Poetry
by
John L. Strauser
Oh soothing nectar of the Java plant,
Your poetic ringlets of steam entwine
me.
Ever faithful party date,
You fog my glasses.
My favorite mug.
Old worn out percolators.
Chocolate or Vanilla? Cinnamon?
Swiss Mocha, Irish Cream,
French Vanilla, Columbian Roast,
Citizen of the world.
Forum for political debate
Medium over which the whispers of love
are heard,
You hear them first.
Oh the stories my cup could tell.
Lovely levels of caffeine
Black and Strong--Are you a real man?
Tan and Sweet--Creamy, Delicate.
Milky Spirals
Cappuccino, Espresso, Cafe Latte,
High Octane.
How many have you had tonight?
What's your limit?
Want me to drive you home?
Instant or Fresh?
Sharpen those grinder blades.
Who said DeCaf?
Mine's getting cold,
Free Refills
All you can drink, really?
Want to make a bet?
Coffee anyone?
How do you take it?
Another cup, please.
Almost ready,
Drip,Drip Drip.
I tried to find a worthy gift to give,
But this fair rose, in contrast, speaks
a lie.
For in my heart forever will you live,
And in time this bright bloom shall wilt
and die.
I tried to find a symbol of my heart,
But this fair rose is all that I could
gain.
I know 'tis not the beauty that thou art,
And next to you I know it will be plain.
For God so loved the world that he made
thee,
To lift the sun and make the sky more
blue.
In doing so He gave a gift to me,
And now I feel I owe a gift to you.
So on this day named after Valentine,
I ask you ever humbly to be mine.
This stained-glass window to the poet's
soul,
Is not his choice or his decision.
For he must write or he will not be whole,
To ease his heart there is no more provision.
His pen's the vein through which his passion
bleeds.
His page accepts and always understands.
His poem's the meat on which his spirit
feeds,
When his sad life for poetry demands.
If all else fails, his poem is by his
side,
For like us all his life is filled with
pain.
And in these times behind his script he
hides,
For from his writing he cannot refrain.
And so when'ere that mood upon him grows,
He finds release in poetry and prose.