
You take your seat.She asks you if you miss coffee.
Black coffee, without sugar.
You look around. There is nothing changed here.
20 years ago, all the structures are faithful
to their positions.
They miss you and like to embrace you.
She is restrained like a dam.
No tears this time.
Not even some tears of joy.
She knows why you are here.
The room, the tree and the window,
the floors are blind.
She knows that this will be the last time
of your compromise.
She is dead 20 years back
when you told her
about the truth.
How can she feel like the room, the floor,
the tree and the window
How can she be as foolish as air and cloud?
Her hands are strong now.
They write her name, her signature to sorrow.
Her heart notes the final statement.
Life is over.
Game is over.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Naked Before My Eyes
feeling empty
i sense you
i get near you
feeling your hand
and you look at me
knowing something
that fills you too
i like you to be
my empty cup
to my hot water
i can be more
than hot water
i can be a spoon
stirring you and
you can be coffee too
and cream and
sugar and mint
i can be the mouth
that opens to drink
you as coffee and
surely we shall have
a good time together
tonight i like you
to be more than coffee
and cream and sugar
just be yourself naked
before my emptiness
and i can also be more
than a mouth to you
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Back Room
In the back room (in the back room)
In the back room (in the back room)
I waited for you (waited for you)
Ya waited for me (waited for me)
Rain came down, pitter-pat
Say, what you think, its raining outside
You said, so what
You turned the record player on, had a smoke
Stood up, walked across to the joint in a cloud of mist
Couldnt resist
A kitty stepped in the hall and she rapped the door
Found the key in the letter box, she turned the door
Walked into the room and said, whats goin on?
I just got back from down the road
Gotta couple a bottles of wine, somethin to turn you on
What-a you think of that? (think of that, girl)
(think of that girl)
I said, sit down cat, pull up a seat, youre soakin wet
Take off your coat and hat, wipe your feet on the mat
In the back room (in the back room)
In the back room (in the back room)
I waited for you (waited for you)
Ya waited for me (waited for me)
I said, what time is it charlie, where did we go all day?
Seem to get nowhere and do nothin but sit lookin at each other
He said, I know, I been doin the same thing for weeks
I look at the clock and all of a sudden Im hypnotized
It speaks to me, it goes tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, ah-huh the kid he said, I dont know what you guys do but I been workin
So hard, lately that I can just only fall asleep in bed
So he played some more sounds and grooved a while
Somebody brought out some cherry wine, cherry wine
And we talked about what was goin on in the music world
And other things
Ha-ha-ha, ha-ha
The rain outside came down like it came never before
Down, came down, it came, rain rain rain
And I said, baby what time is it, what time is it, tell me what time is it?
Ah, four-thirty
So I peeked round the corner, the blind
An there ya go, theres another girl thats comin home from school
Lookin so cool, just learned her as to zs
And said,
Hey man dont look funny, all the little girls comin home from school
And theyre sittin, talkin and drinkin and all them other funny things
A-ha-ha-ha
And charlie said to me, ya know what? I said, what?
He said, man you gotta go out there and do somethin for yourself
Feel like you wanna make it or else you gonna be sittin round here like,
Nothin
I said, youre right, I said youre so right
He said, I know ha
I said, do ya?
Said, you know youre cuttin records, cuttin records right
You come through that
An just through all the time youre gonna be out on the road
Im out on the backseat man, on the, on the highway
And the colors are gonna run
All of a sudden dont ya feel safe the next gig, you gotta make it
I said, yeah I feel safe
I said, yeah you know I cant stay here all the time as much as Id like to
But, I just learned about all day and all night
And dig sounds, and go down to the river
And once the artists go through the motions
Gotta do my thing, aah-ah (in the back room) ah-ah
Gotta do my thing (in the back room)
In the back room (in the back room)
Fades-
In the back room (in the back room)
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I’m sitting outside smoking a joint
I’m sitting outside smoking a joint, right
It is an early Wednesday morning in
Early September in late
St. Louis, right
The sun is at my back, two degrees
Pass an old silver maple tree
The last of the three mulberry threes
Is growing in the alley
I got coffee, cigarettes
Weed and beer to celebrate
Poetry, right
It was September
Of 1968 that I wrote my first poem.
41 years hence I’m still on point
People say of me that I can not
Keep a job, but here’s proof of my
Fortitude. If I seem proud
Of myself it’s because I am
It is an occasion of celebrating me
A poet to my poetry.
poem by David E. Patton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Operators Are Standingby
Operators are standing by
Smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee
Bounce their shoes at the end of their feet
And wish they could go home
Operators are standing by
Poking holes in the ceiling tiles
Making jokes about their old boyfriends
Operators are standing by
Talking about their portrayal
On t.v. where an actress sits
With a headset in outer space
Thats enough talking, ladies
Operators are standing by
Smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee
Pass round the picture of a mobius strip
And wish they could go home
And wish they could go home
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Small Comfort
Coffee and cigarettes in a clean cafe,
forsythia lit like a damp match against
a thundery sky drunk on its own ozone,
the laundry cool and crisp and folded away
again in the lavender closet-too late to find
comfort enough in such small daily moments
of beauty, renewal, calm, too late to imagine
people would rather be happy than suffering
and inflicting suffering. We're near the end,
but O before the end, as the sparrows wing
each night to their secret nests in the elm's green dome
O let the last bus bring
love to lover, let the starveling
dog turn the corner and lope suddenly
miraculously, down its own street, home.
poem by Katha Pollitt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Thirteenth Street Bus
god died...
nothing else unusual about the day.
the Thirteenth Street bus was late again,
people passed each other walking heads down.
when the bus finally arrived,
no one was there.
old Mr. Peterson and his crippled wife,
were nowhere to be seen.
three hours earlier...
an angry young man sat alone,
hugging his knees and shaking,
in an empty room neath a bare light bulb.
unable to focus or think,
peeling back the layers of hell...
consumed by the rage of need.
old Mr. Peterson made the coffee,
and boiled water for oatmeal.
two creams and a sugar,
and he took a cup,
to his wife still lying in bed.
he felt the faint smile of the wrinkled face,
birds just outside the window were singing..
45 years, or maybe yesterday,
he didnt know or care anymore.
the enraged young man
caught Mr. Peterson in the kitchen,
and cracked his skull with a lead pipe.
he rifled his pockets for what he could get,
and started slamming through drawers.
Mrs. Peterson hobbled in on her walker,
he stabbed her with a kitchen knife...
and left her dying on the floor,
as he pillaged the house....
the birds were silent as he ran.
when the police burst through the door,
it was already too late.
his body hung in an empty closet,
while the radio blared in stark despair.
crumpled clothes in the corner,
a mattress unmade in the center of the room.
a food stamp card and a dirty needle,
an unopened letter from the unemployment office.
a lone picture on a stack of boxes,
taken three years earlier...
the young man in his military uniform,
the day he came home from Iraq.
three funerals on the same day,
no one attended either.
a borrowed preacher in a coffee stained suit,
a few words and a worn out prayer.
it began to rain, and it was over,
three lives that never were.
three short paragraphs in the newspaper,
the county picked up the tab.
god died...
or maybe we died,
passing behind blacked out windows.
standing behind indifferent curtains,
lips moving but never speaking.
the Thirteenth Street bus was on time that day,
but it didnt even bother to stop!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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