A poem for mornings

Morning Coffee Poems

Morning Coffee Poems. The morning coffee. I’m not sure why we drink it. Maybe it’s the ritual of the cup, the spoon, the hot water, the milk, and the little heap of brown grit, the way they come together to form a nail I can hang the day on. It’s something to do between being asleep and being awake.

A poem for mornings, Coffee, Coffee, Coffee, Coffee, Everyone shut up. Coffee
A poem for mornings, Coffee, Coffee, Coffee, Coffee, Everyone shut up. Coffee

Morning Coffee Poems

Morning Coffee Poems
Morning Coffee Poems

Morning Coffee Poems

Morning Coffee
Poem by Joseph James Breunig 3rd

Morning coffee percolates

beneath my weary eyelids,

as my flesh angrily screams

for its daily stimulant;

scents of French Vanilla

permeate and freshen

the staleness of my kitchen.

Evaluations of the new day

will have to wait until my cup

has been completely emptied…

of its liquid gold.

Morning Coffee Poems

Morning Coffee Poems
Morning Coffee Poems

Morning Coffee Poems

The morning coffee
Poem BY RON PADGETT

The morning coffee. I’m not sure why I drink it. Maybe it’s the ritual of the cup, the spoon, the hot water, the milk, and the little heap of brown grit, the way they come together to form a nail I can hang the day on. It’s something to do between being asleep and being awake.

Surely there’s something better to do, though, than to drink a cup of instant coffee.

Such as meditate? About what?About having a cup of coffee. A cup of coffee whose first drink is too hot and whose last drink is too cool, but whose many in-between drinks are, like Baby Bear’s porridge, just right. Papa Bear looks disgruntled. He removes his spectacles and swivels his eyes onto the cup that sits before Baby Bear, and then, after a discrete cough, reaches over and picks it up. Baby Bear doesn’t understand this disruption of the morning routine. Papa Bear brings the cup close to his face and peers at it intently.

The cup shatters in his paw, explodes actually, sending fragments and brown liquid all over the room. In a way it’s good that Mama Bear isn’t there. Better that she rest in her grave beyond the garden, unaware of what has happened to the world.

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