My Poem ‘Starbucks’

Every time I can, any day I am free,
I like to visit my favourite coffee shop wherever I am,
in whatever town or city I am in,
and sit down, listen to the always great music playing,
take in the ambiance of inside and outside,
maybe even have a Blueberry muffin
in my usual seat, at my usual table, looking out the window,
while enjoying a frothie caramel-drizzled coffee.

I love coming back to my favourite coffee shop,
I love visiting a store I have never been to before,
and because of the inspiration that I imbibe from being here,
and because the atmosphere is always amazing and different every time,
I always stay in to drink and eat-
for me, every time I come to Starbucks, it is never just a short-stop.

I have been to many different coffee shops,
I have been to many different Starbucks in different cities
and towns around the world-
from Birmingham, Solihull, and Coventry, in the UK,
to one or two of the many Starbucks in New York City-
early in the morning for breakfast,
in the afternoon for lunch,
or late at night surrounded by bright lights.
Every experience I have had in Starbucks
has been one that I always remember, and I am always inspired by,
and every time I come to Starbucks
I do feel like something wonderful and new has been awakened in me.

I have been to Starbucks alone,
I have shared deep, meaningful, and phenomenal
states of transcendence and conversation with friends,
I have written poetry after taking a mere sip of a Machiatto,
and feeling like I have been transported to a wonderful,
inspiring, fascinating, connected, inclusive, Wi-Fi, worry-free zone.

I have never wanted to be anywhere else than in Starbucks
on a rainy day like today,
enjoying my favourite caffeine-filled beverage,
looking around, thinking and seeing where my attention will take me,
enjoying every moment, and making the most of every second
of reflection and refraction-
not knowing where my thoughts, where my imagination,
will carry me, nor where it will all end.

In Starbucks you can sit down in a comfy chair,
chat with your friends, laugh, joke, surf the internet,
drink, eat, write a poem, read a book;
in Starbucks you can be anonymous,
you can be anybody, you can say anything, you can feel so much,
you can meet someone you have known for years,
you can meet someone new,
you can realise something you never knew-
because there is no other place that I love coming back to,
than my favourite coffee shop, the place with the deepest of cups,
the one and only, Starbucks.

Advertisement

My Poem ‘The Artist’s Life’

The artist’s life begins with an obsession,
a need, an instinct, a compulsion to share the inspiration
that has been stirred within them,
and express themselves in any way that they can,
in the way that they feel most comfortable-
for some, that can be with their mouths;
for others, that can be with a paintbrush, or a pen,
or by picking up the pieces of something that is no more
and creating and making something brand new from the rubble.

For me, everything I do, or say,
think about, and express, all revolves around love-
my love, other people’s love, the hope within my heart,
and the goodness that I see and feel in the heart, eyes,
and mind, that is always there,
even when I am looking at a stranger,
or sitting looking out of a window,
while enjoying a hot coffee from a coffee mug.

Nothing is by accident. Everything is by design.
Things said out-loud are seldom what people actually meant.
Things done can never be undone.
Things made can never be unmade.
Things happen as a matter of both neccesity and destiny,
as well as happening as a matter of time.

A musician hears a melody in a cacophony of chaos;
a poet reads, sees, and feels, an epic, a sonnet, a masterpiece,
in the interconnections that they witness all around;
a painter, a sculpture, sees what they want to show
before their first brush-stroke,
before the first chip of the hammer and chisel,
before the first colour wash;
a carpenter can feel what they are making in the wood,
and they respond to every texture that they feel-
they know what they must do simply from a sound.
Every artist is affected by everything-
from the golden light of a beautiful sunset,
to the vibration that is caused and felt
by even a single drop of rain on the ground.

An artist wakes up every morning
and instantly creates something,
and they continue to do this every hour of the day,
even if it is only with a thought-
from morning to midday, from noon to night;
that is what keeps an artist going,
that is what keeps an artist breathing,
that is what keeps an artist searching,
that is everything that an artist wants
from an artist’s life.

My Poem ‘Coffee’

I’m sitting in my favourite coffee shop,
enjoying a large, dark, incredible, exquisite,
cup of coffee that tastes as if the coffee beans
had been grown in the garden of Elysium,
and brewed, made, and poured on Mount Olympus by Zeus himself.
The taste in my mouth, the sensation, the experience,
the feeling of swallowing the hot coffee is like nothing else!

I am in another place, I am at another time;
I see new people that I have never seen before around me;
I recognise others that I regularly see
frequent this same coffee shop,
and at the same time of day with me-
they recognise me too,
they are in their own world…
but there is something in the air:
in the taste, in the smell,
in the temperature of where we are, that accentuates, combines,
and makes everything about these brief, enjoyable,
shared moments feel sublime!

The drug that intoxicates me,
heightened by the taste of the coffee,
opens my subconscious and makes me broadcast
my happiness and my contentment to everyone who sees me.

The world outside is calling me back,
but I don’t want to go…
The only thing that could make me happier is sharing this,
sharing everything, with someone-
someone who is like me;
someone who appreciates every second, every moment, like I do;
someone who doesn’t need to say anything,
because they feel what it is I am feeling anyway, always;
someone who just knows.

My Poem ‘Coffee and Clouds’

On an early-morning flight-
just as the sun rises in the sky
and brings alive the clouds
like a wave of fire frozen in time,
like a magical world being expressed
by someone’s incredible and inspired imagination-
a man looks out his window
and simply cannot believe what he is seeing.
He cannot think, he cannot move,
he just knows that he is here for a reason.
He is sitting in his chair on a plane flying 500mph,
in the atmosphere of a planet spinning 1000mph,
with a heart in his chest beating like an unrested drum.
The man isn’t going far,
but to him every flight is like a trip to the moon.
Even as he watches the electric blue
and serene open air above the clouds,
the man swears for a moment
that he sees shooting-stars descend and streak
from above to below in short sucession-
not a trick of the light,
or momentary bursts from the sun-
actual asteroids and meteors from another world
choosing now to reign down from the heavens,
to fall into view and end their billion-year journey
right in front of him.

As the man takes a sip of hot coffee
he wonders for a second how the cup came into his hand,
who handed it to him, how unearthly and incredible the coffee tastes,
if he looked away from the window,
because he doesn’t remember when or for how long.
As the hot coffee rests in his mouth for a second
and then rushes down his throat,
the view outside the window, outside the plane,
intensifies within the blink of an eye,
and the man feels like the plane and his fellow passengers
are suddenly flying on the airplanes wings-
fixed in position, but able to be swept on their journey
by the breeze on their face and through their hair,
and by the feeling of unbelievable freedom.
It isn’t until the plane hits a slight patch of turbulence
that the man regains his faculties and his focus
and remembers where he is.

The air is different up here.
Everything you feel, think, and experience,
while free of gravity, goes straight to your head,
in ways only an astronaut could reciprocate,
or someone who finds love and happiness
for the first time in their life.

The man sleeps.
While still believing he is still awake,
while believing that he has been awake for the entire flight,
forgetting the brief conversation that he had with a passenger
who mistook him for a celebrity
while making their way back from the bathroom.
The man wakes.
The man feels more refreshed than he has done in years.
The man feels like he has been looking out the window
for what seemed like seconds,
before the announcement rang-out
and the “fasten your seat-belts” sign became illuminated
indicating that he and the plane were descending to there destination.

What does it all mean? The man asked himself,
as they passed though the clouds.
Everything means something, he repeated to himself,
from the stirred coffee in your cup that swirls
and resembles the spiral of a galaxy,
to the beautiful shapes and colours that you discover
while you’re among the clouds.